by M J Johnson
"Don't be silly," reassured Roz. Then she thought about what Sally had just said; how she had been alone at the workshop, for the entire evening and night. To Roz, after all Sally had suffered at Michael's hands, it seemed diabolically unjust to think she might now be under suspicion as his killer. She said, "You couldn't have done it, could you?"
Sally looked enquiringly back at her friend.
"Because you were here with me and John. You got back from the workshop around eleven, completely exhausted, had a brandy and hot chocolate and went to bed. You were probably asleep before eleven-thirty!"
27
Gil was in a state of partial shock. It didn't help that he'd had so little sleep. He looked fragile, eyes bloodshot, blackish-grey stubble unflatteringly contrasting with pallid skin. These days, even moderate drinking needed recovery time.
Feverish images assaulted his mind. Could he have been drunker than he'd realised? Had he returned from the party earlier than he could recall in some kind of alcoholic blackout? Then taken his car and used it as a weapon to kill Michael Chilvers? These recurrent questions boiled down to the same thing: had he suffered some kind of temporary memory lapse coupled with insanity? In other words, completely lost the run of himself and gone barking mad? Deep down, Gil knew the gymnastics going on in his head could only be rubbish; even so, just entertaining such ideas not only proved to be unsettling but quite exhausting too.
However, it wasn't exclusively thoughts of his own culpability that troubled him. Since he'd first glimpsed the car, with its caved-in grill, bumper and smashed light, he'd been filled with concern for Sally. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't account for her absence. He knew there had to be a plausible explanation, and refused to acknowledge a picture of her, mad-eyed behind the wheel of his Volvo. In his heart and gut he knew the idea was ludicrous and couldn't believe her capable of cold-blooded murder. Despite this, he still wasn't able to prevent the seeds of doubt from being scattered in his mind.
28
Whatever will the neighbours say?
"Tut! Tut! Tut!"
"As secretary of the local residents association, I am disgusted! There are police vehicles, all shapes and sizes, sitting on your drive and parked along the road!"
"One doesn't like to be uncharitable; but one had always suspected you weren't exactly the 'right sort'. In fact, I told my husband when you moved here that I didn't think you were really of 'the Best People'. However, I must say, your late wife was charming. Heaven knows why she chose to marry beneath her? I'm not one for malicious gossip but I've heard little whispers that her death may not have been an accident?"
"One doesn't wish to be unkind but type invariably reverts to type. One understands you went to a comprehensive school? Please, don't think one has anything against state education. It's only humane to teach the poor how to write their own names and manage rudimentary addition and subtraction. However, I can assure you we don't want your council estate tribal wars here!"
"I read in the 'Daily Scum' (not my copy) that you killed your girlfriend's ex-lover. Typical of your sort! No doubt fuelled by your addiction to alcohol and drugs. The same newspaper implied that together with your girlfriend (no stranger to men apparently!) you'd attended a number of sordid parties recently, and that you'd been at a sex rave, high on drugs, on the night of the killing?"
"Really! This isn't the sort of attention we like to attract for our nice residential area! It's the kind of focus that could easily depress house prices! Frankly, one is appalled!"
Tee hee hee!
My Ford Galaxy is tucked up neatly about forty metres away, parked between a Citroen Picasso and a VW Touareg. I couldn't look more innocent if I tried.
There are men in overalls erecting a tent-like structure across the front of your garage. They are about to explore an enigma! I was very careful when I took your car. My hair was covered. I wore a mask over my mouth and nose. In fact my hands feel a little itchy today from the latex gloves. I've always had sensitive skin.
Such a lot of manpower and effort for nothing!
29
Gil had a long and frustrating morning ahead of him. At Maidstone CID headquarters he was booked into a cell, read his rights and entitlements, and told the interviewing officer would be along shortly. After about an hour, a constable brought him some tea and biscuits.
Another hour passed before anything else happened. He was asked from time to time if he needed anything, and apart from a glass of water the answer was always no. Beyond these brief exchanges little else was said. With a head pounding like a kango hammer, Gil went over and over events in his mind; the time at the Paddicks' party when his car must have been taken, Sally's failure to show up, as well as the scant details he knew about Chilvers' death.
Shortly before ten, DCI Mullings appeared. He popped his head round the door to say in an unexpectedly cheery fashion, "Sorry to keep you, Mr Harper. You'll appreciate, there's a lot to coordinate at the start of a murder investigation". He then disappeared for another twenty-five minutes.
The Detective Chief Inspector's seemingly casual use of the phrase 'murder investigation' set Gil's brain off in a frenzy of activity. Mullings, as anyone who knew him would attest, never said anything casually or without due consideration.
When Mullings returned, he got the interview formally underway immediately. He appeared sublimely relaxed, as if he'd spent the morning gardening.
He began by putting Gil's mind at ease, "Mr and Mrs Paddick have verified your whereabouts. As I recall, you reached home around 1.30 am?"
"Yes, I left about 1.15 … it takes about fifteen to twenty minutes to walk."
"You left their house alone?"
"Yes."
"Miss Curtis wasn't with you last night?"
