have, he'd keep hidden just for the hell of it!
He said, 'I got it from Butcher, she's a big friend of Mrs. Naysmith's,' and had the pleasure of seeing Woodbine wince as he always did whenever the belligerent little brief was mentioned. He went on, 'We were talking about the Nay-smiths and she said Naysmith was probably going to drive back to Lincolnshire tonight and I got to thinking later, what if he didn't? He'd be really vulnerable down here by himself and with you away, I wasn't sure it would be covered, so I rang just to make sure ...'
Lie to the cops by all means, but no harm in buttering them up at the same time.
That was real thoughtful of you, Joe,' said Woodbine. 'So tell me what happened when Felix answered.'
Joe told him
'You're sure he said, What the hell are you doing here?' like he knew whoever it was at the door?'
'Certain,' said Joe. 'Look, there's something queer going on at Poll-Pott. There's this message on his answer machine ...'
He scrolled through till he got to Potter's message. As it was playing, Chivers came in, nodding surlily at the super which meant Joe's alibi panned out.
'Have you heard this, Sergeant?' asked Woodbine aggressively.
'Yes, sir. One of the first things I did when I got here,' said Chivers rather to Joe's disappointment. 'Just confirms what Mr. Naysmith told us when he turned up at Oldmaid Row this dinnertime. He got the message when he accessed his answer machine, like he does from time to time when he's away, and he rang the office to see if he could catch Mr. Potter. That was the call Sixsmith eavesdropped on...'
'Hang about,' protested Joe. 'Weren't no eavesdropping. Couldn't help hearing ...'
'OK, Joe,' said Woodbine placatingly. 'And the call wasn't finished when you finally left the office, right? So what did Mr. Naysmith say he and Potter discussed in the rest of the call, Sergeant?'
'Maybe we should talk outside, sir,' said Chivers, looking significantly at Joe.
'OK,' said Woodbine. 'Joe, you wait here.'
Typical, thought Joe. Cops want to know what you know before you know you know it. But their own secrets they nurse to their bosoms like Zak with Whitey.
'Where else would I go without me shoe?' he said, waggling his red-socked toes.
'So what's happened to your shoe?' asked Woodbine wearily.
Chivers said, 'Took it to check out a print, sir. The garden backs on to Beacon Holt and we reckon the assailant left his car over on Swallowdale Lane and came through the wood, which was how he managed to get into the back door without Forton spotting him.'
'Pity he didn't walk up the front path like most killers do,' observed Joe.
'OK, Joe,' reproved Woodbine. 'Sergeant, did the shoe match the print?'
We all know it didn't, thought Joe, else Chivers would have had me stretched on the rack by now.
'No, sir.'
Then see Mr. Sixsmith gets his shoe back. Joe, I won't be long.'
'Better not be,' said Joe. 'I got a date.'
It was a lie. Christmas had been a date-free zone for Joe. Beryl Boddington, the nearest he had to a 'steady' had taken her little boy Desmond to visit her parents in Portsmouth for the holidays. He had an open offer from Merv to 'fix him up' any time he felt like it, but an earlier experience of a Merv fix, involving a fun-loving blonde with an undisclosed and pathologically jealous sailor husband who docked a day early, had left Joe unnerved. His Aunt Mirabelle was given to declaring that if only Joe would find himself a nice girl and settle down, she would die happy. Merv had suggested, cruelly, that Joe should ask for this in writing. But Joe loved his aunt and secretly (especially when he was with Beryl) did not altogether disapprove of her ambition. And yet... and yet... he felt that there were things he wanted to do with his life that domestic bliss would put out of the question.
What they were precisely, he wasn't sure. And the fact that Beryl had never shown the slightest inclination to let their pleasantly fluid relationship solidify into something more permanent meant that he couldn't really think of himself as nobly self-denying.
He turned to more profitable lines of speculation, such as, how the shoot had he contrived to deck Marble- Tooth Jowett of the SAS? It was no use. He couldn't remember a thing about the technique he'd used. If he tried to boast about it down the Glit, all he'd get was a boom of belly laughs. Still, it was nice to think that deep inside there was a Fighting Machine waiting to get out. Nicer still would be to find a detective down there.
He stared at the desk blotter. Endo Venera had done great things with blotters. What you needed was a mirror. He stood up and held it to a glass-fronted photo on the wall. The blots remained steadfastly blot-like. Perhaps things were arranged differently in America. He let his gaze pass through the glass on to the picture itself. No comfort there for a man whose heart was dangerously near his sleeve.
He was looking at a wedding group. It was Peter Potter's wedding with best man Naysmith smiling at his side. All the other increasingly familiar faces from Poll-Pott's were there too. It had been a windy day and hands were grasping at toppers and grey tails were flapping, giving an attractively unposed air to the photograph. Victor Montaigne, black whiskers spread wide by the breeze, looked as if he'd just stepped off his quarter deck, though beside him Darby Pollinger looked as calm and unruffled as if he'd been sculpted out of painted marble. Peter Potter, a smile on his face, was saying something to his bride whose long blonde tresses were being blown around her face like a second veil. But you could tell she was laughing back and her wide clear eyes alone were enough to make her look beautiful.
How did she look now, he wondered, the widow of a day? And most painful of all to contemplate was Sandra lies. He'd only seen her twice in the flesh, once when she'd attacked him and once when she'd been dead. But paradoxically it was this still image of her, gorgeous in a pink dress and smiling broadly as she clung on to her hat in a gusting breeze, that made him most aware of her as a young vibrant woman cut off in her prime.
He turned away and tried to focus on the rest of the room. There were other photographs, several of sporting
