that this was a euphemism for not having a clue.
'I'll tell you what the doc was like,' the manager began, a smile of affection on his face as he recalled some anecdote. 'He did enter one competition. We were standing here, me and him, talking about our knees, would you believe, and this girl was pacing up and down, just there,' he pointed into the foyer, 'with her kit on, waiting for her partner to arrive. The doc started to chat to her. At the time there was a mixed doubles competition on, strictly for couples husbands and wives or boyfriends and girlfriends. It was light-hearted, just to try and get partners interested, make it more a family thing, if you follow me.'
'Sounds an admirable idea,' I said.
'It was, wasn't it? Well, apparently, this girl and her boyfriend were due to play in the first round. The other couple were already on the court, having a knock-up, waiting for them. She was starting to get a bit upset. We were looking at the sheet with the draw on it and the doc noticed that the boyfriend was called… would it be Davey? Was the doc's middle name David?'
'Yes, it was,' I told him.
'Right, that was it, Davey. She'd entered them as… I can't remember her name. It might have been Sue, or Sandra. Anyway, she'd put them down as Sue… Smith, or whatever, and Davey. Just Davey. 'I'm called David,' the doctor said. 'I could pretend to be your boyfriend.
Come on, let's give them a game.' And they did. And they won. Blow me if they didn't win the next round, too. She was over the moon about it. That's the kind of bloke he was.'
'It sounds Mills amp; Boon,' I said. 'Did she fall hopelessly in love with him? Did he seduce her?'
'No, I don't think so. They had a laugh about it afterwards and went their separate ways, as far as I know. She was a bit, you know, plain. Not really his type.'
'But was he her type?'
'I suppose so. We all dream, don't we? But she seemed a sensible kid.
I think her feet were on the ground.'
'Is she still a member?'
'I'm not sure, and I can't check if I don't remember her name. I don't think she comes any more. I haven't seen her for ages.'
'When did all this happen?' I asked.
'Oh, about two years ago.'
'And when would you say she stopped coming?'
'I couldn't tell you. I don't see some people for months, even though they play every week. It all depends on what time they book the court for.'
'But she could have stopped playing round about the same time as the doctor did?' I suggested.
'Probably,' he replied, nodding. 'About then, at a guess. Do you think that's significant?'
'No,' I admitted.
Three women in leotards and leg warmers walked past us, eyes righting as they said hello to the manager in loud voices. I watched them retreat, several layers of even louder lycra clenched tightly between their buttocks.
'Aerobics,' he explained.
'Are they comfortable?' I asked, wincing.
'They like to look the part.'
'I'm interested in this girl,' I told him, pulling myself back to the job. 'How can we find her name? Will it still be on the computer if her membership has lapsed?' I nodded towards the terminal that sat on the counter.
'Oh, nobody ever comes off the computer,' he replied, 'but we're talking about over two thousand entries.'
'To me, that's nearly as good as a fingerprint. You think she was called Sue or Sandra?'
'Something like that Sue, Sandra, Sally but I'm just guessing. I only saw her about three times.'
'Can't we just ask it to find all the females beginning with S?'
'Er, you might be able to, but I can't.'
'Me neither. We must have headed too many footballs.'
'And I'm not even sure about the S. My assistant can do it, when she takes over.' He looked at the clock on the wall behind him. 'She should be here in about an hour.'
'Do you mind if she runs a full membership list off for me?' I asked.
'No problem. I'll give you a ring when it's ready. And I've just remembered who the doc and this girl played in the first round of the mixed doubles. He's one of our stalwarts. I'll ask if he or his wife can remember her name they probably had a drink together, afterwards.'
'That'd be a big help,' I said.
I did my reports back at the office, and had a discussion with Luke, our civilian computer expert, about rehashing our standard interview documents, targeting them more specifically at this offence. Nigel and Dave came back, looking dejected.
The registrar's wife admitted that she'd had an affair with Dr. Jordan, which went back several years. It started as just a fling, she told them, which developed into a habit. Her marriage was sound, but her husband was not very adventurous in bed. It was imperative that he didn't find out.
'As he did know about it,' Sparky said, 'he must have had his reasons for keeping quiet.'
'Perhaps he was waiting his opportunity for revenge,'
Nigel suggested, adding, 'she's a bit older than I expected. I'd have thought the doc could have found someone nearer his own age.'
'Experience, Nigel,' I said. 'There's no substitute.'
'I'll take your word for it.'
'Maybe her husband was having it away with someone, himself,' I suggested, 'and was happy for her to have her little games with the doctor. Grateful, even.'
'That's what I'd wondered,' Sparky claimed. 'Or maybe he just couldn't keep up with her, and was grateful for someone to help him out. It can't be easy, married to someone like that.'
'Corf I wouldn't mind giving it a try,' Nigel enthused.
'Sounds like penal servitude to me,' I said. 'Look into it. See what the word is among the nursing staff. What about their alibis?'
'Engraved in stone,' Nigel told me. 'We've talked to everybody at the party. They started arriving shortly after seven and stayed until the early hours.'
'So neither of them pulled the trigger.'
'No way.'
I altered the number on the chart next to their names to three foolproof.
Chief Superintendent Isles sent a message via his secretary apologising for not being able to attend my little presentation that morning and wondering if I could give him a quick run-through of the case so far in his office, first thing tomorrow? I said: 'Yes,' naturally, and before I went home I asked Luke to redraw the charts in a more portable format.
I had an hour's snooze in an easy chair, catching up on the radio news, and dined on chicken tikka makhani. That's choice pieces of chicken breast, marinated in a ga ram masala, coriander and fenugreek sauce and served with turmeric rice. It only took six minutes in the microwave.
I followed it with tinned grapefruit and a pot of Earl Grey.
Sparky had loaned me the video of Oliver Stone's JFK. I swivelled the chair round so my feet would reach the settee and settled down, the teapot within easy reach of my right hand. The phone rang in the middle of the newsreel sequence of the assassination, as we saw the fatal shot to Kennedy's head, the secret serviceman diving on to the cavernous trunk of the Cadillac and Mrs. Kennedy trying to climb out of the back. History captured on film, as it happened, and telling us less about the President's killers than we know about King Harold's. I found the stop button on the remote control and picked up the phone.
It was Annabelle. 'Hello, Charles, I'm home,' she said.
'You should have told me when you were coming,' I told her, sinking back into my chair. 'I could have met you at the station.'
'I'm sure you have much better things to do. Have you eaten?'