Gil paused, "No, Sally's swamped under with work. She designs costumes for the theatre. She's on a new production … working round the clock. She's been staying in London with a friend." Gil felt heat rise through his face.
"We've spoken with Miss Curtis," replied Mullings.
Gil was relieved to learn Sally could be reached and hoped he was about to find out what had happened to her. Unfortunately, this was not to be the case.
Mullings continued, "Mr and Mrs Paddick said they'd been hoping to meet her."
"It was never certain she'd come … deadlines, pressure of work."
"Of course," replied Mullings softly as he scanned the page of handwritten notes before him. The DCI then suddenly changed the mood, "Was Miss Curtis aware you'd confronted Michael Chilvers and that you'd accused him of poisoning your dog?"
"Yes, she was."
"Why did you think he was responsible?"
Gil explained about the paint, Chilvers' gate-crash on New Year's Eve and the incident at the restaurant.
"Beyond personal conviction, do you have any evidence that Michael Chilvers poisoned your dog?" asked Mullings.
"The garden was littered with biscuits containing rat poison!"
"Did anyone see Mr Chilvers in your garden?"
Gil shook his head.
"Why didn't you report it to us?"
Gil sighed, "I planned to, once the biscuits were analysed."
"Haven't you had the results back?"
"Yes … as expected, rat poison."
"But you still didn't report it?"
Gil shook his head. "I meant to … Megan kept prompting me to." Then, rather uncharacteristically, Gil played the blame card, "I reported the paint damage immediately … for that Chilvers got a ticking off for using bad language!"
Mullings nodded, not unsympathetically.
Gil considered what he'd just said and looked directly across at Mullings, "I felt embarrassed … rushing off after Chilvers like that. It was pretty stupid! I could see that afterwards … I was angry, I'm very attached to Spike."
"It was a dreadful thing to do," agreed Mullings, who thought before adding, "Personally I'm surprised there were any biscuits left to find!"
"Sorry?"
"I have two dogs myself, Mr Harper. If they found treats dotted about the garden, I doubt they'd stop till they'd snaffled the lot!"
Gil nodded and indicated with a shrug that he had no explanation for this. Frankly, it seemed irrelevant. He said, "Michael Chilvers had already shown himself to be cruel and vindictive. Who else would have poisoned Spike?"
Mullings raised his head and said flatly, "Michael Chilvers didn't take your car last night, Mr Harper."
It was the indisputability of Mullings' statement that sent Gil metaphorically reeling. "I just don't get it," he said.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Mullings asked, "What happened to the tin of paint that was used on your car?"
"The constable who called on me took it away with him."
"Good. It will have been recorded. I'll get forensics to go over it again," the Detective Chief Inspector noted this down. "What about the biscuits?"
"Like I said, I took them to my vets' to get them analysed."
"Do they still have them?"
"You'd have to contact them."
DCI Mullings made another note.
"Mr Harper, did you notice anything unusual when you got home last night?"
"What do you mean?"
"Anything different?"
Gil shook his head.
"Is the garage connected to your security system?"
"Yes."
"Did you set the alarm before going out?"
"Yes, definitely. I needed to disarm it when I got back."
"Who knows the codes besides yourself?"
"My assistant, Megan … Deirdre, my cleaner. They've worked for me for years, I trust them completely."
"And Miss Curtis?"
"Huh?" Gil's ears began to warm.
"Does Miss Curtis possess a set of keys?"
"Er, yes … she has a front door key." Gil suddenly realised something important, "Not one of them has a key to the garage."
"Do you keep a spare?"
"Yes."
"Where's it kept?"
"In my desk."
"Always locked?"
Gil felt uncomfortable again, "Not generally."
"Do you have the house security codes written down anywhere?"
"No."
"You're certain? Nowhere at all?"
Gil considered the question again, "There is a file with the four digit code on my computer."
The interview concluded about 12.30 pm. Gil was glad he hadn't needed to lie directly about Sally's whereabouts. He believed there had to be a reason for her absence and it was academic whether or not he'd lied by omission.
There was no offer of a police chaperone to take him home. Gil took this to be a good sign. He'd left home without any money or his mobile but he did have a wallet with plastic in it. He located a cash machine and withdrew some cash. After this he found a greasy spoon, ordered a bacon sandwich and washed it down with a couple of large mugs of tea. Finally, he sought out a cab.
30
I don't think your bitch went to Nigel's party. Too busy?
Now here's an amusing thought: she might at this very moment be top of your list of suspicious candidates!
If so, that would be priceless!
Who, after all, hated Chilvers most?
Oh deary, deary, me!
SUSPICION!!!
It might so easily drive a wedge between you!
I wonder: can you imagine Sally behind the wheel of your Volvo, targeting Chilvers as he staggers home drunk?
Are you getting all this?
Picture how thrilled she becomes as the car bumps and rises over his injured body? See her callously eye him in the rear-view mirror lit by reversing lights? Then backing-up over his prone body? Vicious, cold-blooded, calculated ... perhaps even sexually aroused by it all?
Just think of the wry smile she may have been wearing when Michael Chilvers suddenly sits up reeling like something out of a zombie film, coughing, spluttering out frothy, bright blood from his burst lungs.
