Colin Dexter - The Secret of Annexe 3

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Tuesday, January 7th: P.M.

I keep six honest serving-men

(They taught me all I knew):

Their names are What and Why

and When

And How and Where and Who.

(RUDYARD KIPLING)

THE MOST OBVIOUS improvements effected by those who had bought their own red-brick houses had been to the doors and the windows: several of the old doors were replaced completely by stout oaken affairs — or at the very least painted some colour other than the former regulation light blue: and most of the old windows, with their former small oblong panes, were now replaced by large horizontal sheets of glass set in stainless-steel frames. In general, it seemed fairly clear, the tone of the neighbourhood was on the 'up'; and number 17 Diamond Close was no exception to this pattern of improved properties. A storm door (behind which no light was visible) had been built across the small front porch; and the front fence and garden had been redesigned to accommodate a medium-sized car — like the light-green Maestro which stood there now. Under the orange glare of the street-lamps, the close was strangely still.

The two police cars had moved slowly along St. Peter's Road and then stopped at the junction with Diamond Close. Morse, Lewis and Phillips were in the first car; two uniformed constables and a plain-clothes detective in the second. Both Phillips and the plain-clothes man had been issued with regulation revolvers; and these two (as prearranged) got out of their cars and without slamming the doors behind them walked silently along the thirty or so yards to the front of number 17, where, with the plain-clothes man rather melodramatically pointing his revolver to the stars, Sergeant Phillips pushed the white button of the front-door bell. After a few seconds, a dull light appeared from somewhere at the back of the house, and then a fuller light and the silhouette of a figure seen through the glass of the outer door. At that moment the watching faces of Morse and Lewis betrayed a high degree of tension: yet, in retrospect, there had been nothing whatsoever to occasion such emotion.

From the outset the man in the thick green sweater had proved surprisingly co-operative. He had requested to be allowed to finish his baked beans (refused), to collect a packet of cigarettes (granted), to drive to Police HQ in his own car (refused), and to take his scarf and duffel coat (granted). At no stage had he mentioned writs, warrants, lawyers, solicitors, civil rights, unlawful arrest or Lord Longford, and Morse himself was beginning to feel a little shamed-faced about the death-or-glory scenario of the arrest. But one never knew.

In the interview room it was Lewis who began the questioning.

'Your full name is Edward Wilkins?'

'Edward James Wilkins.'

'Your date of birth?'

'Twentieth September, 1951.'

'Place of birth?'

'17 Diamond Close.'

'The house you live in now?'

'Yes. My mother lived there.'

'Which school did you go to?'

'Hobson Road Primary — for a start.'

'And after that?'

'Oxford Boys' School.'

'You passed the eleven plus to go there?'

'Yes.'

'When did you leave?'

'In 1967.'

'You took your O levels?'

'Yes. I passed in Maths, Physics and Engineering Drawing.'

'You didn't take English Literature?'

'Yes, I did. But I failed.'

'Did you read any Milton?' interrupted Morse.

'Yes, we read Comus .'

'What did you do after you left school?' (Lewis had taken up the questioning once more.)

'I got an apprenticeship at Lucy's Ironworks in Jericho.'

'And then?'

'I didn't finish it. I stuck it for eighteen months and then I got offered a much better job with Mackenzie Construction.'

'You still work for them?'

'Yes.'

'What's your job, exactly?'

'I'm a crane-driver.'

'You mean you sit up in the cabin and swing all the loads round the site?'

'That's one way of putting it.'

'This company — Mackenzie Construction — they did some re-roofing last year at the Oxford Delegacy — Oxford Locals, I think you call it. Is that right?'

'Yes. About April to September.'

'You worked there all that time?'

'Yes.'

'Not all that time, surely?'

'Pardon?'

'Didn't you have any summer holiday?'

'Oh yes, I'm sorry. I was off a fortnight.'

'When was that?'

'Late July.'

'Where did you go?'

'Up to the north of England.'

'Whereabouts exactly?'

'The Lake District.'

'And where in the Lake District?'

'Derwentwater.'

'Did you send any postcards from there?'

'A few. Yes.'

'To some of your friends here — in Oxford?'

'Who else?'

'Oh, I don't know, Mr. Wilkins. If I'd known I wouldn't have asked, would I?'

It was the first moment of tension in the interview, and Lewis (as Morse had instructed him) left things there for a while, saying nothing; and for a little while the silence hung heavily over the bare, rather chilly room at the rear of Police HQ in Kidlington.

From the doorway Sergeant Phillips, who had never previously been present at such an interrogation, watched events with a touch of embarrassment. The prolonged period of silence seemed (as Phillips saw things) particularly to affect Wilkins, whose hands twice twitched at his hip pocket as if seeking the solace of a cigarette, but whose will-power appeared for the minute in adequate control. He was a large-boned, fairish-haired, pleasantly spoken man who seemed to Phillips about the last person in the world who would suddenly display any symptoms of homicidal ferocity. Yet Phillips was also aware that the two men in charge of the case, Morse and Lewis, had great experience in these affairs, and he listened to Lewis's further questions with absorbed fascination.

'When did you first meet Mrs. Margaret Bowman?'

'You know all about that?'

'Yes.'

'I met her when I was working at the Locals. We had the use of the canteen and some of us used to have a meal there and that's when I met her.'

'When did you first meet her outside working hours?'

'She had a night-school class, and I used to meet her for a drink afterwards.'

'Quite regularly, you did this?'

'Yes.'

'And you invited her back to your house?'

'Yes.'

'And you made love to each other?'

'Yes.'

'And then she got a bit fed up with you and wanted the affair to stop — is that right, Mr. Wilkins?'

'That's not true.'

'You were in love with her?'

'Yes.'

'You still in love with her?'

'Yes.'

'Is she in love with you?' (Morse was delighted with such a beautifully modulated question.)

'I didn't force her along, did I?' (For the first time a little hesitancy — and a little coarseness — had crept into Wilkins's manner.)

'Did you write this?' Lewis handed over a Xeroxed copy of the letter found in Bowman's jacket.

'I wrote it, yes,' said Wilkins.

'And you still say you weren't forcing her along a bit?'

'I just wanted to see her again, that's all.'

'To make love to her again, you mean?'

'Not just that, no.'

'Did you actually see her that day — in South Parade?'

'Yes.'

'And you took her to your house?'

'Yes.'

'Was anyone following you — in a car?'

'What do you mean?'

'Mr. Bowman knew all about you — we found that copy of the letter in one of his jackets.'

Wilkins shook his head, as if with regret. 'I didn't know that — honestly, I didn't. I always said to Margaret that whatever happened I never wanted to — well, to hurt anybody else.'

'You didn't know that Mr. Bowman knew all about you?'

'No.'

'She didn't tell you?'

'No. I stopped seeing her after that day I met her in South Parade. She said she couldn't cope with the strain and everything, and that she'd decided to stay with him. It was a bit hard to take, but I tried to accept it. I hadn't got much option, had I?'