‘Where did you pick up with her?’
‘She came through an agency.’
‘We shall check up on that.’
‘All right then — I met her at The Feathers in Oxford Street!’
‘What do you know about her background?’
‘I never knew she had any. She was living in rooms in Camden Town, and if she had any people she never mentioned them to me.’
‘Hadn’t she got some friends?’
‘Only blokes running after her.’
‘What about women?’
‘She didn’t get on with them.’
‘Didn’t she have any letters?’
‘From blokes — she showed me some of them.’
‘Can’t you remember any names?’
‘No — and she used to burn the letters.’
‘Would you say she was an educated woman?’
‘She was a Londoner like me. There wasn’t nothing upshus about her, just one of the girls.’
A Londoner… Gently savoured the phrase, adding it to the picture he was striving to build. A Londoner like Mixer, a child of the grey streets. With a twang in her voice, a savoir-faire, a naive gaiety: a native-born Londoner. And a proper lush girlie.
He moved over to the varnished bookcase and stared in at the unlikely contents. In the glass panel he could see Mixer clutching at his drink and throwing odd glances towards him. It was the bookcase, no doubt, which contributed that peculiar smell to the room.
‘Was she hard up when you took her on?’
‘Bits of stuff like that aren’t never hard up.’
‘How much did you pay her?’
‘As much as she was worth.’
‘Enough to give you the right to be jealous?’
‘Who says I was jealous?’
‘Everyone in the place — and also that you had a quarrel with her.’
This time Mixer didn’t jump in with an immediate denial. Quite clearly, reflected by a set of Harmsworth Encyclopedias, a frown was making lines on his sloping forehead.
An ugly man! What in the world had she seen in him? With her attractions she might have had a handsome as well as a moneyed lover.
‘Well then, suppose I did?’
He wasn’t even clever. It had taken him thirty seconds to decide that this was his best answer, that it would give a little colour to his subsequent behaviour. Obviously, something had to explain his going off to Starmouth alone.
‘What did you quarrel about?’
Again he was stumped for the quick answer.
‘Which of them had gone to bed with her?’
‘It wasn’t like that! It was some letters.’
‘Letters? What letters?’
‘Some I wanted her to type.’
‘How did that bring a quarrel about?’
‘She — she wanted to go to that film show in Hamby.’
‘But she didn’t, did she?’
‘How should I know what she did?’
‘And she didn’t type the letters — nor did you stay to dictate them to her.’
‘It led to words, I tell you. I just got the car out and scarpered.’
Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad story, considering the heat. Worse ones, told with conviction, had been known to influence juries. The fact it was a string of lies wasn’t terribly important.
‘So you took the car into Starmouth.’
Of this he had tended proof. It had consisted of a half ticket to a show running at the Albion Pier.
‘That’s right. I drove straight there. You can do any check-up you like. Got in there about half-six, I did, and went and had a drink at the Majestic on the front.’
‘What did you do after that?’
‘I booked my seat for Frankie Howerd. The girl there will remember me — tell her the saucy bloke what gave her a tip. Then I strolled up the front and looked at the girls. There was a blonde bit I took into the Bodega for a drink. After the show I had a snack in one of those caffs up Regent Road, then I picked up another bint and we did some snogging in the car.
‘I got back here after twelve — ask Maurice, he saw me come in. I went straight up to bed and slept through till nine o’clock. I didn’t know nothing about this lark until the maid brought in my breakfast. There isn’t nothing against me — except the fact that I once did a stretch!’
It all came out with a rush, using practically the same words as appeared in his statement. The impression was that here Mixer was sure of his ground, that these were hard facts which would bear investigation. But why, in that case, was he frowning and sweating so much?
Did he know that Rachel might have been alive at one a.m.?
‘These two women you mention — did they tell you their names?’
‘The blondie did. It was Marilyn Lane. She was staying at the Gwalia in Dickson Road.’
‘How about the other one?’
‘I don’t know about her. She was lit up — we both were — but not so as I couldn’t drive!’
‘And the name of the cafe?’
‘I don’t know that neither. There’s a score of them at least up Regent Road.’
‘Where did you park your car?’
‘For the snogging?… I drove a bit. It might have been Church Plain or somewhere round there. I was going to drive her home but she said she’d rather walk… got something else in mind, I dare say!’
Yes, it was quite a good story as far as it went. Gently finished his shandy and set the glass on the reading- table. Mixer was watching him anxiously, handkerchief in hand. For a wide boy with a good tale shouldn’t he be worrying a little less?
‘So we can’t check your movements after eight-thirty that evening?’
‘Eh?’
One could nearly see the sweat begin to break out in fresh rivulets.
‘That was the time when the second house started at the Albion. After that we’ve got nothing but your word for it, have we?’
‘But haven’t I just said-!’
‘You’ve said nothing that can be proved.’
‘That woman — you can find her up.’
‘In Starmouth? Without a name?’
The sweat was running down into Mixer’s eyes. He had to keep dashing at it with the back of a hairy hand. His beach shirt, fresh on half-an-hour ago, was streaky and patched with dark areas of moisture.
‘You can’t prove it’s not the truth.’
He made it sound like a question.
‘You’re picking on me, too — I’ve been inside, and that’s all that matters!’
Gently shrugged his shoulders massively and found a seat on the table.
‘Just listen to what I say, and don’t bother to interrupt. This is the way Inspector Dyson sees it, and personally I don’t blame him!
‘Rachel Campion was your mistress and you were as jealous as sin of her. She only stuck you for your money and she was unfaithful behind your back.
