‘What prisoner-of-war camp were you in?’
‘I was in Stalag three-two.’
‘Did you ever try to escape?’
‘Twice. Once I nearly got to Denmark.’
‘Were you treated very harshly?’
‘Cocker, don’t make me laugh. I was grilled for twenty days and twice they took me out to shoot me. They wanted to know who planned the break, and if they’re alive, they’re still ruddy well wanting. So you can make up your mind to one thing.’ He sent smoke hissing in all directions.
Gently nodded. ‘Then there’s no more to it. I won’t waste my time in the steps of the Gestapo. To them you were a Royal Air Force officer, but to me you are just another criminal.’
It hit the spot; Johnson’s colour rose. He sucked in an enormous lungful of smoke.
‘Don’t take that line with me, old sport-!’
‘I’m not taking any line — but I’ll tell you the truth.’
Now it was Gently who had the pause to play with, and he occupied it in stroking off an entirely fresh pattern. Both Stephens and Johnson were now following the swept motions, only the shorthand man seeming proof against their fascination.
‘On the Monday night you had come to a crisis — not an emotional crisis, but a business one. I don’t think you gave a damn about losing Anne Butters. An ex-bomber pilot in an MG could soon pick up something else.
‘But you cared a great deal about your lucrative business, and you knew that it would take a knock if ever Butters turned against you. He knew the right people. He had sent you the best part of your clients. And he could, just as easily, put the evil eye on you.
‘So that was the thing which you had to preserve: the goodwill of William Butters, and your steady flow of clients. And the only way to do that was to marry his daughter, to make good the role you played of being an honourable man. Until Anne became pregnant the matter had no great urgency. You could fob off the pair of them with suitable excuses. You could tell him that you were waiting to buy a property that suited you, and her that you were still seeking the grounds for a divorce.
‘But once she became pregnant the situation began to run away with you, and you had to cast about to find a way out of the tangle. What was more, you needed a way which wouldn’t alienate Butters — he was due for a shock, of course; but it was essential not to make him an enemy.
‘No doubt you reviewed the possibilities, of which there were three in number. The first of them, abortion, was the one which you mentioned to Anne. But abortion had grave objections, besides being dangerous in itself: how could you keep the family from knowing, and what effect would it have on Anne? Then there was the possibility of blackmail, which I dare say crossed your mind. So, on the whole, you didn’t favour abortion, except as another excuse to amuse Anne.
‘So you were brought to the second alternative, that of the divorce of which you had talked for so long. As to grounds, you probably had plenty, and without recourse to private detectives. But here again the objections were insuperable. You had to proclaim yourself perjured to Butters. Anne you were sure of if the divorce went through, but she was no use to you unless with her father’s blessing. Also, wasn’t there a chance that he might have spiked that divorce for you? With divorce, the odds were that you would have come off with nothing.’
Gently discontinued his doodling to look hard at the estate agent, whose frowning grey eyes had never left the busy pencil. Stephens, his pipe between his teeth, was sitting as stiff as a cleaning rod. Tobacco smoke drifted lazily towards the harsh strip lighting.
‘Which left you with the third possibility: murder.’
Gently tore off the sheet and crumpled it into the office waste basket.
‘It meant risking everything, but you were a man used to risks — and the reward for it was everything that you had hoped to gain. Oh, I realize that Butters was going to have his suspicions, and that his suspicions would be near certainties when he learnt of Anne’s condition. But you banked on the initial shock of the affair to shut his mouth, and afterwards — by then, he was halfway to being an accomplice.
‘You would have had him where you wanted him! He wouldn’t dare, then, to discountenance you. He would feel that he shared the guilt, or perhaps persuade himself that there was none. And Anne’s baby would be the clincher: it would ensure that the marriage went through — with a little delay, of course, a little subterfuge — just enough to sink Butters some further!
‘I don’t know at what stage you made up your mind, but the Palette Group was always waiting to provide you with scapegoats. Your wife went about with them, ate with them, perhaps slept with them — you had plenty of time to find out about that. So, naturally, you arranged to take advantage of the Palette Group. You would murder your wife on their doorstep, so to speak. You checked what her movements were when she attended one of their meetings, and you decided that the car park would best suit your plan.
‘Next you needed an alibi, or at least a story that would check — you were clever enough to risk not producing a perfect alibi. Thus instead of going to Nearstead you went off on a round of the pubs, keeping Anne concealed in your car in case the police heard tell of her later. Then, after dropping her at ten, you drove quickly back to town; you parked your car, I think, in Chapel Street, to avoid having it seen in the park.
‘You took your stand by the City Hall, probably at the St Saviour’s end, and when your wife came by you accosted her, telling her that you were just driving back to the flat. She accepted a lift and went with you. You led her past the bus stop and into the park. As you approached the terrace wall you contrived to drop behind her, and strangling her scream with your arm, you drove the knife into her back.
‘She died instantaneously and without much bleeding. You threw her down behind the dustbins, tossing her handbag after her. Then you walked back to your car by the footway at the end here, and drove home, probably arriving at the time given in your statement.
‘You made only one mistake — you thought that Butters hadn’t got any guts.
‘But, in spite of his bottle of brandy, he has just committed you to the hangman!’
The silence that marked the end of his accusation was made the more telling by the murmurs from without — the voice and footfall in the building, the drone of a car from Chapel Street below. Johnson kept frowning at the moving pencil, his childlike lips hung slightly open. He seemed unconscious of the scene about him, unconscious, even, of Gently’s presence.
Was he trying, with desperate concentration, to find a plausible way out of this trap?
‘Poor Shirley!’ — the words came huskily. ‘She was a bitch, but Christ… she was human.’
Gently sighed to himself and reached out for the jug of coffee. He was never at his best, making speeches of that sort. They required an indignation, a degree of faith in moral judgements: to himself, at all events, they never quite rang true. He poured a cup of coffee and tossed it off in three quick gulps. Stephens cast an eye at the cup, then he folded his arms and leaned them on the desk.
‘That’s the way it was done, of course…’
‘I’m glad to find you agreeing with me.’
‘Hell, but it wasn’t me!’
Gently preserved an unimpressed silence.
‘Look, cocker…’ Johnson was stumbling, making beating motions with his hand. ‘You’ve had your fun… all right — I don’t mind!.. But it won’t stand up… I never dreamed of killing Shirley!’
‘I think I should warn you, Mr Johnson.’
‘I know all about that — and I don’t care a damn! You can take it down if you want to, you can print it off on toilet paper. But I’m warning you, cocker, your imagination ’s running away with you… you’ve cooked up a case, and it won’t convince a flea!’