'That's better.' 'Wait until you hear it. One charge of assaulting a police officer, that's all. I went into it and the charge should never have been brought, even though he was found guilty. He got into a brawl during one of the Aldermaston marches a few years ago and was lugged in with a few others.' 'A protester,' I said thoughtfully.
'Amateur or professional?' 'Amateur, I'd say. He's not on our list of known rabble-rousers and, in any case, he has the wrong job for it.
He's not mobile enough. But his appearance fits the description given by Honnister's witness. We'll see. Who does the asking?' 'You do,' I said. 'I'll hang about in the background. He'll think I'm just another copper.' Mayberry had not arrived home when we got there so his landlady accommodated us in her front parlour. She was plainly curious and said archly, 'Has Mr. Mayberry been doing anything naughty?' 'We just want him to help us in our enquiries,' said Crammond blandly. 'Is he a good tenant, Mrs. Jackson?' 'He pays his rent regularly, and he's quiet. That's good enough for me.' 'Lived here long?' 'Five years-or is it six?' After much thought she decided it was six. 'Has he any hobbies? What does he do with his spare time?' 'He reads a lot; always got his head in a book. And he's religious-he goes to church twice every Sunday.' I was depressed. This sounded less and less like our man. 'Did he go to church on the Sunday two weekends ago?' asked Crammond. 'Very likely,' she said. 'But I was away that weekend.' She held her head on one side. 'That sounds like him now.' Someone walked along the passage outside the room and began to ascend the stairs. We gave him time to get settled then went after him. On the first landing Crammond said to the uniformed man, 'Wait outside the door, Shaw. If he makes a break grab him. It's not likely to happen, but if he is an acid-throwing bastard he can be dangerous.' I stood behind Crammond as he tapped on Mayberry's door and noted that Shaw was flat against the wall so Mayberry couldn't see him. It's nice to see professionals at work. Mayberry was a man in his late forties and had a sallow complexion as though he did not eat well. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull. 'Mr. Peter Mayberry?' 'Yes.' 'We're police officers,' said Crammond pleasantly. 'And we think you can help us. Do you mind if we come in?' I saw Mayberry's knuckles whiten a little as he gripped the edge of the door. 'How can I help you?' 'Just by answering a few questions. Can we come in?' 'I suppose so.' Mayberry held open the door. It wasn't much of a place; the carpet was threadbare and the furniture was of painted whitewood and very cheap; but it was clean and tidy. Along one wall was a shelf containing perhaps forty or fifty books; anyone with so many would doubtless be a great reader to Mrs.
Jackson who probably got though one book a year, if that. I glanced at the titles. Some were religious and of a decidedly fundamentalist slant; there was a collection of environmental stuff including some pamphlets issued by Friends of the Earth. For the rest they were novels, all classics and none modern. Most of the books were paperbacks. There were no pictures in the room except for one poster which was stuck on the wall by sticky tape at the corners. It depicted the earth from space, a photograph taken by an astronaut. Printed at the bottom were the words: I'M ALL YOU'VE GOT; LOOK AFTER ME. Crammond started by saying, 'Can I see your driving licence, Mr. Mayberry?' 'I don't have a car.' 'That wasn't what I asked,' said Crammond. 'Your driving licence, please.' Mayberry had taken off his jacket which was hanging on the back of a chair. He bent down and took his wallet from the inside breast pocket, took out his licence and gave it to Crammond who examined it gravely and in silence. At last Crammond said approvingly, 'Clean; no endorsements.' He handed it to me. 'I always drive carefully,' said Mayberry. 'I'm sure you do. Do you drive often?' 'I told you-I don't have a car.' 'And I heard you. Do you drive often?' 'Not very. What's all this about?' 'When did you last drive a car?' Mayberry said, 'Look, if anyone says I've been in an accident they're wrong because I haven't.' He seemed very nervous, but many people are in the presence of authority, even if innocent. It's the villain who brazens it out. I put the licence on the table and picked up the book Mayberry had been reading, it was on so-called alternative technology and was turned to a chapter telling how to make a digester to produced methane from manure. It seemed an unlikely subject for Mayberry. Crammond said, 'When did you last drive a car?'
'Oh, I don't know-several months ago.' 'Whose car was it?' 'I forget.
It was a long time ago.' 'Whose car do you usually drive?' There was a pause while Mayberry sorted that one out. 'I don't usually drive.' He had begun to sweat. 'Do you ever hire a car?' 'I have.' Mayberry swallowed. 'Yes. I have hired cars.' 'Recently?' 'No.' 'Supposing I said that you hired a car in Slough two weekends ago, what would you say?' 'I'd say you were wrong,' said Mayberry sullenly. 'Yes, you might say that,' said Crammond. 'But would I be wrong, Mr. Mayberry?'
Mayberry straightened his shoulders. 'Yes,' he said defiantly. 'Where were you that weekend?' 'Here-as usual. You can ask Mrs. Jackson, my landlady.' Crammond regarded him for a moment in silence. 'But Mrs.
Jackson was away that weekend, wasn't she? So you were here all weekend. In this room? Didn't you go out?' 'No.' 'Not at all? Not even to church as usual?' Mayberry was beginning to curl up at the edges.
'I didn't feel well,' he muttered. 'When was the last time you missed church on Sunday, Mr. Mayberry?' 'I don't remember.' 'Can you produce one person to testify to your presence here in this room on the whole of that Sunday?' 'How can I? I didn't go out.' 'Didn't you eat?' 'I didn't feel well, I tell you. I wasn't hungry.' 'What about the Saturday? Didn't you go out then?' 'No.' 'And didn't you eat on the Saturday, either?' Mayberry shifted his feet nervously; the unending stream of questions was getting to him. 'I had some apples.' 'You had some apples,' said Crammond flatly. 'Where and when did you buy the apples?' 'On the Friday afternoon at a supermarket.' Crammond let that go. He said, 'Mr. Mayberry, I suggest that all you've told me is a pack of lies. I suggest that on the Saturday morning you went to Slough by train where you hired a Chrysler Sceptre from Joliffe's garage. Mr. Joliffe was very upset by the acid damage to the back seat of the car. Where did you buy the acid?' 'I bought no acid.' 'But you hired the car?' 'No.' 'Then how do you account for the fact that the name and address taken from a driving licence-this driving licence-'
Crammond picked it up and waved it under Mayberry's nose-'is your name and your address?' 'I can't account for it. I don't have to account for it. Perhaps someone impersonated me.' 'Why should anyone want to impersonate you, Mr. Mayberry?' 'How would I know?' 'I don't think anyone would know,' observed Crammond. 'However, the matter can be settled very easily. We have the fingerprints from the car and they can be compared with yours quite easily. I'm sure you wouldn't mind coming to the station and giving us your prints, sir.' It was the first I'd heard of fingerprints and I guessed Crammond was bluffing.
Mayberry said, 'I'm… I'm not coming. Not to the police station.'