by Alan Hunter
I gazed at this man: I had to admire him. ‘So in a couple of words, what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying sir—’ he glanced over his shoulder – ‘I’m saying this case is just about over. Of course we’ll carry on doing what’s necessary, but I feel we should use our discretion about that. And if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I’m pretty sure this is the course that will appeal to the Chief Constable.’
‘I’m sure it will. What about the press?’
Eyke stared aslant at his desk-calendar. ‘I believe you enjoy a special relationship with them, sir. I was hoping you could help us with that angle.’
He looked back suddenly at me. I made my eyes blank. Yes, this indeed was the case for Wolmering. Near enough. A pity about Selly, but first things first: protect one’s own. And for me, wasn’t it near enough too, shouldn’t I be satisfied with Wolmering’s scapegoat – content to let this unhappy business slide into a decent, healing oblivion? Vivienne was dead: no bringing her back. No purpose to be served by persecuting the girl. We wouldn’t win it, so why proceed with it, exhibiting our official vindictiveness to a hostile public? Near enough! All it required was a simple, easy act of faith.
‘Only . . . she didn’t do it.’
Eyke’s eyes glittered. ‘In my opinion, sir, she did.’
‘In your opinion. But your opinion is prejudiced. And it doesn’t take into consideration – this.’
I drew the spool from my pocket. Eyke’s eyes switched to it; suddenly gone small. He must have heard I’d had the Major in the office, noticed a spool was missing from the recorder. He said nothing. I reached across and laid the spool on the suicide note. Signatures uppermost. The complete picture. He stared at the spool as though it might sting him.
‘I was being discreet too. I took a chance on the Major ratting. But I don’t think the Major will – not the way things have turned out.’
‘This is . . . proof?’
‘A half-dug grave. But now we have to finish the job.’
After a pause, he reached for the spool; but I put his hand aside.
‘Wait for the Major.’
A long wait. The Major wouldn’t come until his niece was out of danger, had spoken to him. That took time, and neither Eyke nor anybody else intended to rush him. I retired to Saturday lunch at the Pelican, which turned out to be a popular Wolmering function. The Town was there; so was Selly; so was Miss Swefling, squired by Reymerston. Well, a Roman holiday was in the making, and the number of reporters had risen to five: two from Murdoch-country. Later, in the coffee-room, I had the pleasure of enjoying my ‘special relation’ with them. Then I strolled for a while, feeling unable to sit it out with Eyke in the office; but when I did return, after three, there was yet another hour of waiting to get through. Nothing altered: life at a stand-still, which is the horror that pervades police-stations. Eyke in his chair, the spool on the note: non-time not-passing: the perpetual arrest. In a better world there would be quiet music and perhaps some of Reymerston’s pictures, in a police-station.
At ten minutes past four Eyke’s phone rang.
‘Yes. Bring him straight in.’
Almost immediately the door was thumped heavily and Campsey ushered in the Major. He was dressed in his Saturday tweeds, very well-cut West-of-England, with a crisp shirt of fine linen and a regimental tie. But all that was wasted. The man inside was a mere gesture of his former self. His brisk step had become a shamble, his eyes were glazed and unfocusing. The entire set of his face had disintegrated into something puffy, dragged, broken: almost as though he had suffered a stroke. His monocle hung from its cord unregarded.
And Eyke, he didn’t look much happier, as he scrambled to his feet in a sort of ferocious deference. For a second he hesitated, half-up, half-down, mouth drooping, grey eyes wretched.
‘There sir . . . please sit down.’
He waved awkwardly to the chair he’d placed ready; not facing the desk, as usage is, but informally, to one side. The Major moved to it and sat. Eyke sank back in his own chair. Campsey took a seat at a small typist’s-desk, while I remained near the door: an observer. Eyke’s eyes were on the desk.
‘Sir . . . I’d like to say how sorry I am.’
The Major nodded mechanically, not turning his head. His breath was coming thickly.
