Devices and Desires (36 page)

At their request, he gave his name and address. The sergeant wrote it down. Then he said almost wearily: “If you could tell us, please, where you were yesterday between six and ten-thirty.”

He remembered thinking, “Why six and ten-thirty?” She had been found on the beach. She liked to swim most nights just after the nine o’clock news; everyone knew that—at least, everyone who knew her. And the news on Sunday was at 9.10. And then he remembered that they would know exactly when she had been found. There wouldn’t have been time yet for the autopsy report. Perhaps they were still uncertain about the time of death, or were playing it safe. Six to 10.30. But 9.00 or shortly after was surely the relevant time. He was surprised that he could work it out so clearly.

He said: “I was at home with my parents until after dinner—after the one o’clock meal, I mean. Then I drove over to spend the evening with my girlfriend, Miss Caroline Amphlett. I was with her until just after ten-thirty. She lives in a bungalow outside Holt. She’s PA to the Director, Dr. Mair.”

“We know where she lives, sir. And we know who she is. Did anyone see you arrive or leave?”

“I don’t think so. The bungalow is very isolated, and there weren’t many cars on the road. I think someone in the flats may have seen me leave.”

“And you spent the evening doing what?”

The officer in the corner wasn’t writing now, only looking, but he didn’t seem curious, not even interested, just slightly bored.

“Caroline cooked supper and I helped. She had some homemade soup already made and heated that. We had mushroom omelettes, fruit, cheese, wine. After dinner we chatted. Then we went to bed and made love.”

“I don’t think we need go into the more intimate parts of the evening, sir. How long have you and Miss Amphlett been friends?”

“About three months.”

“And when was this evening together planned?”

“A few days before. I can’t remember exactly when.”

“And when did you get home, sir?”

“Just after ten-forty-five.” He added, “I’ve no witnesses to that, I’m afraid. My parents were away for the night, visiting my married sister at Ipswich.”

“Did you know they would be away when you and Miss Amphlett planned your evening together?”

“Yes. They always visit my sister on the last Sunday of the month. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. I mean, I’m twenty-eight. I live with them but I don’t have to give them an account of my movements.”

The sergeant looked at him and said: “Free, white and twenty-eight,” as if he were noting it down. Jonathan had blushed and thought, “That was a mistake. Don’t try to be clever, don’t explain, just answer their questions.”

The Chief Inspector said: “Thank you, sir, that will be all for now.”

As he reached the door he heard Rickards’s voice.

“She wasn’t very nice to you, was she, Miss Robarts, about that local radio programme you took part in,
My Religion and My Job
? Did you hear it, Sergeant?”

The sergeant said stolidly: “No, sir, I didn’t hear it. Can’t think how I came to miss it. Very fascinating, I’m sure.”

He turned and faced them. He said: “She wasn’t very kind about it. I’m a Christian. You don’t expect it always to be easy.”

Rickards said: “‘Blessed are ye when men revile and persecute you for the gospel’s sake.’ A bit of persecution, was there?
Oh well, things could be worse. At least you don’t get thrown to the lions any more.”

The sergeant seemed to think that it was very funny.

He wondered, for the first time, how they could have known about Hilary’s mild persecution of him over the programme. For some reason his brief, rather pathetic notoriety, his affirmation of faith had outraged her. Someone at the station must have mentioned it to the police. After all, they had interviewed plenty of people before they got round to him.

But surely it was over now. He had given the police his alibi, his and hers, and there was no reason why they should be questioned again. He must put the whole thing out of his mind. But he knew that this wouldn’t be possible. And now, remembering Caroline’s story, he was struck with its inconsistencies. Why had she chosen to park the car on an isolated part of the road, down a cart-track under the trees? Why had she chosen to drive with Remus to the headland when there were plenty of walks nearer home? He could have understood it if she had wanted to let the dog run on the beach and splash into the sea, but according to her they hadn’t gone down to the beach. And what proof was there that she hadn’t reached the cliffs until ten o’clock, half an hour after Hilary Robarts was thought to have died?

