Carla’s death, in their combined editorial opinion, must have been less important than a Third Division football result between Reading and Walsall. Elizabeth continued reading her latest library book, oblivious to my possible peril.
I slept fitfully that night, and as soon as I heard the papers pushed through the mail slot the next morning I ran downstairs to check the headlines.
DUKAKIS NOMINATED AS CANDIDATE stared up at me from the front page of The Times.
I found myself wondering, irrelevantly, if he would ever be president. “President Dukakis” didn’t sound quite right to me.
I picked up my wife’s Daily Express and the three-word headline filled the top of the page: LOVERS’ TIFF MURDER. My legs gave way, and I fell to my knees. I must have made a strange sight, crumpled up on the floor trying to read that opening paragraph. I couldn’t make out the words of the second paragraph without my glasses. I stumbled back upstairs with the papers and grabbed the glasses from the table on my side of the bed. Elizabeth was still sleeping soundly. Even so, I locked myself in the bathroom, where I could read the story slowly and without fear of interruption.
Police are now treating as murder the death of a beautiful Pimlico secretary, Carla Moorland, 32, who was found dead in her flat early yesterday morning. Detective Inspector Simmons of Scotland Yard, who is in charge of the case, initially considered Carla Moorland’s death to be due to natural causes, but an X-ray has revealed a broken jaw which could have been caused in a fight.
An inquest will be held on April 19th.
Miss Moorland’s daily, Maria Lucia (48), said—exclusively to the Express—that her employer had been with a man friend when she had left the flat at five o’clock on the night in question. Another witness, Mrs. Rita Johnson, who lives in the adjoining block of flats, stated she had seen a man leaving Miss Moorland’s flat at around six, before entering the newsagents opposite and later driving away. Mrs. Johnson added that she couldn’t be sure of the make of the car but it might have been a Rover … .
“Oh, my God,” I exclaimed in such a loud voice that I was afraid it might have woken Elizabeth. I shaved and showered quickly, trying to think as I went along. I was dressed and ready to leave for work even before my wife was awake. I kissed her on the cheek but she only turned over, so I scribbled a note and left it on her side of the bed, explaining that I had to spend the morning in the office as I had an important report to complete.
On my journey to work I rehearsed exactly what I was going to say. I went over it again and again. I arrived on the twelfth floor a little before eight and left my door wide open so I would be aware of the slightest intrusion. I felt confident that I had a clear fifteen, even twenty minutes before anyone else could be expected to arrive.
Once again I went over exactly what I needed to say. I found the number in the L-R directory and scribbled it down on a pad in front of me before writing five headings in block capitals, something I always did before a board meeting.
BUS STOP
COAT
NO. 19
BMW
TICKET
Then I dialled the number.
I took off my watch and placed it in front of me. I had read somewhere that the location of a telephone call can be traced in about three minutes.
A woman’s voice said, “Scotland Yard.”
“Inspector Simmons, please,” was all I volunteered.
“Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“No, I would prefer not to give my name.“
“Yes, of course, sir,” she said, evidently used to such callers.
Another ringing tone. My mouth went dry as a man’s voice announced, “Simmons,” and I heard the detective speak for the first time. I was taken aback to find that a man with so English a name could have such a strong Glaswegian accent.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“No, but I think I can help you,” I said in a quiet tone which I pitched considerably lower than my natural speaking voice.
“How can you help me, sir?”
“Are you the officer in charge of the Carla-whatever-her-name-is case?”
“Yes, I am. But how can you help?” he repeated.
The second hand showed one minute had already passed.
“I saw a man leaving her flat that night.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“At the bus stop on the same side of the road.”
“Can you give me a description of the man?” Simmons’s tone was every bit as casual as my own.
“Tall. I’d say five eleven, six feet. Well built. Wore one of those posh City coats—you know, the black ones with a velvet collar.”
“How can you be so sure about the coat?” the detective asked.
“It was so cold standing out there waiting for the No. 19 that I wished it had been me who was wearing it”
“Do you remember anything in particular that happened after he left the apartment?”
“Only that he went to the newsstand opposite before getting into his car and driving away.”
“Yes, we know that much,” said the detective inspector. “I don’t suppose you recall what make of car it was?”
Two minutes had now passed, and I began to watch the second hand more closely.
“I think it was a BMW,” I said.
“Do you remember the color, by any chance?”
“No, it was too dark for that.” I paused. “But I saw him tear a parking ticket off the windshield, so it shouldn’t be too hard for you to trace him.”
“And at what time did all this take place?”
“Around six-fifteen to six-thirty, Inspector,” I said.
“And can you tell me … ?”
Two minutes, fifty-eight seconds. I hung up. My whole body broke out in a sweat.
“Good to see you in the office on a Saturday morning,” said the managing director grimly as he passed my door. “Soon as you’re finished whatever you’re doing I’d like a word with you.”
