by Alan Hunter
Outside the police-station: a blue 3.8 Jaguar of recent date-letter, handsomely polished. Inside: George Alexander Selly, Corstophine Drug Co. Ltd’s East Anglian representative.
I didn’t like Selly. We shared the same Christian name, which always gives rise to a slight hostility. Also I’d had the feeling that he was outside the case, and that his choosing to disappear had made gratuitous work for us. But these were pinpricks, like the Jaguar (redundant power + weight = dinosaur); it was when I walked into Eyke’s office and set eyes on him that I knew I didn’t like George Selly.
He was a tall, bulky man. Though the day was warm he was wearing a short astrakhan coat over a well-cut lounge suit, and beneath the suit an embroidered waistcoat with small gilt buttons, shaped like horse-shoes. He had a plump, grey-jowled face, with aggressive eyes under emphatic brows; a dominating nose, tooth-brush moustache, and sleekly oiled-and-combed hair. It was a face that carried a threat: accept what I say to you or else: and went with a hard, loud voice quick with scorn and self-justification. A bully: a commando of the hard sell. No doubt there was a background of insecurity. But I couldn’t persuade myself to view him clinically; he made disliking him a positive pleasure.
He had just arrived, and already he was trying to put Eyke in his place. Eyke introduced us. Selly shot out a hand which I left hanging in the air. I took my seat at Eyke’s desk. Selly sat down angrily across from me. Eyke took a notepad and pencil from the desk and sat on a chair to my right. I looked at Selly. I said smoothly:
‘I suppose you know we’ve been looking for you, Mr Selly?’
‘Looking for me!’ His eyes slammed at me. ‘Then you didn’t look very far, did you?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Where? On my lawful occasions, that’s where.’
‘I shall need details.’
‘You can bloody have them. I’ve got them right here in my pocket.’
He pulled out a fat pig-skin wallet from which peeped a wad of fivers. He separated two folded papers and threw them on the desk. They were hotel bills.
‘There. You can’t get over those, can you? One for The Crown, Harrogate, Wednesday night. One for The Lion, Sleaford, yesterday.’
‘You stayed at these places?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you.’
‘They seem an unusual combination.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘It was an unusual trip, wasn’t it? I’m supposed to be booking in at Oban tonight.’ He returned the wallet to his pocket. ‘Look, there’s no need to come the high horse with me. I broke my trip just as soon as I knew, whether I could be any help or not. I’d got ten days, you know that? I might have effed off and left you to it. I haven’t seen Viv for going on a twelve-month. I reckon I’m the injured party round here.’
‘You are not concerned by your wife’s death?’
‘All right, I am! It shouldn’t have happened. But you know, I know, we’d parted company, so what’s the point in pulling a long face?’
‘I still want your movements in more detail.’
‘Right. Beginning on lunchtime Wednesday. We set out from Castleford at two and got into Harrogate at twenty-past six.’
‘We?’
He sneered. ‘It’s jam for you. I’m living with a widow, Cathy Bacon. I dropped her off at the Pelican, but she’s around if you need confirmation. So that’s that. And yesterday morning I phoned a booking to the Ancaster Arms, Callander, but we only got as far as Carlisle when I bought a paper with the news in it. So I’m shocked. I was through with Viv, but she didn’t deserve that. She was just a pathetic bitch who didn’t know how to cope with life. Well, I turned the Jag round and we finished up at Sleaford last night. Then this morning I drove here. Now you know all about it.’
‘Why didn’t you report to the Carlisle police?’
Selly snickered. ‘Some hope of that! The way it was put in the Telegraph they’d have brought me down here in handcuffs.’
‘It would also have saved us some trouble.’
‘Trouble you are paid to live with, mate. Which is more than I am, coming back here. I can’t write this lot off as expenses.’
‘That sometimes happens at the death of relatives.’
Selly gave me a queer look. ‘Well anyway, I came, for what it’s worth. You know now I haven’t gone into hiding.’ He rose. ‘Will that be all?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m only just beginning.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I want your movements on Tuesday.’
