An Alibi Too Soon Read online

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘His car…’

  ‘It’s in that shed over there, and quite safe.’

  I said nothing else for a while. Sometimes you have to take a firm hold on your emotions, otherwise they can lead you into trouble. At last I said:

  ‘This isn’t exactly in the centre of a riot area.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Then he said something in Welsh that was probably very profane, ducking his head. ‘That’s why I’ve radioed the police. So if you wouldn’t mind hanging on…’

  ‘My wife is upset.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was hard and inflexible. He too was upset.

  ‘We’ll wait,’ I assured him.

  I went to sit with Amelia in the car. She’d managed to dry the dog with the blanket from the back seat, and she’d found some sort of soothing cream in her handbag. She was applying it to the dog’s ears, which seemed to have caught the worst of it.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ I asked.

  ‘He,’ she said, ‘is a she, and she’s quite exhausted, and in shock I think.’

  ‘Where’s that damned policeman?’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘That fire was probably deliberate. A smell of petrol. Oh hell, hell and damnation!’

  We were silent. They were damping down the remains. After a few moments Amelia spoke softly.

  ‘This alters things, doesn’t it, Richard?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ But I couldn’t at that stage say how.

  A minute or two later a small police van arrived, manned by a very young policeman with a strangely mature air of authority. I got out to have a word with him. He was brisk, was willing to listen, and got rid of me with efficiency. I told him about the hatchback I’d seen, driving away from the scene, who we were and where we were staying, and who the occupant of the house had been.

  ‘I know, sir,’ he said, his voice even. ‘I was proud to have the Chief Super on my patch.’

  ‘Can still be proud, surely. He’ll be back. Rebuild. Start again.’

  ‘One hopes so, sir.’

  His name was Davies. He asked politely that I would wait at the hotel to see him again in the morning. I told him I had no intention of leaving. He went to have a word with the fire officer, and we were free to go.

  The dog was asleep, Amelia nearly so. Reaction usually produces exhaustion. I started the car and drove away, she opening her eyes for a moment, giving me a weak smile, then dozing off again.

  It was late. We had to ring for the night porter. He allowed us into the lobby, not pleased with our appearance, but he got the key for us. ‘About the dog, sir. I’m sorry, it’s a hotel rule…’

  I glanced at Amelia, knowing what I would see. There was a sudden spark in her eye, a tenseness about her. I was tired, suddenly cripplingly tired. One more push, and my temper would go. I produced a crisp fiver and gave him no time to argue, slapped it into his hand, and led the way firmly for the stairs.

  Say this for him, he read my mood more accurately than I’d read him. Fifteen minutes later, when we’d had time to clean up a little, and while I was contacting the hospital, he appeared at the door with a large tray. He’d done it himself, a pot of tea and biscuits, a dish of scraps from the kitchen for the dog, and a bowl of water. He put it down on a side-table and stood back, made a tiny bow and said something in Welsh. ‘Croeso Y Gymru.’

  From beneath the teapot peeped the fiver.

  My call came through. The man spoke softly for a few moments. I hung up, and turned to Amelia, sitting there on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m afraid’, I said, ‘that we’ve just acquired a dog.’

  2

  Late as it was, I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep until I’d had a quick look through that manila envelope. Amelia made no comment, but simply requisitioned more than half the bed and went straight to sleep.

  A quick look, did I say? What I found myself looking at was Llew’s notes for his chapter on the case of Edwin Carter, for whose murder his nephew, Duncan Carter, had been sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment. Also included were a dozen scene-of-crime photographs, and copies of statements from that time.

  His recent notes disturbed me. They started off in a logical manner, with his plan for the chapter, almost as we’d been taught at school, for essays.

  Apparent suicide. All the elements. Manic depressive.

  Witnesses to this – everybody involved agreed. Grounds

  for assuming murder: money. (As usual! By heaven…

  the number of times…) Reminds me of Simpson

  That page ended there, as though his mind had drifted off the subject and he’d been unable to recapture his concentration.

  Another page (there was no sign of the one that must have preceded it):

  Lucky the inspector spotted it. Richard Patton that was…

  no, Victor Grayson, Patton…whereas it was, he spotted it.

  The case hadn’t come to me at that time, being a simple

  suicide. It was the wrong garage that did it. The car in

  that garage not having the radio to close that door. So

  how did he shut himself in? Even the button outside – that

  didn’t work. So what was he supposed to do? Dash outside

  and operate the radio in the other car, and run back under the

  door as it came down? It was just not on. So it came to me.

  A murder investigation, and, of course, with the timing

  Nothing more on that page. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, but I’d noticed he hadn’t been sure of the investigating officer involved. With a sinking feeling I realised that poor Llew’s mind must have been going. But he’d been insistent and excited when he’d spoken to me on the phone, and he’d admitted to believing he’d been in error. Or someone else had.

  I read on. A page of indecision.

  So tried it with an official driver. Fourteen miles each way

  to the nearest. Nothing remembered there. Best time:

  twenty-seven minutes. Those lanes! Tried at night. Better,

  said driver – no approaching headlights. This time twenty-four

  minutes. Say forty-eight, there and back, at best. Add time for

  buying. Near as damn it an hour. But…oh hell, if not there – where?