I certainly hope you can visualise the hard line of her mouth as she puts her foot on the accelerator and drives straight at him?
Perhaps not. It takes a special kind of person to do something like that.
His crushed, bleeding arm and hand were raised to protect his eyes from the headlights. The force of the impact was really quite unexpected.
I cursed my own recklessness for the smashed headlight!
The noise as Chilvers' face met the grille was incredibly loud.
Ouch!
It was followed by a muffled thud as the back of his head spread out like a mashed peach on the tarmac.
Yuck!
But then, you see, someone had to do it. I felt ashamed of you when you walked away from Chilvers and his drinking gang.
I simply carried out what you would have liked to have done yourself.
Honour has been served.
31
The taxi brought Gil along the wide avenue that led to his house. Directly ahead, an assortment of vehicles, each marked Kent Police, had congregated about his property. Whatever thoughts he'd entertained about getting home to some peace and quiet were instantly dashed to pieces.
"Must be something serious going on up there!" commented the taxi driver.
"Drop me here," said Gil.
They drew up behind a Citroen Picasso.
"Someone dug up a body?" the driver, until then a taciturn character, chirpily inquired.
Gil distractedly drew some notes from his wallet to cover the fare, stepped out of the taxi and began to walk in the direction of all the activity with a heavy heart.
"Very kind!" commented the man, seeing he wasn't required to give change.
After Gil had made about a dozen hesitant steps the taxi cruised past him, slowing up just ahead as it drew level with his home. A constable materialised out of the driveway and waved the cabbie on with unequivocal firmness, which made Gil feel irrationally pleased.
An area around the property had been cordoned off with a low barrier. Several members of a forensic team in hooded overalls could be seen milling about in the background. A Mobile Incident Room had been parked on the drive itself. The garage doors, no longer visible, had something resembling a gazebo erected across them.
Gil, about to be challenged by the fierce-looking constable who had sent the inquisitive taxi-man packing, was rescued by DI Jackson as he emerged from the MIR, "Okay, Sams," he called, "That's the householder!"
The constable smiled considerately and opened the barrier to let him through; Gil looked like a man who had stumbled into an alternative universe.
"Mr Harper, I'm sorry about the intrusion," said Jackson.
"I appreciate it's necessary," replied Gil.
The way Jackson spoke suggested the Detective Inspector no longer considered him the prime suspect.
Gil continued walking towards his house.
Jackson kept alongside him. "DCI Mullings instructed me we'll need to look in your office too. Is that okay, Mr Harper?"
"Yes, of course."
"The team should find time to get in there by the end of today."
"Fine," said Gil who had now reached his front door.
"We'll require fingerprints and DNA samples from you too, Mr Harper."
Gil looked surprised.
"To exclude you from whatever else we find."
Gil mumbled his assent.
Jackson organised a forensic officer to take the samples. Gil gave a full set of prints and allowed a swab to be taken from inside his cheek.
Once he was alone, he checked the phone for messages. There was nothing on the landline; however, his mobile had been busy.
At 9.53 am there had been a concerned message from Sally, 'Gil, I just rang your house … the police were there! They said you were helping them with their enquiries. Why? They can't honestly think you're involved? When you get a chance, ring me.'
She'd rung again at 10.32 am with, 'Me again … I don't understand, wh
at's going on?'
And again at 12.38 pm, 'I've just spoken to Megan. She hadn't heard about Michael … she said she'd been expecting you to pick up Spike. I just don't understand why the police need to talk to you. Why are they keeping you so long?'
It was obvious from her messages that the police had given Sally no indication that Gil's car had probably been used to kill Michael.
The next message was more unexpected. It was left at 1.47 pm by Klaus' partner, David, '… Klaus has spoken with Roz who told him that Sally is worried about you. If there's anything I can do, any assistance I can give, legal advice, or help in any way, please don't hesitate …'
'They must think I did it!' he thought.
It was after 4 pm by the time Gil tried to reach Sally on her mobile; the number was unavailable.
Next, Gil tried the phone number for Roz's flat. John picked up, and immediately recognized Gil's voice, "Hi. You okay, mate?"
Gil, who certainly didn't feel okay, replied, "Yes, thanks."
"We were told you were helping the police with their enquiries?"
Gil had no intention of reminiscing about his day, "Is Sally there?"
"Sorry. Not here."
"Could you let me have the number of the workshop? I can't get her mobile."
"She's not at the workshop. Roz and some other friends are helping out with her work stuff. She's on her way down to you. Klaus and David went with her. As you'd expect she was quite upset. We couldn't let her drive herself!"
At that moment the doorbell rang. Gil strode into the hall. Although it was almost dark outside, his front drive was lit-up like Las Vegas; Sally was delineated against the light.
"She's here, John," he said, and pressed the call-ended button with uncharacteristic abruptness.
Their meeting was inhibited by the sudden appearance of DI Jackson at Sally's side. There was no sign of Klaus and David.
"Hi Sally," said Gil, with an uncertain smile.
"Hello Gil," she replied.
Then Jackson interjected, "Sorry to butt in … forensic would like to start on your office in about half an hour?"