incidentally, to be seen).
As Charles walked along, he could hear sounds from the gardens. The scrape of a trowel, a snatch of conversation, the sudden wail of a child, very close the snuffling bark of a dog. But except for the occasional flash of movement through the slats of fencing, he saw no one.
And this was in the middle of Sunday afternoon. After dark one could feel absolutely secure in passing unseen along the alley. And Geoffrey Winter must have known that.
When he reached the Winter’s garden gate, he pressed close to the fence and squinted through a chink. He could see the distinctive wall-colouring of Geoffrey’s study and, outside it, the little balcony and staircase, so convenient for anyone who wanted to leave the room unnoticed after dark.
As anticipated, the pressure on his bladder was becoming uncomfortable and he stopped to relieve himself where he stood. He was again struck by the secluded nature of the alley, which enabled him to behave impolitely in such a polite setting.
Then he started his timed walk. He reckoned Geoffrey must have allowed a maximum of forty minutes. I, Claudius lasted fifty, but he could only get forty-five minutes of The Winter’s Tale on one side of the tape. Five minutes would be a buffer to allow for the unexpected.
Charles set off at a brisk walk. If Geoffrey had run, the timing would have been different, but Charles thought that was unlikely. A man running after dark attracts attention, while a man walking passes unnoticed.
The alley behind the houses came out on to the main road exactly opposite the footpath up to the common. There was a ‘No Cycling’ notice at the entrance. The path was paved until it opened out onto the common.
It was the first time Charles had seen this open expanse in daylight. In the centre were a couple of football pitches, which were reasonably well maintained, but the fringes of the common were ill-tended and untidy and had been used as a dumping ground by the nice people of Breckton. Superannuated fridges and rusty buckets looked almost dignified beside the more modern detritus of garish plastic and shredded polythene. It was an eyesore, the sort of mess about which aggrieved ratepayers no doubt wrote righteous letters to the local paper. To Charles it seemed a necessary part of the suburban, scene, the secret vice which made the outward rectitude supportable.
The half-burnt crater of the bonfire doused by the fire brigade at sour Reggie’s behest gave the dumping ground an even untidier and more melancholy appearance.
The bonfire had been built where the footpath divided into two. The right-hand fork went up towards the Backstagers’ club-rooms and the Hobbses’ house. Charles took the other path which led towards the Meckens’.
He was feeling the need for another pee, but resolutely hung on, because any unscheduled stop would ruin his timing. He wished he had got a stopwatch, so that he could suspend time long enough to make himself comfortable. But he hadn’t.
Even on a Sunday afternoon there were not many people up on the common. A few bored fathers trying to feign interest in their toddlers, one or two pensioners pretending they had somewhere to go. Breckton boasted other, more attractive parklands, equipped with such delights as swings and duck-ponds, and most of the inhabitants were there for their exercise.
It had rained during the week, but the path had dried out and was firm underfoot as Charles continued his brisk stroll. When he got to the other side of the common, the footpath once again had a proper surface of dark tarmac. His desert boot soles sounded dully as he trod.
To maintain his excitement he made a point of not looking at his watch until the journey was complete. He didn’t stop when he got to Hugo’s house. His memories of the new curtain snooper made him unwilling to draw attention to himself.
When he had gone one house-length beyond (which he reckoned would allow for going over the gravel drive to the front door), he looked at his watch.
Sixteen minutes. Geoffrey, with his longer stride, might have done it in fifteen. Say the same time each way. That gave eight to ten minutes in the house. Charlotte would have recognized him and let him in immediately, so there would have been no delay.
And eight or ten minutes was plenty of time for a determined man to strangle a woman.
If, of course, the murder weapon was to hand. On that kind of schedule, Geoffrey couldn’t afford time to look for a scarf. He must have known where it was or… no, there was something missing there.
Charles tried to focus his mind on the problem. He summoned up the image of Charlotte in the coal shed, surprised untidily by the torch beam. He remembered her face. The red hair that framed it had looked unnatural, as if it were dyed, against the horrible greyness of her flesh. And that thin knotted Indian print scarf which couldn’t hide the trickle of dried blood and the purply-brown bruises on her neck. Bruises almost like love-bites. He remembered what he had thought at the time, how she had looked so young, embarrassingly unsophisticated, like a teenager with a scarf inadequately hiding the evidence of a heavy petting session.
Good God — maybe that’s what it had been. After all, she had seen Geoffrey at lunch time. By then he must have planned the murder. It would be typical of the man’s mind if he had deliberately marked her neck, knowing that, respectable married woman that she was, she would be bound to put on a scarf to cover the bruising.
Then Geoffrey could go round in the evening, confident that the murder weapon would be to hand. Under the circumstances, he did not have to leave long for the strangling.
Charles shivered as he thought of the cold-bloodedness with which the crime had been planned.
He felt like an athlete in training for a major event. Everything was moving towards a confrontation with Geoffrey Winter. It was going to be risky to confront the villain with what he had deduced, but he couldn’t see any way round it. The evidence he had was minimal and certainly not enough to persuade the police to change their tack. So his only hope was to elicit some admission of guilt from Geoffrey.
The fear of the man was building inside Charles. He felt increasingly certain that Geoffrey had read his suspicions and he wanted to keep the advantage by going to see his adversary rather than waiting for his adversary to search him out.
Within the next twenty-four hours, Charles knew, something conclusive was going to happen.
He went back to Hereford Road on the Sunday evening and rang Sally Radford. He had the sensation of a condemned man deserving a final treat.
But he didn’t get his treat. Sally was glad to hear from him, but, sorry, she’d got a friend coming round that evening. Yes, maybe another time.
It shouldn’t have hurt him. They’d agreed no strings, but it did cause a pang. The idea of a completely casual encounter with no obligations had always appealed to him, but now it had happened he was full of the need to establish continuity, to keep it going, to make something of it.
When he’d rung off from Sally, he contemplated ringing Frances, but procrastinated once again. He wrote off the idea of female company for the evening and went back to the Montrose. If he could keep on topping up his alcohol level, he might retain his mood of confidence and face the ordeal ahead without too much introspection.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In spite of the knowledge of inevitable confrontation, Charles still had a career to pursue. Whatever the outcome of his meeting with Geoffrey Winter, he was still meant to be recording the second batch of Bland radio commercials on the Tuesday morning. The events of the week had pushed that from his mind.
It was only when he thought about it on the Monday morning that he realized he had better check the details. After all, it was Hugo Mecken’s campaign and Hugo would not be able to conduct it from the remand wing of Brixton Prison.
He rang through to Mills Brown Mazzini and asked for Ian Compton. It turned out to be the right choice. Ian told him with no little complacency that he had taken over the Bland account. Charles wondered how much more of Hugo’s authority the young wheeler-dealer had managed to annex since the Creative Director had been off the scene.
‘I was just ringing to check that tomorrow’s still on as per arrangement. Eleven o’clock at the same studio for