‘This must be a sad time for you, sir. I wish we didn’t have to bother you. But there are a few things we have to clear up, and I have reason to believe you can assist us.’
The Major’s breathing snagged. ‘Assist you, sir. . . ?’ His hand moved ditheringly. ‘You’re right, sir . . . quite right. I’m the fellow you should be after.’
Eyke’s eyes jerked. ‘I didn’t quite mean that, sir—’
‘It’s true, sir, true. I’m your fellow.’
‘If you will answer one or two questions—’
‘I should be behind bars, sir. Not fit to live.’
Eyke was stumped. His eyes flickered helplessly from the Major to the desk, then back to the Major. The Major had relapsed into a vacant stupor, shutting himself off: submerging. His eyes were wide but small-pupilled, seeming to scan dully some vast distance. Eyke grabbed the spool.
‘Is this your signature, sir?’
The Major quivered and turned slowly. ‘Yes, yes.’
‘With your permission, sir, I’ll play it back, and ask the Sergeant to make a transcript.’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘You can refuse, sir. Though this will probably save time.’
‘Save time. Yes, that’s best. Nothing left to hang about for.’
Eyke fetched the record-player and played the spool: Campsey took it down in shorthand. No surprises. I had given Eyke a resume of the contents before lunch. He had flinched, but held his fire. Perhaps he’d hoped the Major would deny some part of it. Not the Major. He sat listening to his voice without a tremor of reaction, either not noticing or not caring how damning the recital was. When it ended, Eyke sent Campsey to type it up in statement form, then he gave me a meaning look. I followed him out and into the C.I.D. room.
‘Sir . . . what the devil are we going to do?’
‘Do? We’re going after him.’
‘But sir, he isn’t in a fit condition – we could get anything out of him, now.’
‘So bully for us.’
‘But is there any point, sir? I mean, if he confesses we’ll have to charge him. And that’s going to finish him, sir, knock him out. We’re going to destroy him, if we go on.’
I drew a very deep breath. ‘You’re assuming, of course, that the Major will merely be covering for his niece.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘You won’t even consider that she may be covering for him.’
‘Yes sir – I have considered it.’
‘But you like the other way better.’
‘I think the other is the right way, sir. On the balance of evidence. On probabilities.’
‘Then you’ve a long way to go, Inspector.’
Eyke flushed to his ears. His eyes were wild for a moment, his mouth grim. But subordination prevailed. He stood hot and silent, eyes lowered, hands clenching.
‘Listen to me. The case against the girl rests entirely on a suicide-confession. We don’t know of a motive worth tuppence, and there is no evidence in support. What we do know is she was highly disturbed because she thought she had betrayed her uncle, and that would scarcely have been the case unless she was convinced of her uncle’s guilt. And about this she was in the best position to know. She was around loose on Tuesday evening. She had spent the afternoon with Mrs Selly. Her confession is tantamount to an accusation.’
‘But, sir—’
‘Allow me! In the case of the Major we have a combination of two cogent motives: his own exposure and social ruin, and the moral danger to his niece. Only the removal of Mrs Selly was an answer, and it was an answer in the Major’s line of business. With whatever justification the Major has had much experience of killing. In addition,
he had opportunity: time, an empty house, an excuse to invite his victim. The Major qualifies as a principal suspect and it is our duty to go after him.’
‘But if he’s innocent. This will break him!’
‘Was he innocent when he entered Mrs Selly’s bedroom?’
‘That was just a lapse, sir—’
‘Then he has the less to fear if it happens to become public.’
Eyke stared agonisedly at me. ‘I can’t do it, sir. Just somewhere you have to draw a line.’
‘If you don’t do it, I must.’
‘But you believe he did it, sir!’
