Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

‘Yes, it was.’

‘And you spoke to Mrs Wentworth, asking after the whereabouts of her neighbour.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And you told her you were Mr Longden’s friend.’

‘I — might have done.’

‘Might?’

‘Yes, I suppose I did. But it’s just an expression. It’s shorter than saying “acquaintance”, that’s all. It means nothing.’

‘Would “acquaintance” describe your relationship with Mr Longden more accurately then?’

‘Yes, indeed. Certainly.’

‘Thank you. An acquaintance. But an acquaintance who was anxious to see Mr Longden about something?’

‘Not anxious exactly.’

‘But you called at his house. Peered through his windows. Questioned his neighbour. Put a note through his letter box.’

‘There was something I wanted to tell him, that’s all.’

‘We have the note in our possession, Mr Buckley. It said that you couldn’t help him.’

‘That’s right. That’s what I wanted to tell him.’

‘So why, then, did you arrange to meet Mr Longden again yesterday?’

I didn’t have time to wonder how they knew all this. The question of who had known about the meeting we arranged in the market square was much too difficult for me to contemplate anyway.

‘It was Samuel who arranged the meeting,’ I said. ‘He wanted to persuade me to change my mind.’

‘About this project of his?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And did he manage to persuade you, Mr Buckley?’

Now I did hesitate. How was I to explain to them that I hadn’t gone through with the meeting? Could I tell them that I’d sat in the pub and watched the old man growing cold and disappointed, that I’d been a coward and hidden from an awkward moment? I could already see their contemptuous, disbelieving stares.

‘I didn’t turn up for the meeting.’

‘Any particular reason?’

I shrugged, trying to avoid their questioning eyes. ‘I just didn’t want to meet him. I’d given him my message. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of it.’

‘But you hadn’t told Mr Longden that, had you?’

‘No.’

‘You let him think you’d turn up.’

‘Yes.’ Then a little glimmer of hope began to form. ‘His letter only arrived that morning. It was much too short notice for me. I couldn’t get there.’

There was silence in the room for a few moments. I’d just lied to them, and I was afraid they knew it. It must have been scrawled all over my face. DC Hanlon would be jotting my name down on her guilty secrets list. I needed to do something to distract their attention. Then I realised I hadn’t asked the question they must be expecting from me.

‘Has something happened to Samuel? Has he had an accident?’

‘You might say that,’ said Graham grimly, with that uneasy shifting of the eyes that communicated bad news.

‘Is he... is he dead?’

‘Yes, Mr Buckley. But as for an accident... at the moment we can’t actually say whether it was an accident or not.’

‘That’s why we need to trace his exact movements during his last few hours,’ said Hanlon, trying to pierce me with her glare.

‘It’s a real pity you didn’t turn up for that meeting,’ said Graham. ‘You might have saved him, Mr Buckley.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘He died shortly before six-thirty. If you’d turned up to meet him, you might still have been with him then.’

‘Six-thirty? But—’

‘Yes?’

I hesitated, holding back what I had been going to say. ‘He was still in the city centre then?’

‘Yes, he died in Frog Lane.’

‘In the street? What happened?’

‘He was knocked down by a car. A hit and run.’

The news shocked me more than anything I’d been imagining. ‘Have you caught the driver?’

‘No. We haven’t been able to interview anybody else in connection with the incident yet.’

I didn’t miss the ‘anybody else’. Did they really think it might have been me driving the car that had run Samuel over?

‘You must have some description of the vehicle?’

‘Yes, there was a witness,’ said Graham, with a hint of satisfaction.

‘But you can’t say whether it was an accident. Why not?’

‘An inquest might say it was misadventure. If Mr Longden had wandered out into the road, for example. He was an old man — and rather frail, we understand. If he’d been waiting outside in the cold for a long time, he might have been unsteady on his feet.’

‘The verdict might even be suicide,’ said Hanlon. ‘If he was distressed about something. If he was upset enough by your failure to turn up, say.’

‘And then again, we can’t rule out the possibility of a murder charge,’ said Graham, and watched for the effect on me, which must have been clearly visible. ‘Now shall we just go back to the beginning, Mr Buckley?’

I went through the story again. Their tactic was obvious. If you make a story up, you’re more likely to make a mistake, to let slip an inconsistency, when you’re asked to repeat it. There’s a natural tendency to start embroidering the details. So I decided to be sensible and come clean. I told them I’d been in the Earl of Lichfield while Samuel sat in the market square. The detectives looked suitably shocked, and Hanlon made another note — guilty secret confirmed.

‘So the last time you saw Mr Longden, he was walking towards the Three Spires shopping centre. Did he look as though he was heading anywhere in particular?’ asked Graham.

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Was he hurrying?’

‘No. Walking rather slowly. He used a stick anyway.’

‘Yes, he was a rather fragile old man.’

I began to get irritated. ‘Look—’

‘Do you think he might have been heading towards the bus station?’

‘Quite possibly. He might have been planning to get a taxi from there to go back home. Did you say the accident happened in Frog Lane?’

‘Yes, near the corner of Castle Dyke,’ said Graham. ‘By the exit from the multi-storey car park.’

‘I see.’

I was starting to piece the scenario together bit by bit. I could see Samuel tottering off, a little unsteady on his feet, his legs perhaps numb with cold. Maybe he’d been deep in thought, his brain going off on one of those strange tangents I’d come to recognise. He must have walked a few yards down Bore Street and cut through Tudor Row to reach Castle Dyke. And just beyond there he’d stepped in front of a car. Perhaps it had been driving down the ramp too fast, and the accident was entirely the driver’s fault.

Somehow, the thought didn’t make me feel any better. I remembered too clearly the sound of the revving engine, the squealing tyres. And that deep, racking cough. Was it significant? Why didn’t I tell these police officers? Because I didn’t want them to know I’d been so close to the scene where Samuel Longden had died. I’d been much too close. If I told them, it would only double their suspicions.

‘But you haven’t found the driver?’ I said.

‘Not yet. We’re checking all the possibilities.’

I sensed that something else was coming. ‘Yes?’

‘So would you mind if we had a quick look at your car while we’re here, Mr Buckley?’

‘You don’t think—’ But obviously they did. That was their job, after all. I was the last person known to have seen the old man alive. Perhaps I was also the person who’d run him over. Why not? They were obliged to be suspicious.

‘That is your Escort we saw in the car port?’ asked Hanlon.

‘It is. Do you want the keys?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

We all trooped back outside. I trailed behind them, not knowing quite what to do as they examined the exterior of my car, particularly the bodywork and bumper at the front, the trim on the door and even the wing mirrors. They also looked at the tread of the tyres.