Barry Maitland - The Marx Sisters

‘May I ask what you were prepared to pay for number 22?’

‘Do you recall, Quentin, or do you need to look it up?’

‘No, Derek, I do remember. We offered Mrs Winterbottom two hundred K. I believe I indicated to Mr Winter that we might go to a quarter million.’

As they stepped out through the sliding glass door on to the street, Kathy took a deep breath. ‘Poor Meredith,’ she said, ‘and poor Peg and Eleanor.’

Terry Winter was waiting for them in an interview room when they got to divisional headquarters. He looked sulky.

Kathy began, her face expressionless, voice neutral. ‘Well, Mr Winter, what can we do for you?’

‘I wondered if there were any developments.’

‘Oh we’ve made some progress. We believe that your mother did die of asphyxia. And we’ve discovered that you didn’t have a cup of coffee in the place next to your Deptford salon, as you informed us yesterday.’

Winter rocked a little in his seat and blinked. ‘Yeah,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Well, that’s what I came here to talk to you about, wasn’t it?’

‘Could you speak up, sir? Just so we don’t miss anything.’

‘Look, I didn’t tell you the exact truth yesterday.’ He spoke aggressively. ‘I was in sort of a difficult position.’ He shrugged, as if that explained it.

‘Go on.’

‘I spent most of Sunday afternoon with a friend… a woman friend. My wife doesn’t know.’ He tried to address himself to Brock, but the Chief Inspector had opened a newspaper and appeared to be ignoring the proceedings.

‘Yes,’ Kathy said without any hint of surprise. She thumbed through a file of papers on the table in front of her, as if the whole sorry mess had already been written up. ‘Name?’

‘Is… is it going to be necessary for this to come out?’

‘Is she married?’

‘No, divorced. I was thinking of my wife.’ His voice tailed away. He swallowed. ‘Could I have some water?’

Kathy poured him a glass. He took a gulp. ‘Can I smoke?’

‘No. I’d rather you didn’t. It’s these new smoke-free zones, you know.’

‘Jesus.’ He shook his head and shoved the packet back into his jacket pocket. ‘Her name’s Geraldine McArthur. She’s the manager of my New Cross salon.’

‘You were with her between what times?’

‘From about 2.15 till around 6.’

‘Can anyone else vouch for that?’

‘No. No, I don’t think so. We were alone in her flat near the salon at first. Then we went out for a drive in the Merc, up to Greenwich. We took a walk in the park, but I don’t remember seeing anyone in particular there. We returned to her place for a cup of tea, then I left.’

‘No one phoned her while you were in her flat?’

He shook his head. He was fingering the gold chain round his wrist impatiently.

‘And you’ve discussed this with her, and told her you were coming to see us?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right. We’d better get her over here straight away. Where will she be?’

Winter gave Kathy a phone number and she left the room. They waited in silence, Brock slowly scanning the pages of his newspaper, until Kathy returned with a young woman constable.

‘We’re going to videotape you. Is that OK?’

‘I suppose…’

‘Fairly normal now. Just to make sure we get it right. Now, you realize that, having lied to us once, you have now given us an explanation of your movements during the afternoon your mother died which depends on one other witness, with whom you have since had the opportunity to collude, and with no likelihood of corroborating evidence. So’-Kathy sighed and put her papers to one side-‘the only way we can test your statement is to take a detailed account from you and another from Ms McArthur, and see if they match.’

‘I’ve told you what we did…’

‘I said a detailed account, Mr Winter, minute by minute, of what you did. Who did what, to whom, in what order, and for how long.’

Winter stared at her, startled. He glanced at the policewoman in the corner, head down, writing furiously, and at Brock who turned the page of his newspaper absently.

‘You’re not serious!’ Winter was agitated, his fingers working overtime.

‘Only way, sir. So let’s get on with it. You arrived in your car at what time?’

Winter began haltingly with the innocuous details of his arrival. He described parking the car round the corner because it was so conspicuous among the wrecks in her street, the walk to her front door, how many times he rang the bell, the sound of her footsteps running to the door. His attempt to maintain a neutral flow of words was disturbed by vivid pictures of what he was describing-Geraldine’s face glowing with pleasure at his arrival, her arms around his neck.

‘Was that before or after you closed the front door?’

‘After.’

‘Then?’

Pause.

‘I said, “Let’s go to bed.” ’ There was an edge of defiance in his voice.

‘You said, or she said?’

‘She said.’

‘You first said that you said it.’

‘No.’ Confusion. ‘No, she said it.’

‘Then?’

‘We went into the bedroom. Geraldine drew the curtains. We got undressed.’

‘Did you undress each other, or what?’

‘No. Each on our own side of the bed. Quickly.’

‘Did you put your clothes on a chair? What were you each wearing?’

Winter was becoming flustered, but he stuck gamely to his account, the mental images of private passion so at odds with this drab room and his indifferent questioners that he kept losing the thread. He saw his lover’s naked belly, smelled her perfume. He lifted the glass of water again and saw that his hand was trembling.

‘And then we made love.’

‘How?’

‘What?’

‘How did you do it? What position?’

‘I don’t know, several.’

‘You made love several times?’

‘No, once. But we had several… positions.’

‘Describe them.’

‘Well… to begin with face to face… then later, her on top.’

‘Did you have oral sex?’

‘Yes… no, I don’t know.’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘No… I can’t remember.’

Kathy raised her eyebrows incredulously. ‘What about anal sex then? Do you remember that?’

Winter’s face had turned bright red and there were drops of sweat on his forehead. He turned to appeal to Brock, but he was now engrossed in the crossword.

‘No, certainly not that, because…’

‘Because?’

His jaw was clenched tight and for a moment it looked as if he might explode. Then he burst out, ‘Because we used to do that, but we had to stop after Geraldine saw the doctor.’

His chest was heaving, his eyes fixed on the floor. But what he saw was not the grey sheet-plastic flooring, but the look on Geraldine’s face when she had told him that time that it was hurting.

‘All right, Mr Winter.’ Kathy’s voice was mild, reassuring. ‘Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. Just have a little break. Have another drink of water. Perhaps you’d like tea, no?’

They started again, patiently opening up Winter’s Sunday afternoon, moment by moment. They discovered the form of contraception used, whether Ms McArthur was having her period, and what colour the pillows were. Then they moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, to the kitchen and the lounge.

An hour after he had arrived at his girlfriend’s flat, the two had gone out to his car and driven to Greenwich. They walked through the park, where there might or might not have been small boys playing football on the grass, families picnicking beneath the trees and tourists queuing to see the Queen’s House. They established that the affair had been going on for six months, and that the Sunday afternoon assignation had been a regular event for over four. The only questions which Winter evaded concerned the future-whether he was intending to divorce his wife and marry his lover.