It took the police doctor's confirmation that Sandra lies had been dead between twelve and fifteen hours to move Sergeant Chivers away from the pious hope that Joe had been caught in the act. But it didn't move him far.
'OK, so maybe you were just revisiting the scene of your crime,' said Chivers. 'Let's concentrate on what you were doing between say seven and ten last night. And if you were sitting at home watching the telly, the courts don't accept alibi evidence from cats!'
'Shoot,' said Joe. 'Then I'm in real trouble, 'cos my witnesses are a lot less reliable than Whitey.'
'What's that mean?'
'It means that for most of the time, I was here being questioned by you, Sarge. Remember?'
Chivers closed his eyes in silent pain.
'And when you were done with me, I went straight round to the Glit to wash the taste out of my mouth,' said Joe, pressing his advantage.
'The lowlife that drink there are anyone's for a pint,' said Chivers without real conviction.
'I'll tell Councillor Baxendale you said that, shall I? We got there the same time, and it's true, I bought him a pint.'
Dickie Baxendale was chair of the council's police liaison committee.
Chivers said, 'Just tell me again what you were doing at Number 7, Coach Mews.'
Joe told him again, or rather told him the revised version which was that, being keen to assure Ms lies of his innocence in the matter of Potter's death, and not trusting the police to set the record straight (a good authenticating point this) he had decided to call on her personally.
'Mr. Dorken said you spoke to someone before you went in.'
Mr. Dorken, the 'military gent', had turned out to be a retired fashion designer. Just showed how wrong you could be.
That was a bit of play-acting,' admitted Joe, who knew the value of a plum of truth in a pudding of lies. The door opened by itself and I got worried 'cos Mr. Dorken was watching me suspiciously. Sorry.'
'It's stupid enough to be true,' admitted Chivers reluctantly.
DC Doberley called him out of the room for a moment. When he returned he said, 'Come across any Welshmen recently, Sixsmith?'
Joe thought of Starbright Jones, decided against mentioning him, and said, 'Can't think of any. Why?'
There's an odd message on Ms Iles's answer phone Funny accent, could be Welsh.'
Pride almost made Joe protest, but sense prevailed.
He said, 'Everybody sounds funny on tape. Can I go now, Sarge? I've got an appointment. For a job. In sport.'
'Oh yes? Who with? Head scout down the football club?' Chivers sneered.
And Joe couldn't resist replying, 'No. It's Zak Oto down the Plezz. Got your ticket for the opening, have you, Sarge?'
To the faithful, the Plezz with its great silver sports dome from which radiated all the other support and activity buildings in broad and tree-flanked avenues, was Luton's Taj Mahal. Literally, according to some who claimed that every local mobster who'd gone missing in the past decade had been consigned to the depths of its concrete foundations. Metaphorically there was certainly blood on its bricks. Since the idea first got floated in the overreaching eighties, fortunes had been made and lost, reputations inflated and burst, both locally and nationally. At times the government had pointed to it proudly as the very model of partnership between public money and private enterprise, at others it had provided a gleeful opposition with yet more ammo to hurl across the floor of the House. But once under way, like a juggernaut it had rolled on: and though the complexion of the local council had fluctuated in tune with the times, and work had sometimes slowed almost to a standstill, no one had had the nerve to pull the plug altogether and make Luton and its folly the mockery of the civilized world.
So now, ten years on, it was finished, and though Joe had generally been of the party who thought the whole idea was crazy, now as he drove along the main avenue, with that phlegmatic pragmatism which makes Lutonians such great survivors, he felt a glow of proprietorial pride.
He was a bit late, partly Chivers's fault, partly Whitey's. He'd rushed back to rescue the cat from the office and found him full of indignation at having been left so long. Also of pee because he was clearly going to have nothing to do with his new puce tray, so they'd had to stop at the first flowerbed as they reached the Plezz complex and despite the evident urgency, it had taken the cat the usual ten minutes of careful exploration with many false starts to find the piece of earth precisely suited to his purpose.
Being late didn't matter, however, as he clearly wasn't expected.
'I'm here to see Zak Oto,' said Joe to the armed guard. In fact he wasn't armed, but he looked as if this was just because he'd left his Kalashnlkov in his ARV as he felt like tearing intruders limb from limb today.
'You and a thousand others,' he said. 'Piss off.'
'She's expecting me,' said Joe.
'She'd be wise to have an abortion then,' said the guard.
'Hey, man, why so rude?' asked Joe. 'OK, you've got a job to do, but maybe you should remember who's paying you and do it politely.'
'Sorry,' said the guard. 'Piss off, sir!'
Joe regarded him almost admiringly. Dick Hull, manager of the Glit where they liked their humour subtle, should book this guy for Show Nite.