  Where booze from!!!

  How the hell could he have – can’t get it out of my mind. His eyes.

  Sworn he was innocent. We just assumed…I just assumed…well…

  he’d gone out for it, so where’s the horn gone? Where…where booze

  from? Miscarriage of jus

  The page ended there. I turned to the next one quickly, not wanting to pry into his disturbed mind. This was a photocopy of the long statement made by Duncan Carter, in his own hand. I skipped rapidly through it, a plain and categorical denial of his guilt, followed by a statement of what he had done that specific evening. In the margin Llew Hughes had scribbled: ‘Must see him about this’.

  About what? The comment was opposite the paragraph that read:

  I had used the car that

  day, and driven it back

  into the garage. I was aware

  that this was the wrong garage,

  [must see him about this]

  and I did not use the hand radio

  to try the door. Why should I?

  It was a fine day, so there was

  no reason to close the door.

  Gradually, as I leafed through them, Llew’s notes became more disordered, until I could hardly make sense of them.

  Take a man of some weight,

  anyway, and what –

  get help on this. Richard Patton.

  Written him over & over. Everybody

  deserts me now. Another attempt

  on my life. Or maybe not. Grayson not

  sympathetic.

  Must concentrate. If not from there…

  Timing later. Even more blasted alibis.

  I threw it away from me, and glanced briefly at
the photographs: a man belted into a driving seat, head down on the steering wheel; a garage, its door up, a car inside; a close-up of the car, a crate of beer on the back seat, bottles of spirits lying against it; a more distant view of the car in the garage, which showed it to be the left one of a pair, with another car parked outside the right-hand one.

  By that time I was too tired to go on. The dog was asleep in the patch Amelia had left me, so I simply put my head back and slept in the chair.

  I say slept, but you know what it’s like. You’re restless, and if your mind’s subconsciously pounding away in the background you can expect a thick head in the morning. This I got. Also an aching back, one foot that had to be stamped awake, and a hot forehead.

  Amelia made coffee with the equipment the hotel had laid on in our room, and I sipped at it, staring at the dog. She was livelier that morning, but you had to search well down through the fur to find the original white. All was singed brown, except her ears, which had lost all hair and were a violent red. I matched them with my forehead and the backs of my hands, so I could feel sympathy with her. I lit my pipe, and we named her. Cindy. Short for Cinders, that was. Not very subtle, is it? I had a quick bath and a shave, and took Cindy out for a walk, while Amelia prepared herself for breakfast.

  It was necessary to sneak out through the kitchen, where the chef intercepted me, having heard about the fire, and offered a bowl of milk. For the record, during the whole time we were there the staff, up to and including the manager, turned a blind eye to Cindy’s presence.

  We strolled the town. Why do big men with small dogs look so stupid? I imagined this to be so, anyway. I returned, with a lead and a dog basket and bedding from the pet shop, and installed Cindy in the car. I left her there, and went on up.

  ‘Guess what?’ I said.

  Amelia turned from the window. ‘She’s barking.’ This accusingly.

  ‘Look.’ I opened my palm to show her the small medallion. ‘This was attached to her collar. It says: “My name is Cindy, and I live at Ewr Felen.”’

  ‘Coincidence,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Not the only one, is it?’

  She didn’t take me up on that, so we went down to breakfast, where Constable Davies joined us for a cup of tea. He was wearing slacks and a short, zipped jacket, so didn’t attract undue attention.

  I hadn’t got a good look at him the previous evening, and my memory was only of his abrupt and seemingly unemotional approach. Now I was facing him, and could watch the play of feeling on his face. It was a sharp face, clean-shaven with a pointed chin, the dark hair abundant. His eyes were brown and intelligent, his voice still unemotional. But its flatness of tone was, I began to realise, due to control. His eyes flashed, but his voice remained quiet. The questions he put to me were unaggressive, but he pursued the answers stubbornly.

  ‘Glad I caught you,’ he said, risking a tiny smile. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about Mr Hughes?’

  I inclined my head.

  ‘I hope you folk weren’t intending to dash away.’

  I glanced at Amelia. She shook her head. ‘No specific plans at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘Though I suppose—you being a friend of Mr Hughes—you’ll have been connected with the police…’ He left it hanging, one raised eyebrow making it into a question.

  ‘Ex-Detective Inspector,’ I told him. ‘I worked as a sergeant with Llew Hughes, when he was an inspector. That makes it clear, does it?’

  ‘Very clear, sir.’

  ‘Ex,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to call me sir.’

  There was not a hint of a smile when he stared at me. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll make up my own mind about that.’

  Like that, was it? To Davies, the title of sir was not a simple measure of rank or title, it was either a keep-your-distance formality, as used to a member of the public, or a mark of respect.

  I sat back, one elbow over the back of the chair. ‘You mean you don’t trust me?’

  ‘I don’t have to…need to. All that’s necessary is to make sure you’re still around when the Chief Inspector gets here.’

  ‘Without levelling any charges?’

