‘You get the tea, the kettle’s boiling,’ she told Mark, who was so surprised at being ordered around by Irene that he did so at once.
Although the night was warm, Irene switched on both bars of the electric fire and Johnny’s shivering grew less violent. He took the mug of hot sweet tea when Mark offered it to him and obediently began to sip it. He had stopped sobbing too. The liquid was warming him, making him feel better in spite of everything. He struggled desperately to gain control of himself.
Mark perched on the arm of the only armchair, watching him, amazed and fascinated.
‘OK then, Johnny me lad, what’s this all about?’
‘Marjorie. She’s dead.’
Johnny looked as if he were about to cry again.
‘Get a hold of yourself,’ snapped Mark. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Marjorie Benson. They found her today...’
Mark interrupted. ‘I know that, for Chrissake.’
Of course he did. It was his job. He had been told the identity of the body by a contact at about the same time that Johnny’s father had learned who she was.
‘So what are you telling me, Johnny?’
‘It’s my fault. I murdered her.’
‘You?’ Christ, thought Mark. Was this going to be the big one?
‘Yes. If I had done what I should have done she would still be alive. I left her to die.’
‘Now hang on a minute. Are you really saying you killed her?’
‘As near as makes no difference.’ Johnny buried his head in his hands.
Mark stood up. ‘What the hell does that mean? Are you telling me that you strangled that poor bloody girl?’
‘Oh no, oh no, no.’
Johnny wailed in anguish. His eyes were wide with horror.
Mark shook him by the shoulders.
‘Listen to me, Johnny. Did you strangle Marjorie Benson?’ Mark was pleased by how calm his voice sounded.
Johnny gazed at him in amazement. ‘Me? How could I? I loved her...’
‘Loved her? She was nearly twice your age. Was she your bird then?’
‘I suppose so. As much as she was anybody’s.’
Mark asked how long Johnny had been seeing her and a host of other questions about the relationship. He was surprised that nobody knew about it. Johnny explained about Marjorie’s demands for secrecy. How they had met every Saturday night and sometimes one or two other nights a week in the sand dunes behind the burrows, right over by the estuary, where hardly anybody went during the day, let alone at night.
‘On Saturday nights?’
Mark was starting to think now. His reporter’s brain turning the information over quickly in his head. ‘So you saw her last night?’
‘Yes, we met in the dunes and made love. The moon was out...’
‘After you’d screwed her, then what?’
Johnny winced. Screwed her... that wasn’t what it had been like.
‘I just left her there. She always insisted. I had to go first and then she would walk back to the golf club on her own. She had a room there. She never wanted to be seen with me, you see.’
‘Terrific,’ said Mark.
Johnny looked at him pleadingly. ‘I came to see you because I thought you would know what they’re saying. Did she die on the dunes?’
‘Yes. The last time anyone saw her alive was when she left the golf club yesterday evening at about nine o’clock. Except you, apparently.’
‘So it is my fault. If I hadn’t left her there she would still be alive.’
Mark raised his eyes skyward.
‘Johnny, have you been to the police?’
‘The police? Of course not. I can’t tell them anything.’
‘You can tell them what you’ve just told me.’
Johnny looked as if he was going to cry again.
‘She was all right when I left her.’
‘Was she, Johnny?’
‘What do you mean? Of course she was. Dear God, Mark. You don’t think I did it, do you?’
‘No, no, of course I don’t.’
Mark spoke swiftly. The prospect of Johnny losing control again did not appeal to him.
‘I’m just thinking of the way it will look to the cops. You were probably the last person to see her alive — apart from her killer. What time did you get home last night?’
‘I don’t know. About one o’clock, I suppose. It was eleven-thirty when I left Marjorie, I think. But I didn’t go straight home. It was such a beautiful clear starry night. I had my bike and I stopped up the top of Uckleigh Hill for a smoke.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Mark said. ‘So you sat there for over an hour? How do you think that is going to sound? Anyone see you?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Naturally not! What were you doing?’
‘Writing in my notebook. You know, a poem. I’ve told you before.’
‘How could you write in the dark?’
‘The moon was so bright. I like writing things by moonlight.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mark, for the umpteenth time.
‘Is it important?’ asked Johnny.
‘It’s all important, Johnny boy. The doctors reckon Marjorie died between elevenish and one a.m. If you’d had the sense to go straight home to your mum, things might be looking a bit better for you.’
Johnny put his head in his hands again.
‘I wouldn’t have hurt her, never. You believe me, don’t you Mark?’
‘Yes, I believe you. But you must go to the police, though, Johnny. If you leave them to find out from somebody else, it will look even worse.’
‘But they couldn’t find out from anyone else. Nobody else knows. Only you. You wouldn’t tell, would you...?’
‘Whether I would or not will probably make no difference. I just don’t believe that in a village like Pelham Bay, you and Marjorie Benson kept your great affair a total secret. Anyway, you’ve told me and I’m a journo. What if I go and write a story about the last love in Marjorie Benson’s life?’
‘Oh please, Mark. I can’t take any more.’
‘All right. You came to me as a mate, so I’ll respect that. And I won’t go to the police, either. But you should. You really should. You can’t keep this thing hidden. It’s not scrumping apples.’
‘Look Mark, the police aren’t going to believe a word I say, are they? Not after last year. I’m down in their books as some kind of violent sex maniac, aren’t I?’
‘Rubbish. Anyway you’ve got no choice but to chance it.’
Johnny lost control again. He jumped to his feet.
‘Thank you very much, friend,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not going near the bloody police. And if you do, I’ll never forgive you, never.’
‘Hey, Johnny, wait,’ Mark called, as Johnny wrenched open the front door onto the landing.
But by the time Mark had followed him outside, Johnny was already on his bike, careering down the hill. And he’d forgotten to switch his lights on.
‘Bloody fool,’ muttered Mark.
He went slowly back up the stairs to his flat, deep in thought. Irene was full of questions he couldn’t answer.
‘Oh shut up and come to bed for Chrissake,’ he snapped. ‘I’m bloody knackered.’
For once sex did not feature in his mind at all. Irene fell asleep but, in spite of his tiredness, Mark lay awake for hours beside her. He certainly wouldn’t go to the police, but what a good tale it was. A toyboy lover who had been with the dead woman on the night she was murdered. That was a story that would write itself — an absolute cracker.
‘You came to me as a mate so I’ll respect that,’ he had told Johnny.
Frightfully noble, but it wasn’t going to get him a job on a national, was it? Still, he liked Johnny Cooke. And if he did blow the gaff on him the whole affair could get very messy and he would be in the middle of it. He thought he would probably let matters take their course. He would keep his promise.