'Right,' I said.
The flat was a dump. Men who live alone are granted a certain amount of dispensation in the field of housekeeping, but this went beyond that. His white tux and the frilly shirt were thrown on to the settee, next to several days' tabloids. A dirty plate and mug were on the table, and my detective skills told me that his last meal had been sardines. I wandered through the rooms, taking in the squalor and wondering what his classy neighbours would have thought. He hadn't washed up for two days and his bedroom smelled like a horse box I opened a window. On a chair was a pile of pages from newspapers. I picked a bundle up and thumbed through them. He'd saved every page-three girl for the last six months.
'Gather round, boys and girls,' I called out.
There were three of them, Graham's partner Claire still being at the hospital. When I was a rooky PC on nightshift my partner was David Sparkington. Such is life.
'I appreciate it's Saturday and you should all be home in bed,' I said, 'but are you all right for staying a little longer?'
They nodded.
'Good. I want to widen the enquiry. First of all, though, let's have a think about Darryl's movements.' I told them about Samantha and gave a brief resume of what we presumed had happened.
'If he was wearing gloves,' I went on, 'It's imperative that we find them. Let's suppose that he did go round to Samantha's and did beat her up. How did he get there?'
'Taxi?' one of them suggested.
'It looks like it. So he does the deed. How does he get back here?'
'Another taxi?'
'How do you get a taxi in Sylvan Fields at eleven o'clock at night?'
'Ring on your mobile. He sounds the mobile type.'
'Very good,' I said. 'He rings for a taxi on his mobile. Meanwhile what does he do? Wait at Samantha's? Or sit under a street lamp?'
'Start walking?'
'What do you think?'
They all agreed that he'd start walking home, looking out for the taxi coming to collect him.
'Right,' I agreed. 'And I reckon he'd walk downhill towards the town centre. And maybe he got rid of the gloves on the way. I'll organise some more help. When it arrives, start looking for the gloves along the route he might have taken. I'll have a word with the taxi firms.
Meanwhile, there's something else, but it's off the record.'
I told them about the rape, and asked them to make a note of anything that gave a clue towards his sexual inclinations. It wouldn't be admissible as evidence, but these days nothing is if it incriminates the accused.
Mr. Turner didn't look pleased when I passed him in the foyer of the nick, waiting to be taken to his client. Nigel was in the office, brewing up.
'You're early,' I told him.
'Eager,' he replied.
'I think I'll let you talk to Buxton,' I said. 'Keep the enquiries separate. Otherwise they might just assume that I'm pursuing a vendetta against him and not take it seriously.'
'That might not be a bad thing,' Nigel suggested.
'Mmm, perhaps. Thing is, I'm not so sure myself. Samantha was scared when I mentioned his name, but that's hardly evidence. No, you do it.'
We gave Mr. Turner twenty minutes with his client before Nigel went down to record an interview. I rang Mr. Wood at home to let him know what was happening in his nick and arranged for another crew to assist in the search for the gloves. Then I had a bacon sandwich in the canteen and walked into town to buy another shirt from M and S's Casual but Smart range.
Turner's car had gone when I arrived back, and Nigel was in my office, reading the contents of my in-tray. He slid a report about the effects of police radios on officers' hearing back on to the pile and pushed a cassette across the table.
'According to that you'll be deaf as a post before you're fifty,' I said, nodding towards the report.
'You've seen a ghost behaving shifty?' he replied. For Nigel, it wasn't bad.
'Is this it?' I asked, holding up the tape.
'For what it's worth. He was at the Wool Exchange until about nine, nine fifteen, with a party of managers from Homes R Us…'
'Homes 4U,' I interrupted.
'Sorry, Homes 4U. It was their Christmas gathering. Claims he has a foolproof witness.'
'Ta da! Me. Go on.'
'They had a few more bevvies in the pub over the road and dispersed.
One of his fellow high-flyers offered him a lift home but he asked to be dropped off at the Sylvan Fields. He walked the last bit, to Samantha's.'
'So he admits being there.'
'Mmm, but he didn't see her. He said the place was in darkness, so he knocked once, he says, very softly, and then he realised it was a bit late and went home.'
'Realised it was a bit late! Him? He won't realise it's a bit late until Old Nick's handing him a shovel and pointing at the pile of coal.
How did he get home?'
'Walked towards the town centre and stopped a taxi.'
'That's more-or-less how we'd guessed it. So if we find anyone who saw him near Samantha's he has a ready-made excuse.'
'Quite.'
'What was his manner?'
'Cocky as you can be with a hangover. Turner had to pull him into line once or twice.'
'What about?'
'Oh, he started slagging you off.'
'I bet. Was Turner his usual obstructionist self?'
'He wasn't too bad. I don't think he was pleased about having to come over. How long are you keeping Darryl?'
'Is the custody sergeant grumbling?'
'He's pulling faces.'
'We'll let him stew a bit longer, see if anything turns up. We need to check his story with the bloke who gave him a lift I'll leave that with you. Thanks for doing it, Nigel, I'll have a listen to the tape later.'
My phone rang while I was finding an envelope for the tape. Nigel answered it. 'Yes, he's here,' he said. 'Good, good. I'll tell him.'
He lowered the mouthpiece and said: 'They've found the gloves.'
They were floating among the reeds at the edge of the canal. They'd been thrown off a bridge and landed in the water. I had them rushed straight to City HQ so the SO COs could examine them, but it looked as if Darryl's luck was still holding.
Nigel went straight home but I stopped for a shoppers' special at the Indian restaurant on the way. As I drove into my street I saw an elderly Austin Montego sitting on a neighbour's drive. It was the best news of the week. Mrs. Tait is the lady who normally irons my shirts for me. She'd visited her daughter for the holiday period, and now she was back. I hooked a bundle of coathangers over my fingers and thumbs, stuck the box of Black Magic under an arm and went to say how much we'd all missed her.
It's not normally done, but I'd taken the tape of Nigel's interview of Buxton home with me. His brief, Mr. Turner, had a copy, so there was no question of tampering with it. When I came back from Mrs. Tait's I slid the cassette into the player, turned the volume up and put the kettle on. I brought my tea and the biscuit box into the front room and thumbed the TV remote control. There were a few seconds' bedlam until I found the right button and wound the TV sound to zero. The choices were: horses running from right to left; a black and white Gregory Peck film; horses running from left to right or various soccer pundits talking about Manchester United's match that