Selly’s eyes slammed at me. He sat.
I glanced at Eyke. ‘Do we have a tape-recorder?’
Eyke rose and left the office. I turned my back on Selly and employed the interval in filling and lighting my pipe. Eyke returned with a small Grundig which he placed on the desk and plugged in. He tested it. It played back crisply. He placed the mike beside Selly and resumed his seat. Selly sat scowling at the recorder, at me.
‘Look – I don’t go much on this!’
‘It’s a time-saver. Yours will be a long statement. We can make the transcript from the tape.’
‘It isn’t bloody evidence, you know that.’
‘It isn’t intended to be evidence.’
‘If I liked, I could have a lawyer!’
‘Do you feel you need one?’
‘Oh, stuff it.’
He glared for a while, then foraged in his pocket and came out with a cigar. He grabbed my matches off the desk and lit it and puffed smoke in my direction. His eyes scowled through the smoke. I took a few puffs and started the recorder.
‘Where were you on Tuesday, then?’
‘I was working for my effing living.’
‘In Castleford?’
‘Don’t be wet. My territory runs from Grantham down to Harlow.’
‘Including Wolmering.’
‘So what about it?’
‘Were you in Wolmering on Tuesday?’
Selly crowed scornfully. ‘You have to be kidding. Where would I find a customer in this dump? I represent a manufacturing chemist, not an aspirin-bottling factory. Labs, hospitals, doctors, researchers and one or two big wholesalers. I’m half-a-bloody chemist myself, not a knocker who goes round chatting up the drug stores. My nearest customers are in Eastwich.’
‘And that is where you were on Tuesday?’
‘Suppose I was?’
I looked at Eyke.
‘It’s about thirty miles away,’ Eyke said. ‘An hour’s run.’
‘An hour’s run. How long were you there?’
‘What does it matter how long I was there! The point is I wasn’t in flaming Wolmering, not how long I was somewhere else.’
‘Were you there after six?’
‘You get stuffed.’
‘After eight?’
‘Wet up your kilt.’
I blew a couple of puffs. ‘I think you’d have spent the night there.’
His eyes popped. ‘Drop dead. Drop bloody dead.’
I shrugged. ‘Look what happened next day. You were beginning a journey to Scotland. But did you set off early, as most people would, to get a start before the traffic build-up? You didn’t. You set off after lunch, and you were ready to call it a day at Harrogate. You’d done some driving already that day. You started from Eastwich, not from Castleford.’
Selly dragged savagely at the cigar. ‘You’re a clever, clever boy, that’s what you are. I wouldn’t have a lie-in Wednesday, would I, after my arseing-about the day before?’
‘Why not? You could have had it at Eastwich.’
‘Sod Eastwich. Crap on Eastwich.’
‘We can ask Mrs Bacon.’
‘You lay off Cathy!’
‘It would perhaps be better to have merely her confirmation.’
Selly breathed quicker. His brow was glinting and now he was drooped a little forward on his chair. His eyes weren’t on me but on the desk: rimmed, staring, searching the distance. Then they flicked back into focus.
‘Now
look – let’s stop acting like bloody kids! We’re on the same side, in case you don’t know it. I want this bastard put away too. So what’s the question – was I in Eastwich? Answer: yes, I sodding-well was! But I’ve got reasons why I don’t want to broadcast it, and they’ve got nothing to do with Viv.’
‘You stayed at a hotel?’
‘No – yes!’
‘Which hotel?’
He gestured with the cigar. ‘You’d check, wouldn’t you?’
‘We’d check.’
‘Yeah.’ He took a bitter drag. ‘So it wasn’t a hotel. I’ve got a bint there. A bint that Cathy knows nothing about. And I don’t bloody want she should know. Cathy’s different. I’m going to marry her.’
‘What is this woman’s name?’
He hesitated. ‘You wouldn’t do the dirty on me, would you? I mean I can tell you to shag off, I’ve got nothing on my conscience.’