Then there was that story about her mother. He found that he just didn’t believe it, hadn’t believed it when she had first told him, and he believed it even less now. But that, surely, was something he might be able to check. There were private detectives, firms in London who could carry out this kind of enquiry. The thought both appalled and excited him. The idea that he might actually get in touch with those kind of people, might pay them money to spy on her, astounded him by its audacity. It wasn’t something she would expect him to do, that
anyone would expect him to do; but why shouldn’t he? He had enough money to pay. There was nothing shameful in the enquiry. But first he must find out her date of birth. That shouldn’t be difficult. He knew Shirley Coles, the junior clerk in the Establishment Division. Sometimes he even thought that she liked him. She wouldn’t let him see Caroline’s personnel file, but she might be willing to look up a harmless piece of information. He could say that he wanted to give Caroline a birthday present and had a feeling that the date was getting close. Then, with her name and date of birth, surely her parents could be traced. It should be possible to know whether her mother was alive, where she was living, her financial circumstances. There would be a copy of the London Yellow Pages in the library where private-detective firms would be listed. He didn’t want to do it by letter, but he could telephone with a preliminary enquiry. If necessary he could take a day’s leave and go up to London. He thought: I’ve got to know. If this is a lie, then everything is a lie: the walk on the cliffs, everything she said to me, even her love.

He heard the two knocks on the door. To his horror he found that he was crying, not noisily but with a silent welling-forth of tears which no effort could control. He called out, “I’m coming. I’m coming.” Then he went over to the washbasin and began bathing his face. Looking up, he saw himself in the mirror. It seemed to him that fear and tiredness and a sickness of spirit which lay too deep for healing had stripped away all his pathetic pretences, that the face which had at least been ordinary, familiar, had become as disgusting to him as it must be to her. He stared at his image and saw it through her eyes: the dull brown hair with the clinging specks of scurf which daily shampooing seemed only to exacerbate; the eyes red-rimmed, a little too close together; the damp, pale forehead on which
the acne pustules stood out like the stigmata of sexual shame. He thought: She doesn’t love me and she never has loved me. She chose me for two reasons: because she knew I loved her and because she thought I was too stupid to discover the truth. But I’m not stupid and I shall discover it. And he would begin with the smallest lie, the one about her mother. And what of his own lies, the lie to his parents, the false alibi to the police? And that greatest lie of all. “I’m a Christian. You don’t expect it always to be easy.” He wasn’t a Christian any more and perhaps he never had been. His conversion had been no more than the need to be accepted, taken seriously, befriended by that little coterie of earnest proselytizers who had at least valued him for himself. But it wasn’t true. None of it was true. In one day he had learned that the two most important things in his life, his religion and his love, were delusions.

The two knocks on the door were more insistent this time. His mother called: “Jonathan, are you all right? The chops are getting overcooked.”

“It’s all right, Mother. I’m coming.”

But it took another minute of vigorous splashing before his face looked normal and it was safe to open the door and join them for supper.

Jonathan Reeves waited until he saw Mrs. Simpson leave her office for coffee before going into the establishment office, where the personnel files were kept. All the personnel records had, he knew, been computerized, but the original files were still in existence, guarded by Mrs. Simpson as if they were repositories of dangerous and actionable information. She was nearing the end of her service and had never come to terms with computer records. For her the only reality was set down in black and white between the manila folders of an official file. Her assistant, Shirley Coles, was a newly appointed junior, a pretty eighteen-year-old who lived in the village. She had early been instructed in the importance of the Director and the heads of departments but hadn’t yet assimilated the more subtle law which permeates any organization and which defines those whose wishes are to be taken seriously whatever their grade and those who can be safely ignored. She was a pleasant child, anxious to please and responsive to friendliness.

Jonathan said: “I’m almost sure that her birthday is early next month. I know that the personnel records are confidential
but it’s only her date of birth. If you could have a look and let me know.”

He knew that he sounded gauche and nervous but that helped: she knew what it was to feel gauche and nervous. He added: “Only the date of birth. Honestly. And I won’t tell anyone how I found out. She did tell me, but I’ve forgotten.”

“I’m not supposed to, Mr. Reeves.”

