to make her less disappointed by giving her something she wanted. And what she wanted was for him to say he’d killed Wendy. But he hadn’t! He was beginning to understand how people confessed to crimes they hadn’t committed. It was easier than continually protesting your innocence.
‘I was in the Belvedere all evening. Tommy and Andy will confirm that. Tommy Holroyd and Andy Bragg – I gave you their names yesterday – have you got in touch with them? They can tell you what time I left.’
‘I’m afraid that so far we haven’t been able to reach either Mr Holroyd or Mr Bragg, but obviously we’ll keep trying.’ She paused and looked serious, as if she was about to ask something of great import. ‘You were in the Army, weren’t you, Mr Ives?’
‘Yes, Signals, long time ago.’
‘So you know how to conduct yourself.’
‘Conduct myself?’
‘Yes. Conduct yourself. You know, for example, how to handle weapons.’
‘Weapons? I thought you said that Wendy was killed with a golf club.’
‘Well, it was used as a weapon. Anything can be used as a weapon. Just read Agatha Christie.’ (But that was fiction, Vince protested silently.) ‘We haven’t ruled anything out yet. We’re at the early stages of the investigation,’ Inspector Marriot continued. ‘We’re still waiting on the pathologist’s report for an accurate time of death. That will give us a better idea as to whether that tallies with your movements and with your story.’
‘It’s not a story,’ Vince insisted. ‘And if I’m free to leave, then that’s what I’m doing.’ He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back noisily. He hadn’t meant to be so dramatic and now he felt like a bit of a flouncing idiot.
The inspector opened her hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. ‘It’s entirely up to you, Mr Ives. We’ll be in touch again soon. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town.’
‘You probably didn’t do yourself any favours in there by losing your temper,’ Steve said, pointing his keys at his car parked on the police station forecourt. The Discovery tweeted meek acquiescence.
‘I know, I know, but the whole thing’s a nightmare. Like something out of Kafka.’ Vince had never actually read Kafka, but he had a pretty good idea of what people meant when they invoked his name. ‘Have they really tried to talk to Tommy and Andy? Why can’t they get hold of them?’
‘Yes, Tommy and Andy,’ Steve said thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure they’ll say the right thing.’
‘The true thing, Steve.’
‘You’ve got to admit, it looks pretty bad though, Vince,’ Steve said.
‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’
‘I am, Vince, I am. Trust me.’
Vince was about to set off back to his flat, but Steve said, ‘Come on, we’ll go to the Belvedere, have lunch there. We need to talk strategy.’
‘Strategy?’ Vince puzzled.
‘You’re in a war zone, Vince. We have to neutralize the enemy. We need to get your story straight.’
That word ‘story’ again, Vince thought. His life was turning into fiction. Kafka would be proud of him.
They had barely set off when Steve’s phone rang. He answered it hands-free and it was a mostly one-sided conversation of uh-huhs and okays. He looked grim when he finished.
‘Trouble at t’mill, Steve?’
‘Just a bit, lad.’
Comedy Yorkshiremen, Vince thought. Neither of them had ever had a particularly strong accent. Vince’s parents had been from further south and had met during the war and then drifted north after it. They had characterless Leicestershire accents that had mitigated the broad cadences of West Yorkshire that surrounded Vince in his childhood. Steve, on other hand, had had the local accent wrestled out of him by elocution lessons – something he hid from the other boys at school for fear of seeming like a Jessie. Vince knew. He had once been the keeper of Steve’s secrets. Steve’s mother had been hell-bent on her son ‘bettering himself’. And he had, hadn’t he? In spades.
(‘Have you been back to the old home town?’ Steve had asked when he and Wendy had gone over for dinner. ‘Not for a long time,’ Vince said. His father had died not long after his wedding to Wendy and he had never had a reason to return. ‘I have work there sometimes,’ Steve said. ‘It’s not the same. Full of Pakis. Imams and mosques.’ Sophie had flinched at the word ‘Pakis’. Not Wendy, though. Sophie laid a remonstrative hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Steve,’ she half laughed.’ ‘that’s terrible.’ ‘We’re amongst friends, aren’t we?’ Steve said, shrugging his prejudices away. ‘I’m only