‘It would mean us questioning other people.’
‘I’ll bet it would. You bastard.’
‘I think you should tell me.’
He hissed smoke. ‘You make it bloody plain, don’t you?’ He jerked ash into Eyke’s waste-can. ‘All right. I’m stupid, I’ll trust you. Her name is Jill Royce, Flat 7, 353 Wilby Street. She’s divorced, works as a hair-dresser. I picked her up in a pub one night. She thinks my name is Bobby Moore and I’m flogging adverts for directories.’
‘Have you known her long?’
‘Two or three months. I visit Eastwich once a fortnight.’
‘Is she fond of you?’
‘Fond of my dough. She wouldn’t lie to the narks for yours truly.’
‘Describe your movements, then.’
‘Check. All day Tuesday I was in Eastwich. East Southshire General, Eastwich Labs, Shotley Chemicals, Reid and Murchison. Lunched at The Crown and Anchor, had a snack in Limmers later. Rang Jill. Met her at The Bull. Dinner, booze, home and bed.’
‘What time did you meet Mrs Royce?’
‘Around seven, or just after.’
‘You were in her company all evening.’
‘Right. And in bed with her all night.’
‘Who else might have seen you at The Bull?’
Selly paused to huff smoke at me. ‘Are you telling me Jill’s word isn’t good enough?’
‘I would like the name of an independent witness.’
He puffed rapidly a few times, then pushed his shiny face closer to mine. ‘You lovely so-and-so,’ he said softly. ‘You’d like to set me up for this, wouldn’t you? But you can’t, because I wasn’t here. And you’re never going to prove bloody different. So you can stuff your independent witness. Jill Royce is good enough for me.’
I fanned at his smoke. ‘As long as you’re happy with that.’
‘You tell me why I shouldn’t be happy.’
‘You have just been telling me yourself. You had both motive and opportunity.’
‘My Aunt Fanny!’
‘Especially motive. You want to marry Mrs Bacon. Even with the new Act becoming law that was going to take you some time.’
‘But shit, I could wait—!’
‘Then there was the property, probably worth seven or eight thousand. And the continual drain of your wife’s allowance, a matter of fifteen pounds a week. Any one of these three would provide sufficient motive. Add them together, and I think they will prove too much for the testimony of a Mrs Royce.’
‘But Jesus Christ—!’
‘Next, your running away.’
‘I bloody didn’t run away!’
‘It was nicely timed. If discovery had been delayed your trip to Scotland would have made an alibi. Since it didn’t, you had to make the best of things and return to pretend innocence, but why didn’t you report straight away to the police? Was it because you needed time to brief Mrs Royce?’
Selly’s breath was coming noisily. I had sweat trickling down his plump cheeks. He was paler, too, and his staring eyes had a bemused, straining appearance.
‘You agree with me?’
He swallowed. ‘You lousy bastard. What are you after?’
‘Let’s say co-operation.’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
He mashed the cigar in Eyke’s ash-tray.
I gave him a rest. I switched off the recorder. Eyke sent out for some coffee. We left Selly drinking his in the office and took our own outside. Across a narrow street beside the station a fashion shop had built a patio, a square flanked on two sides by picture windows and with an acacia tree in the centre. Beneath the tree was a bench. We sat down there. It was sited to face the windows. Through the windows we could see slim, interesting girls dressed in svelte black dresses. A faint breeze ruffled the acacia and made patterns of shade around the bench. We drank our coffee silently for a while. The only foreign sound was of distant traffic. Then Eyke turned to me.
‘What do you think, sir?’
I lifted my hand and let it fall.
Eyke nodded seriously. ‘That’s how I feel, sir. We don’t have quite enough yet.’
‘It’s not that so much,’ I said, sipping. ‘But he was right, I’d love to pin it on him. Which is why I’m telling myself to be careful, to check all the factors he perhaps doesn’t fit.’
Eyke considered his cup. ‘It’s a fairish case, sir.’
‘You like him?’