  ‘I can hardly imagine any charge I could make,’ he said blandly. Then he leaned forward. ‘And I don’t intend to be pressured into a position where I might be prejudicing any future action, Mr Patton.’

  Behind her hand, but nevertheless indisputably, Amelia giggled. The amusement was aimed at me, but Davies sat there, not allowing himself to glance towards her, and two pink patches bloomed on his cheeks. I stuck my pipe in my teeth to disguise the grin I felt to be on its way.

  ‘Put you in an awkward position, haven’t they, lad?’

  ‘The situation here…’

  ‘But you’re doing fine.’

  His mouth twitched. ‘And if you’re going to patronise me…’

  ‘Sorry. Did it sound like that? No—I meant it. Short-handed at the station, I bet.’ He nodded. ‘And you’ve been left to stall things along.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘No need to worry, you know. We shan’t be leaving in a hurry. Would you, with an old friend dead, and probably killed? Go on, you can agree, you won’t be committing yourself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be leaving.’ Then he shook his head angrily, at himself, I suppose, and his face relaxed. He even managed a smile, but it was hesitant. He didn’t know how far he dared to go, and didn’t trust his own discretion. Yet he was talking to somebody who would at least appreciate his dilemma. Suddenly it burst from him.

  ‘Well, look at it. Just take a good look at how it was last night. Mr Hughes, up at his place, quiet and isolated. Somebody wanted him dead, or at least silent, and set fire to his house. Oh, don’t worry, there’s not much doubt about that. It was deliberate.’

  I nodded. ‘That seems certain. Go on.’

  ‘But it didn’t happen two nights ago, a week ago…next week. It happened last night, and just after you people arrived here and decided to drive up there and visit. What a coincidence!’

  ‘They happen.’

  ‘But…just at that time!’

  ‘Let me tell you about the dog’s name,’ I said gently.

  ‘Who but you could possibly be number one suspect?’ he demanded.

  I considered him carefully. It was now a matter of whether I could trust him. He could have been instructed to throw out the suggestion. I said: ‘My wife and I were talking unguardedly in the dining room—in here. I’m already fairly certain that Llew Hughes was in the process of querying the result of one of his past cases. I phoned him to say I’d be right along. All this could have been overheard, so anyone wanting to put a stop to Llew’s activities—and incidentally destroy all his notes and what not—could have driven off ahead of us. There’d have been time. I got myself lost.’

  I stopped. It was strange to be on the wrong end of an interrogation, even though this one was informal. I was over-elaborating. I could see that Davies realised this, too. He was shaking his head.

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘And that’s why your Chief wants to see me?’

  ‘I reckon. Guess.’

  Did I detect a lack of confidence in his superior?

  ‘Then he should have come here himself.’

  ‘He’s up at Ewr Felen. What’s left of it. He simply told me to make sure you’d be available.’

  ‘Fib!’ I set to on the task of filling my pipe, to give my eyes something to concentrate on.

  I glanced up, surprising his look of expectation.

  ‘The best thing’, I suggested, ‘is to pretend this discussion never happened. That’ll leave us both with a clean sheet.’

  ‘I shall report exactly what was said.’ He frowned.

  ‘Don’t be a young fool. Tell him what’s been said, and he’ll skin you alive. We forget it. Let him make his own points, and I’ll give him the same replies.’ He was jutting his lower lip with uncertainty. I leaned forward and changed the subject while he hes
itated. ‘Now…I’ll need to get in touch with an inspector, one Llew Hughes worked with at one time. It could well have been after he came to Wales. A man called Grayson. Ever heard of him?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector Grayson who’s coming to see you.’ It spread into a grin. ‘Sir,’ he added.

  I slapped my palm on the table with delight. Cups jumped in their saucers. ‘Coincidence!’ I cried. ‘How’s that for you?’

  ‘They happen.’

  ‘Between us, we’re going to get this firebug.’

  ‘You and me, sir?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I meant Grayson and me, laddie.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t met him.’

  I glanced at Amelia. I’d sprung it on her, this intention to become involved, but she must have guessed. Her eyes were grave. She was remembering how I’d been so firmly discouraged from interfering, once before.[1] I returned my attention to Davies.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ I suggested.

  ‘Not much to tell, really. You can imagine, we don’t get much top-rank CID work around here. They usually send us a sergeant. But Mr Grayson…he’s got a reputation. He succeeds, you see. But he doesn’t stand for anybody sharing things. Not even the rough stuff, when it happens. He handles that himself, too. They say he’s clever. I don’t know. Never met him, until today, but you hear things. He’s not going to be friendly, Mr Patton. Not one little bit.’ No doubt he’d offered his own suggestions. He was shaking his head.

  Davies hadn’t been long in the force, and he’d been working a country beat, where he’d achieve more by open friendliness than by suspicion. He was young and eager, and certainly too outgoing. He’d got a lot to learn. It wasn’t his lack of experience that had led him into undiplomatic disclosures. I realised he’d done it deliberately. He had wanted to warn me.

  I said evenly: ‘I shall bear in mind what you’ve told me, Constable.’

  He took that as a signal that the meeting was ended, and got to his feet.