Off the Record (12 page)

Jack felt a prickle of excitement. ‘His attitude?’

‘He was
pleased
,’ broke out Carrington. ‘At first I thought I must be wrong. I argued the toss with myself dozens of times but I couldn’t get rid of my impression. For some reason, Dunbar was pleased that Mr Otterbourne had died.’ He glanced up. ‘I don’t know about my father. Perhaps that was too painful for me even to contemplate, but I’m sure about his reaction to Mr Otterbourne’s death. As time went on I became more and more uneasy about working with him.’

‘You did work with him though.’

‘What choice did I have?’ asked Carrington with a shrug. ‘I didn’t make a meal of how I felt but I didn’t try and conceal the fact I had reservations about him either. Quite apart from what might be nothing but fancy, I had legitimate grounds to feel pretty iffy about him. Dunbar knew that, but he had no choice but to turn to me. I must be about the only person in the world who had a sporting chance of understanding my father’s notes.’

He polished his glasses once more. ‘Dunbar had taken possession of Dad’s machine. That was perfectly legal and I had no grounds for complaint. However, he needed me to make it work. I’ve got some ideas of my own, too. The machine is essentially the guv’nor’s, but my version will be a great deal easier to operate. I’ve started work on the new machine. I’m not there yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Now, I’m not my father. Dunbar might have exploited him, but I was damned if he was exploiting me. There are parts of the new machine which are mine. I want to be able to use the process in other machines and, furthermore, I wanted a licensing agreement so I would get a payment for every model sold. That was what the argument was about.’

‘Did you come to an agreement?’

Carrington shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know if we ever would have done. I’ll be honest, it’s easier now he’s dead. All I want to do is develop that machine, not argue endlessly about who owns what.’

He broke off suddenly and looked round the bare room. He swallowed convulsively and put a hand to his mouth. ‘Just for a moment I’d forgotten where I was. I can’t believe this has happened,’ he said passionately. ‘I was thunderstruck when the Inspector told me Dunbar was dead. I assumed he’d had a heart attack or something. I couldn’t see the point of his questions. When I was arrested I couldn’t credit it was a serious accusation. Then, when I realized they
were
serious, I asked them to produce proofs. I still haven’t been shown anything that I would consider as a proof and they won’t admit they’re wrong. They are wrong, though. After all, if a man comes to an erroneous conclusion, then either his chain of reasoning must be false or his premises can be contradicted. It’s a matter of logic or a matter of fact. But they won’t give me their premises and when I say their chain of reasoning is at fault I can see they either don’t understand – although God knows what’s so hard to grasp – or simply think I’m lying.’ He swallowed. ‘All the ways I’ve ever used to present an argument seem to be redundant.’ His voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ He suddenly looked very frightened and oddly, vulnerably, young.

Jack leaned forward, willing confidence into the man. ‘Look, Mr Carrington, you’re in a rotten position. Tell me, do you have any friends?’

The fear faded from Carrington’s face. His forehead creased in a frown. ‘Of course I do. Why do you ask?’

‘Say one of your friends makes a statement that you can’t objectively prove or disprove – that they had measles as a child, for instance, or that they had a chop for dinner – do you believe or disbelieve them?’

‘I believe them. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘And if one of those same friends said they’d seen a ghost, what would you think then?’

‘A ghost?’ Carrington repeated, puzzled. ‘I’d probably think they were joking.’ A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘Either that, or they’d been making a night of it.’

Jack smiled too, but he wanted an answer. ‘And if they were serious? And sober?’

‘Utterly serious? I can’t say I believe in ghosts but I’d think they’d probably seen
something
. What it was is another matter.’

‘So your belief or disbelief hinges not so much on what you’re being told, but on who says it?’

‘I suppose so. Yes, of course it does. There are some people I’d trust to tell me the truth, even though it may sound peculiar.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s only common sense, isn’t it? To trust the people you know are trustworthy. You might not always be right, of course.’

Jack breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Common sense; indefinable but unmistakable. He nodded in agreement. ‘That’s ordinary life, isn’t it? We can’t possibly check the truth of what everyone says. We wouldn’t have time, for one thing and, for another, we wouldn’t have many friends left by the time we’d finished. Now the police don’t know you, Mr Carrington. Your account of what you did sounds odd to them and not only haven’t they got enough information about you to take your statement on trust, they wouldn’t be allowed to let such personal considerations enter into it. I know very little about science, but I imagine that when presenting a scientific argument, you point to the results of various experiments and justify your theory because of those results. Unlike your hypothetical friend and his ghost, the personality of the man conducting the experiments doesn’t affect the outcome.’