“I know, but there isn’t any other way that I can find out. She doesn’t live at home, so I can’t ask her mother. I really would hate her to think I’d forgotten.”

“Couldn’t you come back when Mrs. Simpson is here? I expect she’d tell you. I’m not supposed to open files when she’s away.”

“I could ask her, I know, but I’d rather not. You know how she is. I’m afraid she’d laugh at me. About Caroline. I thought you’d understand. Where is she, Mrs. Simpson?”

“Having her coffee break. She always takes twenty minutes.”

He stood at the side of the cabinet and watched while she went over to the security cupboard with its combination lock and began twirling the dial. He said: “Can the police see these personnel records if they ask?”

“Oh no, Mr. Reeves, that wouldn’t be right. No one sees them except Dr. Mair and Mrs. Simpson. They’re confidential. The police did see Miss Robarts’s file, though. Dr. Mair asked for it first thing on Monday morning, even before the police arrived. It was the first thing he rang for as soon as he got into his office. Mrs. Simpson took it in to him personally. But that’s different. She’s dead. There isn’t anything private when you’re dead.”

“No,” he said. “Nothing is private once you’re dead.” And he had a sudden picture of himself in that small rented house in Romford, helping his mother clear out his grandfather’s things after the old man’s heart attack: the greasy clothes, the
smell, the larder with its store of baked beans on which he chiefly lived, the uncovered saucers of stale and mouldy food, those shameful magazines which he had discovered at the bottom of a drawer and which, scarlet-faced, his mother had snatched from him. No, there wasn’t anything left private once you were dead.

She said, her back to him, “Awful, isn’t it, the murder? You can’t sort of realize it. Not someone you actually knew. It’s made a lot of extra work for us in Estabs. The police wanted a list of all the staff with their addresses. And everyone’s had a form asking where they were on Sunday evening and who they were with. Well, you know. You’ve had one. We all have.”

The combination lock needed precision. Her first effort had been unsuccessful and now she was carefully turning the dial again. Oh God, he thought, why can’t she get on with it? But now, at last, the door swung open. He could glimpse the edge of a small metal box. She took from it a bunch of keys and, returning to the filing cabinet, quickly selected one and inserted it in the lock. The tray slid out at a touch of her fingers. Now she seemed infected with his anxiety. She gave one anxious look at the door and quickly rifled through the suspended files.

“Here it is.”

He had to stop himself from snatching it. She opened it and he saw the familiar buff-coloured form which he had himself completed when he first came to the station, her application for her present job. What he wanted was laid out before him in her careful capitals. Caroline Sophia St. John Amphlett, date of birth 14 October 1957, place Aldershot, England, nationality British.

Shirley closed the file and quickly replaced it and slid back the drawer. As she locked it she said: “There you are, then. Fourteenth October. Quite soon really. It’s a good thing you
checked. What will you do to celebrate? If the weather stays good you could have a picnic on the boat.”

He said, puzzled: “What boat? We don’t have a boat.”

“Caroline does. She bought Mr. Hoskins’s old cabin cruiser berthed at Wells-next-the-Sea. I know because he put a card in Mrs. Bryson’s window at Lydsett and my Uncle Ted thought he might have a look at it as it was going cheap. But when he rang, Mr. Hoskins told him it had been sold to Miss Amphlett from Larksoken.”

“When was that?”

“Three weeks ago. Didn’t she tell you?”

He thought: One more secret, innocent perhaps, but still strange. She had never shown the slightest interest in boats or the sea. An old cabin cruiser, going cheap. And it was autumn, hardly the best time to buy a boat.

He heard Shirley’s voice: “Sophia’s rather a pretty name. Old-fashioned, but I like it. She doesn’t look like a Sophia, though, does she?”

But Jonathan had seen more than her full name and the date of birth. Underneath were the names of her parents. Father, Charles Roderick St. John Amphlett, deceased, army officer. Mother, Patricia Caroline Amphlett. He had brought with him a sheet of paper torn from a notebook and quickly wrote down both the dates and the names. They were a bonus. He had forgotten that the application form was so detailed. Surely, with this information, a detective agency would be able to trace her mother without too great difficulty.