“Now just a min-”
Stott held up his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Tasteless of me. Out of line.”
Why couldn’t Owen quite believe the apology? He sensed very strongly that Stott had made the remark on purpose to nettle him. He hoped he had passed the test, even though he couldn’t be sure what the question was. Feeling more like Kafka’s Joseph K. every minute, he shifted in his chair. “Why do you want to know all this?” he asked again. “You said you were going to tell me what it’s all about.”
“Did I? Well, first, would you mind if we had a quick look around the rest of the place? It might save us coming back.”
“Go ahead,” Owen said, and accompanied them as they did the rounds. It wasn’t a thorough search, and Owen felt that by granting them permission he had probably saved himself a lot of trouble. He had seen on television the way search teams messed up places. They gave the bedrooms, one of which was completely empty, a cursory glance, poked about in his clothing drawers and wardrobe. In the study, Stott admired the aquarium of tropical fish and, of course, Hatchley rummaged through some of Owen’s photo files and found the black-and-white nude studies of Michelle. He showed them to Stott, who frowned.
“Who’s this?” Stott asked.
Owen shrugged. “Just a model.”
“What’s her name?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“She looks very young.”
“She was twenty-two when those were taken.”
“Hmm, was she now?” muttered Stott, handing the photos back to Hatchley. “Must be artistic license. Notice any resemblance, Sergeant?” he asked Hatchley.
“Aye, sir, I do.”
“Resemblance to who?”
“Mind if we take these, too?” Stott asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. They’re the only prints I’ve got, and I’ve lost the negatives.”
“I understand, sir. You want to hang onto them for sentimental reasons. We’ll take good care of them. Wait a minute, though…didn’t you say she was just a model?”
“I did. And I didn’t say I wanted to keep them for sentimental reasons. They’re part of my portfolio. For exhibitions and such like.”
“Ah, I see. Might we just take one of them, perhaps, then?”
“Oh, all right. If you must.”
Hatchley leafed through some more art books on a shelf over the filing cabinet. One of them dealt with Japanese erotic art, and he opened it at a charcoal sketch of two young girls entwined together on a bed. They had either shaved off their pubic hair, or they were too young to have grown any. It was difficult to tell. He shoved it under Stott’s nose.
“A bit like those books in the other room, sir,” he said.
Stott turned up his nose.
“And some of them novels he reads have been on trial,” Hatchley went on. “Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Naked Lunch, Ulysses, Delta of Venus, a bit of De Sade…”
“For Christ’s sake!” Owen cut in. “I can’t believe this. I’m an English teacher, you fucking moron. That’s what I do for a living.”
“Now, you look here, mate,” said Hatchley, squaring up to him. “The last bloke used that kind of language with me had a nasty accident on his way down the police station steps.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Hatchley thrust his chin out. “Take it any way you want.”
“Stop it, Sergeant!” Stott cut in. “I’ll not have you talking to a member of the public this way. Apologize to Mr. Pierce at once.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hatchley. He looked at Pierce and said, “Sorry, sir.”
“If you ask me,” Owen said, “you’re the ones who are sick. Like witch-hunters, seeing the devil’s work everywhere.”
“Maybe it is everywhere,” Stott said calmly. “Have you ever thought about that?”
“It’s just hard to believe there’s someone who still thinks Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Ulysses are dirty books, that’s all.”
They sat down in the living-room again. “Now why don’t you tell me all about what you did in St. Mary’s yesterday evening,” Stott said. “Sergeant Hatchley will take notes. No hurry. Take your time.”
Owen told them about his walk, the drinks at the Nag’s Head, the meal at the Peking Moon and the walk home. As he spoke, Stott looked directly at him. The stern, triangular face showed no expression; and the eyes behind the lenses seemed cool. The man’s ears almost made Owen want to laugh out loud, but he restrained himself. The big one, Hatchley, scribbled away in a spiral-bound notebook. Owen was surprised he could even write.
“Are you in the habit of talking to yourself, Mr. Pierce?” asked Stott when he had finished.
Owen reddened. “I wouldn’t say talking to myself exactly. Sometimes I get lost in thought and I forget there are people around. Don’t you ever do that?”
“No,” said Stott, “I don’t.”
Finally, after they had asked him to go over one or two random points again, Hatchley closed his notebook and Stott got to his feet. “That’ll be all for now,” he said.
“For now?”
“We might want to talk to you again. Don’t know. We have to check up on a few points first. Would you mind if we had a look in your hall cupboard on the way out?”
“Why?”
“Routine.”
“Go ahead. I don’t suppose I can stop you.”
Stott and Hatchley searched through the row of coats and jackets and pulled out Owen’s new orange anorak. “Is this what you were wearing last night?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. But-”
“What about these shoes?”
“Yes, those too. Look-”
“Mind if we take them with us, sir?”
“But why?”
“Purposes of elimination.”
“You mean it might help clear this business up?”
Stott smiled. “Yes. It might. We’ll let you have them back as soon as we can. Do you think you could get me a plastic bag while the sergeant here writes out a receipt?”
Owen fetched a bin-liner from the kitchen and watched Stott put the shoes and anorak inside it while Hatchley wrote out the receipt. Then he accepted the slip of paper and signed a release identifying the items as his.
Stott turned to Hatchley. “I think we’d better be off, then, Sergeant,” he said. “We’ve already taken up enough of Mr. Pierce’s valuable time.”
Hatchley took the plastic bag while Stott slipped the photograph into his briefcase, then they walked towards the door.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s all about?” Owen asked again as he opened the front door for them. It was still raining.
Stott turned and frowned. “That’s the funny thing about it, Owen,” he said. “That you don’t know.” Then he shook his head slowly. “Anybody would think you don’t read the papers. Which is odd, for an educated man like yourself.”
II