‘No, it doesn’t, unless you think he falsified his results. But if the experiment can be repeated and the same result reached, then that’s objective truth.’ Carrington relaxed, happy to be on familiar ground. ‘You can debate his conclusions, of course.’

‘And that’s the position the police are in.’ Jack shifted in his chair, linking his fingers together. ‘They have the objective fact of Andrew Dunbar’s murder to account for. Their conclusion is that you murdered him. We want to debate that conclusion, but we can’t do it by asking them to show their proofs. They haven’t got any, in the sense you mean. What they have got is a chain of inference, shaky as it may be, and that’s all they need. In court your actions will be examined as if you had shot Dunbar. You might say that’s a false premise, but it’s what they’ll be acting on. All they have to show is that it’s beyond reasonable doubt that you killed Dunbar. It’s not scientific. It can’t be, any more than a friend who says he saw a ghost can be judged scientifically. It’ll simply be the jury’s opinion based on your actions. We have to see it from their point of view. If you can provide an innocent and reasonable account of your actions, then we’ve got a chance.’

Carrington gave a fleeting smile. ‘Is this meant to be cheering me up?’

‘It’s meant to stop you asking for scientific proof of their accusation. Science, in your sense – real science – where the truth of a proposition can be tested by a series of experiments, won’t help us. Dunbar’s murder was a unique event and, as such, has unique characteristics. You can’t reproduce the exact event to see if the same consequences occur.’

Carrington gazed at him. ‘I see. Yes, of course, I see.’ He rubbed his hand through his hair anxiously. ‘No one’s put it quite like that before but it’s obvious, really. I’ve been using the wrong methodology,’ he added, more to himself than to Jack. He suddenly looked very unsure of himself. ‘But if science won’t help . . .’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I’ve been rather stupid, haven’t I? I . . . I don’t know what to do. When Inspector Rackham came to interview me, I obviously put his back up. I got on better with my solicitors but I could tell they didn’t understand my point about the nature of the proofs against me. They didn’t explain it as you’ve just done.’ He gave Jack a worried glance. ‘It’s partly arrogance, I suppose. No, let me be honest. It was arrogance. I was so stunned when I was accused and I found the idea so idiotic, I demanded they should prove it, really prove it, I mean. I realized they didn’t know what I was talking about. It seemed so ridiculous they couldn’t understand what I meant.’

‘It could be shock, too,’ said Jack. ‘You were grasping for a way of looking at things which seemed familiar.’

Carrington nodded eagerly. ‘That’s right. I wanted their proofs.’

‘But Inspector Rackham thought he’d answered your question, because he does know what proof means in the courts’ sense of the word. It means, if I can put it like this, the balance of probabilities.’

‘I see,’ said Carrington again. He put a hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, crikey. It looks . . . It looks as if I’m for it, doesn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Once more Jack tried to will self-confidence across the table. Carrington looked close to panic.

‘Let me take you back to that afternoon with Dunbar. You said you argued with him. Did the argument continue all afternoon?’

‘No. I’ll give Dunbar his due, he knew how to handle people.’ Carrington gave a sudden boyish smile. ‘The fact is, I got interested. As I said, he knew his stuff and asked some fairly penetrating questions. I’ve been working on amplification. That’s how to increase the electrical impulse sufficiently to reproduce the soundwaves so they can generate a detectable vibration in a diaphragm.’ He grinned. ‘I drew pages of diagrams for him.’

‘What pen did you use?’

‘Pen?’ Carrington looked startled. ‘I didn’t use a pen. I always have a pocketful of pencils. When I’m merely sketching out ideas I always use a pencil.’

‘Did you have a pen with you?’

‘I think I must have done. I usually carry one in my jacket pocket.’

‘What kind of pen do you use?’

‘It’s a Waterman with a gold nib. Why? Is it important?’

Jack smiled easily. ‘Probably not. What colour ink do you prefer?’

‘Black, as a general rule.’

Jack’s spirits dipped. The suicide note had been written in black.