I hunched, let my eyes slide away from him. That was the point! Did I believe it? Along with all the logic I could bring to bear, the neat balances, the summing up? Yes, a little I was believing it, or – let us say – beginning to suspend my disbelief. Seeing it as possible: with the eyes that watched the scribble of the suicide-note forming. Pamela’s eyes. Eyes, that on Thursday were the haughty eyes of youthful poise: shattered suddenly on Friday: on Saturday staring into death. Could they have deceived themselves? Would she have acted so on a premise? And if she believed, mustn’t I believe, and act as resolutely as she? I believed enough. The picture was coming to me. If it were the true one, that would not surprise me.
‘Do you want to opt out?’
He looked at me. ‘No, sir. This is my patch. I’m going to handle it.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you. You have to live here.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s got to be me.’
‘You’d better kick off with a warning.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And make absolutely certain he understands it. And perhaps you’d better mention a lawyer to him.’
‘Yes sir. Thank you.’
He lifted his chin.
And at that, it wasn’t going to be a push-over. A change had come over the Major during our absence. He was sitting straighter, his eyes clearer; the monocle screwed back into one of them. He was going to fight! No need now for Eyke to seek out ways to handle him gently – quite the reverse. If the Major was going to fight, Eyke might have his work cut out to match him. Eyke understood it, too. He was brisk with his warning, told the Major only that he was entitled to a phone-call. The Major spiritedly brushed this aside and fixed a determined stare on Eyke.
‘Sir. Before you begin your palava.’
‘Yes, sir?’ Eyke’s voice was carefully neutral.
‘I have spoken to my niece. She talks of a letter. I demand a sight of it, sir, before I answer any questions.’
Eyke sent me a look. I hesitated; nodded. Eyke produced the note and handed it to the Major. The Major slewed in his chair, away from Eyke, from me, and read the note slowly, his face invisible. He remained like that for too long, was too still, too quietly-breathing. But when he straightened again his manner was controlled, except for an almost imperceptible tremble.
‘This is poppycock. Complete poppycock. Had a word with the girl, so I know. Girl feeling responsible, being hounded by you fellows. Dreams up a fantasy. Tries to act it.’
‘She – told you that, sir?’
‘Never mind what she told me! Girl in no fit state to answer for herself. But you’ll have to answer, sir. Answer for driving her to it. To the Chief Constable. I happen to know him.’
‘She suggested no motive for what she did?’
‘Haven’t I said she wasn’t herself, sir?’
‘Why she confessed?’
‘I have just given the reason, sir. Hounded into it by police harassment.’
Eyke appeared to think about it. ‘Yet it does seem strange, sir, when your niece was under no sort of suspicion. That was never at any time suggested to her, either by myself or the Chief Superintendent.’
‘What does it matter? She received that impression.’
‘But not from anything we said to her, sir.’
‘I’m saying she did, sir!’
‘But we know she didn’t. So why was it necessary for her to confess?’
Now the Major’s trembling was more apparent, and the note, which he still held, beginning to flutter. His little burst of initiative was being wrested from him, was leaking away into Eyke’s hands. But a last fling! His eye fell on the note. Before they could stop him, he’d torn it across. Then again and again, with frenetic fury, until Campsey struck the pieces from his hands.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, sir!’
‘You devils! You devils!’
‘It’ll go against you if there’s a trial.’
‘That’s what I think of it, what I think of you. It’s a fix, all of it. A damnable fix!’
He tried to scuffle for the pieces, but Campsey pinned him to the chair. He was gasping and groaning, his breath coming in helpless sobs. They got the pieces. Eyke, grim-faced, placed them in an envelope which he dropped in a drawer. The Major made a howling sound and went limp. Campsey patted his shoulder, then withdrew.
‘Not very clever, sir,’ Eyke said primly.
The Major moaned. ‘It’s a fix. A fix.’
‘You are saying that your niece didn’t write that note?’
He moaned again. ‘It’s the whip that’ll do for me . . .’
Eyke ignored that. He shuffled the sheets of the Major’s statement with the waspish neatness of a schoolmaster, coolly read the first sheet, then settled back in his chair.
‘Now, sir. Perhaps we can go through your statement.’
‘No, sir. No. I refuse to add to it.’