‘I think we could make it stick. His tart won’t be much of a problem. I fancy Eastwich can wrap her up for us.’
‘But the man himself?’
‘I’ll go along with him, sir.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s where I’m not certain. He’s just a shade too sure of himself. I can’t tell yet if it’s genuine or not.’
Eyke looked disappointed. ‘We’ve heard a lot of them bluster, sir.’
‘Also, he isn’t quite square with the picture.’
‘With respect, sir, we don’t know all the picture.’
‘So that’s another reason for being careful.’
Eyke was silent for a few sips. ‘Then we won’t be taking immediate action.’
‘Not as I see it. But send your best man to Eastwich and get that alibi checked out.’
‘What about his car?’
‘Car and dabs. We’re taking no chances with Selly.’
Eyke finished his coffee sombrely and we returned to the office.
Selly was standing by the window when we entered. He’d removed his coat and hung it over a chair. He looked cooler, warier, perhaps more respectful: a man who’d taken time out to do some thinking. Eyke shut the door and he and I sat down. Selly came across from the window slowly. He didn’t take his seat directly but stood by it with his hand resting on the back.
‘Am I allowed to say something?’
‘You’re quite free to.’
‘Fine. I’d like to get something straight. I realise I’ve put my effing foot in it, and I don’t blame you for thinking the way you do.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But I bloody mean it! I know my neck is sticking out a mile. The way you were putting it together the jury wouldn’t bother to leave the box. Fatsy the patsy – that’s me, and I’m telling you I appreciate that. But just the same it doesn’t add up. I didn’t have any reasons for killing Viv.’
I started the recorder. ‘Why not sit down?’
Selly lunged forward suddenly and reversed the switch. ‘Let that sodding thing be! I want to talk to you. Can’t you listen without those spools turning?’
‘Still, sit down.’
Selly sat down. He dragged the chair close to the desk. He leaned his elbows on the desk-top and scowled at me over the recorder.
‘For a start, there’s Cathy.’
‘Have you changed your mind about wanting to marry her?’
‘No! But it’s a personal matter – just between her and me, compris? Us getting married isn’t going to change anything. We’re living like man and wife now. I wasn’t sweating on a divorce – that could happen in its own good time.’
‘And Mrs Bacon was satisfied with that?’
‘If you don’t believe me you can ask her, can’t you? If it bothered her living with me without being married she’d have changed her name before now.’
‘Is she well-off?’
‘She isn’t a pauper.’
‘About how much?’
‘You make me sick! She’s got some property, two or three houses. But I didn’t kill Viv to get hold of that.’
‘All the same, you will stand to benefit.’
Selly glared, his hands clenching. ‘The point is you can’t make Cathy into a motive, and she’s all you’ve really got against me. The rest is pathetic, bloody pathetic. I couldn’t care less about Viv’s allowance. I’m pulling in seventy, eighty a week plus an expense account and car allowance. So where does the big hardship come in? Do I look as though I’m counting coppers? If you’re doing as well as I am, mate, you’ll know the bloke to murder is the tax-man.’
‘Your wife’s allowance could have helped to pay him.’
‘Except that single men are taxed higher. So it cancels out, and what you’re overlooking is I never grudged Viv a penny of her money.’
‘Nor the cottage.’
‘Nor that either! I’d have made that bloody thing over to her. Viv was a feeble, half-cock bitch, but I owed her that much, and she’d have got it.’
‘Then what you’re saying is I don’t have a case.’
‘I’m saying your bloody motives won’t stand up.’
‘So all you need to show now is lack of opportunity.’
His eyes widened eagerly. ‘And I can do that too. Listen, there’s a waitress at The Bull called Rita, a sexy bitch with big titties. I’ve kidded her along once or twice, so perhaps she’ll remember seeing me on Tuesday.’
‘Did she serve you?’
‘No. Our waitress was a mousey bit, one I don’t know. But Rita was there, and she must have noticed me. And we didn’t leave The Bull till after nine.’