I left my desk and followed him along the corridor into his office. For the next hour he went over my projected figures, but however hard I tried I couldn’t concentrate. It wasn’t long before he stopped trying to disguise his impatience.
“Have you got something else on your mind?” he asked as he closed his file. “You seem preoccupied.”
“No,” I insisted, “just been doing a lot of overtime lately,” and stood up to leave.
Once I had returned to my office, I burned the piece of paper with the five headings and left to go home. In the first edition of the afternoon paper, the “Lovers’ Tiff” story had been moved back to page seven. They had nothing new to report.
The rest of Saturday seemed interminable, but my wife’s Sunday Express finally brought me some relief.
“Following up information received in the Carla Moorland ‘Lovers’ Tiff’ murder, a man is helping the police with their inquiries.” The commonplace expressions I had read so often in the past suddenly took on a real meaning.
I scoured the other Sunday papers, listened to every news bulletin, and watched each news item on television. When my wife became curious I explained that there was a rumor in the office that the company might be taken over again, which meant I could lose my job.
By Monday morning the Daily Express had named the man in “The Lovers’ Tiff murder” as Paul Menzies, fifty-one, an insurance broker from Sutton. His wife was in a hospital in Epsom under sedation while he was being held in the cells of Brixton Prison under arrest. I began to wonder if Mr. Menzies had told Carla the truth about his wife and what his nickname might be. I poured myself a strong black coffee and left for the office.
Later that morning, Menzies appeared before the magistrates at the Horseferry Road court, charged with the murder of Carla Moorland. The police had been successful in opposing bail, the Standard reassured me.
It takes six months, I was to discover, for a case of this gravity to reach the Old Bailey. Paul Menzies passed those mont
hs on remand in Brixton Prison. I spent the same period fearful of every telephone call, every knock on the door, every unexpected visitor. Each one created its own nightmare. Innocent people have no idea how many such incidents occur every day. I went about my job as best I could, often wondering if Menzies knew of my relationship with Carla, if he knew my name, or if he even knew of my existence.
It must have been a couple of months before the trial was due to begin that the company held its annual general meeting. It had taken some considerable creative accountancy on my part to produce a set of figures that showed us managing any profit at all. We certainly didn’t pay our stockholders a dividend that year.
I came away from the meeting relieved, almost elated. Six months had passed since Carla’s death, and not one incident had occurred during that period to suggest that anyone suspected I had even known her, let alone been the cause of her death. I still felt guilty about Carla, even missed her, but after six months I was now able to go for a whole day without fear entering my mind. Strangely, I felt no guilt about Menzies’s plight. After all, it was he who had become the instrument that was going to keep me from a lifetime spent in prison. So when the blow came it had double the impact.
It was on August 26—I shall never forget it—that I received a letter that made me realize it might be necessary to follow every word of the trial. However much I tried to convince myself I should explain why I couldn’t do it, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.
That same morning, a Friday—I suppose these things always happen on a Friday—I was called in for what I assumed was to be a routine weekly meeting with the managing director, only to be informed that the company no longer needed me.
“Frankly, in the last few months your work has gone from bad to worse,” I was told.
I didn’t feel able to disagree with him.
“And you have left me with no choice but to replace you.” A polite way of saying, “You’re fired.”
“Your desk will be cleared by five this evening,” the managing director continued, “when you will receive a cheque from the accounts department for 17,500 pounds.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Six months’ compensation, as stipulated in your contract when we took over the company,” he explained.
When the managing director stretched out his hand it was not to wish me luck but to ask for the keys of my Rover.
I remember my first thought when he informed me of his decision: At least I would be able to attend every day of the trial without any hassle.
Elizabeth took the news of my firing badly but only asked what plans I had for finding a new job. During the next month I pretended to look for a position in another company but realized I couldn’t hope to settle down to anything until the case was over.
On the morning of the trial all the popular papers had colorful background pieces. The Daily Express even displayed on its front page a flattering picture of Carla in a swimsuit on the beach at Marbella: I wondered how much her sister in Fulham had been paid for that particular item. Alongside it was a profile photo of Paul Menzies that made him look as if he were already a convict.
I was among the first to be told in which court at the Old Bailey the case of the Crown v. Menzies would be tried. A uniformed policeman gave me detailed directions, and along with several others I made my way to Court No. 4.
Once I had reached the courtroom I filed in and made sure that I sat on the end of my row. I looked round thinking everyone would stare at me, but to my relief no one showed the slightest interest.
I had a good view of the defendant as he stood in the dock. Menzies was a frail man who looked as if he had recently lost a lot of weight; fifty-one, the newspapers had said, but he looked nearer seventy. I began to wonder how much I must have aged over the past few months.
Menzies wore a smart dark blue suit that hung loosely on him, a clean shirt, and what I thought must be a regimental tie. His gray thinning hair was swept straight back; a small silver moustache gave him a military air. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer or much of a catch as a lover, but anyone glancing toward me would probably have come to the same conclusion. I searched around the sea of faces for Mrs. Menzies but no one in the court fitted the newspaper description of her.