‘I see you admit here that Mrs Selly was your mistress. Perhaps you can tell me how much you paid her?’
I should never have underestimated Eyke. With all his modest ways he was a fertile interrogator. He had a nice instinct for the question, the phrase that would expose a raw spot in his subject. He would build for it, too, adding together simple questions that gently raised the pressure: then the key one, quietly spoken, but opening a chasm at the Major’s feet. Always thoughtful, slow, economic. The bludgeon wasn’t Eyke’s weapon. A man like Selly could knock him off his length, but not a man like the Major.
‘You say you didn’t take Mrs Selly’s threats seriously.’
‘No sir. I knew she wasn’t serious.’
‘How much did she want?’
‘Well . . . five thousand. But that was a loan, you understand.’
‘You couldn’t snare that much money.’
‘No, I couldn’t. It’s tied up with my wife’s.’
‘And your wife would have to be kept in ignorance.’
‘Damnation, yes! Isn’t that obvious?’
A short pause.
‘And Mrs Selly was threatening to talk to your wife, if you didn’t help her?’
‘But she wasn’t serious!’
‘Yet she did make the threat?’
The Major’s thick breathing. The scuff of Campsey’s pencil.
By the end of the first session, the first run through, the Major was beginning to seek refuge in vagueness. He was sweating and mumbling, and the monocle had fallen from his eye long since. Eyke, on the other hand, had begun to lose whatever little reluctance he might still be feeling. He was on the track now, he could smell blood; he was settling in to finish the job. It showed at the interval, during which a tea-tray was fetched in. As though the Major and his troubles had never existed, Eyke had a little chat with Campsey about the holidays. Quite deliberate. You give the subject a whiff of the normal, innocent world beyond his agony, the world now lost to him, and with which he can regain contact only by way of confession, submission, accepted punishment. And meantime he is to understand he is just a case, a bit of business the police are transacting. Not a man. Not a human being. Just a bloody obstacle they want to get rid of. If Eyke was playing it that way, then his mind was already made up.
And so back to the beginning, with an appearance of sweet reason and a promise of despatch.
‘Now, sir, we’ll just clear up a few details. How much did you say you were paying Mrs Sel
ly?’
The second session was longer; I was timing it. It began with the usual rally. The Major had not yet entirely grasped that answering a question never disposes of it. He was still half-believing that Eyke was rather stupid and couldn’t remember what ground they had covered, and that by patient re-affirmation he was hastening the end of the ordeal. I watched that belief die as the minutes of the second session crept by. Slowly the Major’s puffy face began to drag and his replies to lose their articulateness. His reactions were lagging. He had to pause at each turn, breathing roughly through his sagged mouth. His pupils were small again, sightless, coming to life only at intervals. Nearing the break? Hard to say. Sometimes the subject will fight you for hours – his condition deteriorating quite early, but his resistance continuing up to complete collapse. Though the Major, of course, had undergone preliminary softening: by me, and by the circumstance of his niece’s trying to kill herself.
‘How could you have stopped Mrs Selly seeing your wife?’
‘. . . Didn’t mean that. Wasn’t serious.’
‘I think she must have been serious. She wanted the money.’
‘. . . no. She knew. Wasn’t any good.’
‘But how could she know?’
‘. . . did know.’
‘When did your niece learn of your predicament?’
‘Never!’
‘You saw her confession.’
‘No . . . not true. None of that’s true.’
Pause: a long pause.
‘Why are you so certain your niece is innocent?’
‘. . . because . . . it’s because . . .!’
‘Do you wish to tell us?’
‘. . . not true!’
Ah well. The evening was young, and Eyke running into form. Then there’d be Campsey to have a turn, the friendly man who might put in a word for you. And the Major would stagger on between them, his denials weaker at each repetition, till, perhaps sometime in the small hours, paralysis of will would be complete. It was in the pipeline, must happen. They were going to break the Major. And I’d put him there. Set on the dogs. Without a single spit of hard evidence. The expert. Sitting watching. Seeing what I’d reduced this man to.