“So what did you do? Risk it?”
“No.”
“You’d gone prepared.”
“Yeah.”
“Very commendable. So did you arrange to see her again?”
“Not really. I said I might see ’er in the…the whatsit, the club.”
“You don’t sound as if you were keen. Why not?”
“Because she was a slag, that’s why.”
“But you must have asked her name.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Which was…?”
“Can’t remember.”
I turned to the brief and told him that we were going to have a five-minute break. I said I was trying to help his client and the name of the girl might be of use in my line of enquiries. Jason was in hot water about as deep as it gets, and anything he told me could only help his case. I suggested they did some serious thinking.
Les Isles wasn’t in his office, and Nigel was nowhere to be found, either. Two DCs were busy in the main office, working at computer keyboards that were in danger of being engulfed by the paperwork heaped around them. Who invented the expression paperless office? Woody Allen?
“Where’s the boss?” I asked the nearest DC.
“Mr Isles?”
“Mmm.”
“Review meeting at Region. It’s Mr Priest, isn’t it?”
I didn’t deny the fact and we shook hands. He’d attended one of my talks at the training college and said he enjoyed it. “I’m interviewing Jason Gelder downstairs,” I told him, quickly adding: “with Mr Isles’ permission. Nobody told me he was ESN.”
“Who, Mr Isles?” he replied with a grin. “That explains a lot.”
“I meant young Gelder.”
“Sorry about that. Strictly speaking, and according to the experts, he’s not. Put in layman’s language, he’s thick, but he’s not slow.”
“I see,” I said, “or at least, I think I do. Where does he get his money from?”
“He works for a living, down at the abattoir. Spends his working day scraping flesh from animal skins. They pay him fairly well because nobody wants to do it, and he goes home stinking like an otter’s arse.”
“Right. Thanks for your help. Thick but not slow, I’ll have to ponder on that one.”
Down in the interview room Jason was slumped at the table and the brief was leaning on the wall, a polystyrene coffee cup in his hand. He shrugged his shoulders as I entered and resumed his seat.
“Where were we?” I asked, briskly, rubbing my hands together. “Didn’t you want a coffee, Jason?” and was rewarded with a shake of the head.
“So what was this girl called?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” he stated, staring straight at me. The brief must have given him a hard time because he looked as if he’d been crying.
“What did you talk about? If you did any talking?” I asked.
“Not much,” he replied.
“How old was she? Did you ask her that?”
“No, I don’t think I asked.”
I wasn’t surprised. What was that other one from Pete Drago’s list of sexual aphorisms: If they’re big enough, they’re old enough. “How old did you think she was?”
“About eighteen. She was about eighteen.”
“So she wasn’t under age.”
“No, definitely not. She’d left school.”
“Did she work or go to college?”
“I don’t know.”
“So if she was over sixteen why won’t you tell me her name.”
“Because you won’t listen,” he sobbed. “I keep telling you, I don’t remember.”
“OK,” I said. “Let’s go through it again. You meet this girl at the Aspidistra Lounge, either on Thursday or Friday night…”
“Friday,” He interrupted. “I think it was Friday.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“No.”
“Right. You buy her a few drinks, have a dance and a smooch, and take her home. Did you stay right to the end?”
“No.”
“What time?”
“Dunno.”
“Before or after midnight?”
“About midnight.”
“Then you went to the brickyard, had sex with this young lady in the front seat because you were both too desperate to climb into the back, and that was that. You had ten minutes of passion but didn’t bother seeing her again. Why not?”
“Because she was a slag. I’ve told you once,” he stated, almost shouting at me now. I decided to push him.
“A slag! Aren’t all the girls you pick up slags?” I demanded.
“No. Not all of them.”
“But this one was?”
“Yeah.”
“Was Marie-Claire a slag, Jason. Was she another slag?”
“I don’t know. I never met her.” Tears were running down his cheeks and he turned to the brief for help. “Why won’t they believe me?” he begged.
“Because you’re not telling the truth, Jason.” I stated. “This girl at the club; what was she called?”
“I don’t know!”
“Why are you protecting her, if you think she was a slag?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe me. You don’t believe anything I say.”
He was cracking. I’d closed on him. “What wouldn’t I believe?” I asked.
“Anything.”
“Tell me what I wouldn’t believe, Jason.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because!”
“Because what?”
“Just because.”
He’d turned a ghostly white and was hyperventilating. The solicitor placed a hand on his arm, saying: “Jason, if there’s something you have to say, I think you should tell Mr Priest. It can’t do you any harm.”
Jason stared at me, defiant, and I stared back at him. “Go on, Jason,” I encouraged. “Who was she?”
“I don’t know her name.”
“You said we wouldn’t believe you. What wouldn’t we believe?”
“You’d ’old it against me. Gang up on me.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Because it’s what you do.”
“Tell me what you know, Jason,” I asked.
“Tell Mr Priest,” the brief added.