We all rose when Mr. Justice Buchanan came in. “The Crown v. Menzies,” the clerk of the court read out.
The judge leaned forward to tell Menzies that he could be seated and then turned slowly toward the jury box.
He explained that, although there had been considerable press interest in the case, their opinion was all that mattered because they alone would be asked to decide if the prisoner were guilty or not guilty of murder. He also advised the jury against reading any newspaper articles concerning the trial or listening to anyone else’s views, especially those who had not been present in court: Such people, he said, were always the first to have an immutable opinion on what the verdict should be. He went on to remind the jury how important it was to concentrate on the evidence because a man’s life was at stake. I found myself nodding in agreement.
I glanced around the court hoping there was nobody there who would recognize me. Menzies’s eyes remained fixed firmly on the judge, who was turning back to face the prosecuting counsel.
Even as Sir Humphrey Mountcliff rose from his place on the bench, I was thankful he was against Menzies and not me. A man of dominating height with a high forehead and silver gray hair, he commanded the court not only with his physical presence but with a voice that was never less than authoritative.
To a silent assembly he spent the rest of the morning setting out the case for the prosecution. His eyes rarely left the jury box except occasionally to peer down at his notes.
He reconstructed the events as he imagined they had happened that evening in April.
The opening address lasted two and a half hours, shorter than I’d expected. The judge then suggested a break for lunch and asked us all to be back in our places by ten past two.
After lunch Sir Humphrey called his first witness, Detective Inspector Simmons. I was unable to look directly at the policeman while he presented his evidence. Each reply he gave was as if he were addressing me personally. I wondered if he suspected all along that there was another man. Simmons gave a highly professional account of himself as he described in detail how they had found the body and later traced Menzies through two witnesses and the damning parking ticket. By the time Sir Humphrey sat down, few people in that court could have felt that Simmons had arrested the wrong man.
Menzies’s defense counsel, who rose to cross-examine the detective inspector, could not have been in greater contrast to Sir Humphrey. Mr. Robert Scott, QC, was short and stocky, with thick bushy eyebrows. He spoke slowly and without inflection. I was happy to observe that one member of the jury was having difficulty in staying awake.
For the next twenty minutes Scott took the detective inspector painstakingly back over his evidence but was unable to make Simmons retract anything substantial. As the inspector stepped out of the witness seat, I felt confident enough to look him straight in the eye.
The next witness was a Home Office pathologist, Dr. Anthony Mallins, who, after answering a few preliminary questions to establish his professional status, moved on to answer an inquiry from Sir Humphrey that took everyone by surprise. The pathologist informed the court that there was clear evidence to suggest that Miss Moorland had had sexual intercourse shortly before her death.
“How can you be so certain, Dr. Mallins?”
“Because I found traces of blood group B on the deceased’s upper thigh, while Miss Moorland was later found to be blood group O. There were also traces of seminal fluid on the negligee she was wearing at the time of her death.”
“Are these common blood groups?” Sir Humphrey asked.
“Blood group O is common,” Dr. Mallins admitted. “Group B, however, is fairly unusual.”
“And what would you say was the cause of her death?” Sir
Humphrey asked.
“A blow or blows to the head, which caused a broken jaw, and lacerations at the base of the skull which may have been delivered by a blunt instrument.”
I wanted to stand up and say, “I can tell you which!” when Sir Humphrey said, “Thank you, Dr. Mallins. No more questions. Please wait there.”
Mr. Scott treated the doctor with far more respect than he had Inspector Simmons, despite Mallins’s being the defendant’s witness.
“Could the blow on the back of Miss Moorland’s head have been caused by a fall?” he asked.
The doctor hesitated. “Possibly,” he agreed. “But that wouldn’t explain the broken jaw.”
Mr. Scott ignored the comment and pressed on.
“What percentage of people in Britain are blood group B?”
“About five, six percent,” volunteered the doctor.
“Two and a half million people,” said Mr. Scott, and waited for the figure to sink in before he suddenly changed tack.
But as hard as he tried he could not shift the pathologist on the time of death or on the fact that sexual intercourse must have taken place around the hours his client had been with Carla.
When Mr. Scott sat down, the judge asked Sir Humphrey if he wished to reexamine.
“I do, My Lord. Dr. Mallins, you told the court that Miss Moorland suffered from a broken jaw and lacerations on the back of her head. Could the lacerations have been caused by falling on to a blunt object after the jaw had been broken?”
“I must object, My Lord,” said Mr. Scott, rising with unusual speed. “This is a leading question.”
Mr. Justice Buchanan leaned forward and peered down at the doctor. “I agree, Mr. Scott, but I would like to know if Dr. Mallins found blood group O, Miss Moorland’s blood group, on any other object in the room?”
“Yes, My Lord,” replied the doctor. “On the edge of the glass table in the center of the room.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mallins,” said Sir Humphrey. “No more questions.”
Collected Short Stories Page 15