Peter Robinson - Not Safe After Dark

‘Oh God. Look, I’m sorry, mate, really I am. I tried to call. That woman at work – what’s her name?’

‘Elsie?’

‘That’s the one. She said she’d give you a message. I must admit she didn’t sound as if she quite had her wits about her, but I’d no choice.’

Reed softened a little. ‘What happened?’

‘My mother. You know she’s been ill for a long time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, she died last Wednesday. I had to rush off back to Manchester. Look, I really am sorry, but you can see I couldn’t do anything about it, can’t you?’

‘It’s me who should be sorry,’ Reed said. ‘To hear about your mother, I mean.’

‘Yes, well, at least there’ll be no more suffering for her. Maybe we could get together in a few weeks?’

‘Sure. Just let me know when.’

‘All right. I’ve still got stuff to do, you know, things to organize. How about if I call you back in a couple of weeks?’

‘Great, I’ll look forward to it. Bye.’

‘Bye. And I’m sorry, Terry, really.’ Reed put the phone down and went to bed. So that was it – the mystery solved.

The following evening, just after he’d arrived home from work, Reed heard a loud knock at his door. When he opened it, he saw two strangers standing there. At first he thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses – who else came to the door in pairs, wearing suits? – but these two didn’t quite look the part. True, one did look a bit like a bible salesman – chubby, with a cheerful, earnest expression on a face fringed by a neatly trimmed dark beard – but the other, painfully thin, with a long, pock-marked face, looked more like an undertaker, except for the way his sharp blue eyes glittered with intelligent suspicion.

‘Mr Reed? Mr Terence J. Reed?’ the cadaverous one said, in a deep, quiet voice, just like the way Reed imagined a real undertaker would speak. And wasn’t there a hint of the Midlands nasal quality in the way he slurred the vowels?

‘Yes, I’m Terry Reed. What is it? What do you want?’ Reed could already see, over their shoulders, his neighbours spying from their windows: little corners of white net-curtain twitched aside to give a clear view.

‘We’re police officers, sir. Mind if we come in for a moment?’ They flashed their identity cards, but put them away before Reed had time to see what was written there. He backed into the hallway and they took their opportunity to enter. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Reed noticed the one with the beard start glancing around him, taking everything in, while the other continued to hold Reed’s gaze. Finally, Reed turned and led them into the living room. He felt some kind of signal pass between them behind his back.

‘Nice place you’ve got,’ the thin one said, while the other prowled the room, picking up vases and looking inside, opening drawers an inch or two, then closing them again.

‘Look, what is this?’ Reed said. ‘Is he supposed to be poking through my things? I mean, do you have a search warrant or something?’

‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ the tall one said. ‘He’s just like that. Insatiable curiosity. By the way, my name’s Bentley, Detective Superintendent Bentley. My colleague over there goes by the name of Inspector Rodmoor. We’re from the Midlands Regional Crime Squad.’ He looked to see Reed’s reactions as he said this, but Reed tried to show no emotion at all.

‘I still don’t see what you want with me,’ he said.

‘Just routine,’ said Bentley. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

‘Be my guest.’

Bentley sat in the rocker by the fireplace and Reed sat opposite on the sofa. A mug of half-finished coffee stood between them on the glass-topped table, beside a couple of unpaid bills and the latest Radio Times .

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Reed offered.

Bentley shook his head.

‘What about him?’ Reed glanced over nervously towards Inspector Rodmoor, who was looking through his bookcase, pulling out volumes that caught his fancy and flipping through them.

Bentley folded his hands on his lap: ‘Just try to forget he’s here.’

But Reed couldn’t. He kept flicking his eyes edgily from one to the other, always anxious about what Rod-moor was getting into next.

‘Mr Reed,’ Bentley went on, ‘were you in Redditch on the evening of 9 November? Last Friday, that was.’

Reed put his hand to his brow, which was damp with sweat. ‘Let me think now… Yes, yes, I believe I was.’

‘Why?’

‘What? Sorry…?’

‘I asked why. Why were you in Redditch? What was the purpose of your visit?’

He sounded like an immigration control officer at the airport, Reed thought. ‘I was there to meet an old university friend,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been going down for a weekend once a year or so ever since he moved there.’

‘And did you meet him?’

‘As a matter of fact, no, I didn’t.’ Reed explained the communications breakdown with Francis.

Bentley raised an eyebrow. Rodmoor rifled through the magazine rack by the fireplace.

‘But you still went there?’ Bentley persisted.

‘Yes. I told you, I didn’t know he’d be away. Look, do you mind telling me what this is about? I think I have a right to know.’

Rodmoor fished a copy of Mayfair out of the magazine rack and held it up for Bentley to see. Bentley frowned and reached over for it. The cover showed a shapely blonde in skimpy pink lace panties and camisole, stockings and a suspender belt. She was on her knees on a sofa, and her round behind faced the viewer. Her face was also turned towards the camera, and she looked as if she’d just been licking her glossy red lips. The thin strap of the camisole had slipped over her upper arm.

‘Nice,’ Bentley said. ‘Looks a bit young, though, don’t you think?’

Reed shrugged. He felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.

Bentley flipped through the rest of the magazine, pausing over the colour spreads of naked women in fetching poses.

‘It’s not illegal you know,’ Reed burst out. ‘You can buy it in any newsagent’s. It’s not pornography.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it, sir?’ said Inspector Rodmoor, taking the magazine back from his boss and replacing it.

Bentley smiled. ‘Don’t mind him, lad,’ he said. ‘He’s a Methodist. Now where were we?’

Reed shook his head.

‘Do you own a car?’ Bentley asked.

‘No.’

‘Do you live here by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ever been married?’

‘No.’

‘Girlfriends?’

‘Some.’

‘But not to live with?’

‘No.’

‘Magazines enough for you, eh?’

‘Now just a minute-’

‘Sorry,’ Bentley said, holding up his skeletal hand. ‘Pretty tasteless of me, that was. Out of line.’

Why couldn’t Reed quite believe the apology? He sensed very strongly that Bentley had made the remark on purpose to see how he would react. He hoped he’d passed the test. ‘You were going to tell me what all this was about…’

‘Was I? Why don’t you tell me about what you did in Redditch last Friday evening first? Inspector Rodmoor will join us here by the table and take notes. No hurry. Take your time.’

And slowly, trying to remember all the details of that miserable, washed-out evening five days ago, Reed told them. At one point, Bentley asked him what he’d been wearing, and Inspector Rodmoor asked if they might have a look at his raincoat and holdall. When Reed finished, the heavy silence stretched on for seconds. What were they thinking about? he wondered. Were they trying to make up their minds about him? What was he supposed to have done?

Finally, after they had asked him to go over one or two random points, Rodmoor closed his notebook and Bentley got to his feet. ‘That’ll be all for now, sir.’