‘Look, what is all this about my pen?’ asked Carrington impatiently. ‘The police wanted to know about it, too.’

Jack held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry. I daresay it won’t lead anywhere but it was just an idea that occurred to me. These pages of diagrams that you drew – did you take them with you?’

‘I’ll say. I might have left Dunbar in a better frame of mind than I started with, but I was blowed if I was leaving my work scattered round the room for him to help himself.’

‘Yes, I can see you’d be cautious. Did you have a bag or a case with you?’

Carrington frowned, trying to remember. ‘No . . . No, I didn’t. I just stuffed everything in my coat pockets. It’s a bad habit of mine.’

‘And doesn’t do much for the line of your clothes. When did you realize the time?’

‘It was coming up to half four. I suddenly remembered I’d promised to meet Mrs Lewis and realized I was going to be late. I bundled all my things together, but, of course, you can’t just leave like that. Dunbar kept me for a few minutes, thanking me for my time and so on. Then I shot off as fast as I could go. I was only a few minutes late in the end. I’m a pretty quick walker and it’s not very far.’ Carrington looked at him. ‘There’s not much more I can say.’ He paused hesitantly. ‘Major Haldean, is there anything you can do?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jack honestly. ‘I’ll tell you this much though, Mr Carrington, I’m willing to try.’

Carrington readjusted his glasses. ‘That’s good of you.’ His voice was oddly shy. ‘It’s very good of you. I’ve . . . I’ve enjoyed talking to you. The people here try to be decent enough, but there’s not really anyone I can talk to properly. They all seem to know things I haven’t a clue about and I feel like a spare part. They’re kind enough but . . .’

‘They’re talking about trivialities and you want to talk about real things?’

‘That’s it,’ said Carrington in eager agreement.

‘And yet, you know, ordinary people have a lot to talk about. All you have to do is listen.’

‘Listen,’ repeated Carrington. ‘I can do that, I suppose. Anyone can do that.’

‘You’d be surprised how many people don’t want to,’ said Jack dryly. He got up to go. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

Carrington’s mouth twisted. ‘I wish I could say “I’ll show you out”.’ He smiled once more. ‘And Major Haldean – thanks for everything. I don’t want to go overboard, but I do appreciate what you’re doing.’

‘Keep your chin up. I’ll do my best.’ Carrington looked so heartened that Jack’s conscience bit him. After all, he thought, as the doors of Brixton Prison clanged behind him, cheery remarks were all very well. But where on earth did he start?

H
e decided to start at the Marchmont Hotel. By means of a long-winded reminiscence of a friend who had supposedly recommended the Marchmont to him, Jack managed to secure room 202, three doors down from what had been Dunbar’s room. From Bill’s description, the room seemed identical to Dunbar’s and, like his, looked out on to Southampton Row.

He was, quite frankly, hoping for inspiration. Like Bill, he thought something about Carrington’s story didn’t add up. There was a loose thread somewhere that had bothered Bill and bothered him. Carrington bothered him. He unpacked his few belongings thoughtfully. He liked the man, for heaven’s sake. He had an engaging, dishevelled charm that was so disarming it could easily – far too easily – be deceptive. He’d run across engaging murderers before.

Half an hour later, he glanced at his watch. Ten past four. My word, it was quiet. Carrington had been seen in the lobby by Mrs Dunbar at half four, so if he had shot Dunbar, it must have been roundabout this time in the afternoon. The Marchmont dozed in the summer afternoon sun, the hum of London traffic in the street below softened into drowsy melody. He opened the dressing-table drawer and took out a Webley .32, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand for a moment. He had brought the Webley second-hand in a fishing tackle and gun shop. Bill was right. Webleys were easy enough to obtain.

A familiar imp of mischief made him grin. This was going to be
loud.
He opened the window, pointed the gun at a piece of blue sky and pulled the trigger.

Although he had been expecting a fairly impressive noise, the sound of the pistol was shattering at close quarters. He hastily threw the gun back in the drawer and slammed it shut, trying hard not to laugh. By jingo,
that
should make someone jump. He opened the door on to the corridor and left it ajar. If someone did come to investigate, they would probably start with an opened door. There weren’t, he noticed, any fumes from the pistol to give him away. The Webley, an automatic, used smokeless powder. Picking up a magazine, he sat at the desk and lit a cigarette looking, he hoped, the picture of innocence.