don’t think it was me, do you?’
‘We just want to ask you a few questions. So we can eliminate you from our enquiries,’ I say. He obviously then decides to adopt his “I want to, but can’t really help you” expression. I ask him where he was on the night of the murder. He slides his mouse over his desk and examines his computer screen.
‘Just looking at my diary… I saw the Hendersons that morning. Got a great sale. Celebrated with a glass of wine or two at home that evening.’
‘Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts that night?’
‘My wife and the kids, that’s them in the photograph by the door… they were at her mother’s that week. She has a home in Spain. My wife likes her own space.’
He offers us a let’s commiserate together, man-to-man expression. He gets no takers.
‘Would anyone else be able to prove you were where you say you were?’
‘No,’ he shrugs. In my experience, innocent people who’ve had little contact with the police become a little bit uncomfortable around now. I call it The Customs Moment. Like when you’re walking through the Nothing to Declare section. You have nothing illegal about your person, but still you feel the eyes of everyone in the room drilling into your luggage. It’s a behavioural double negative.
He doesn’t have an alibi for the evening in question and it either doesn’t cause him a moment’s concern or he is a consummate actor. Whatever it is, there is something not quite right here. Perhaps I can shake him out of his tree.
‘So. You have no alibi for the evening a man was murdered? A man we know raped your sister. A man we know you threatened to kill.’ The last statement is thrown in for effect. But who wouldn’t make threats in such circumstances.
‘People say things like that when they are distraught. I made that threat when I was only a boy.’
‘Boyhood promises can take on the aura of quests.’
‘Quests?’ he snorts a laugh. ‘You’ve been watching The Lord of the Rings ?’
‘It’s not looking good for you. No alibi, a threat in front of witnesses and a strong motive.’
‘I believe the burden of proof is yours. Now if you‘ll excuse me, I'm busy.’ He stands up. Gary stands up as well. I remain in my seat. A question leaps from my mouth, without conscious thought.
‘How do you get on with your stepdaughter?’ I stand up now.
‘My stepdaughter? Fine… why do you ask?’ He puts one hand in his trouser pocket, the other reaches across the desk for the pen. I grab it first.
‘Nice pen.’ A Mont Blanc.
‘Thanks. I won it. Top salesman.’
‘Top salesman. Nice. So it really is possible to fool most of the people most of the time.’ I click his pen. Petty, I know, but hey we can’t all be perfect.
As we pass the reception desk, Eileen is busy pretending to be busy. After years of observing people from the point of view of suspicion you can generally tell when someone is distracted.
Eileen has a perm out of the seventies, shoulder pads from the eighties and looks so mousy it’s a wonder there isn’t a gang of cats ready to pounce.
‘Enjoy your job, Eileen?’ I ask.
She nods, meets my gaze for a second and squeaks, ‘Yes.’
‘Is Mr Irving a good boss?’
‘The pay’s no’ too bad.’ Her fingers move over the keyboard and she checks their progress. Not a good sign for a secretary.
‘You worked here long, Eileen?’
Her curls bob as she nods. This is an easier question to answer. The keyboard goes unchecked. ‘Ten years.’
‘That was a lovely photograph of Mrs Irving I saw as I left the office.’
‘Aye, the bairns are lovely. I’ve known them since they were just wee tots.’ Eileen’s shoulders drop a little and her fingers hover. She smiles wistfully. Probably single, with no kids and no prospect of them either. The mousy secretary in front of me fits the stereotype rather well.
‘Bairns?’ I ask. ‘There’s only one in the photograph.’
Worry creases Eileen’s brow.
‘We just want to ask you a few questions. So we can eliminate you from our enquiries,’ I say. He obviously then decides to adopt his “I want to, but can’t really help you” expression. I ask him where he was on the night of the murder. He slides his mouse over his desk and examines his computer screen.
‘Just looking at my diary… I saw the Hendersons that morning. Got a great sale. Celebrated with a glass of wine or two at home that evening.’
‘Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts that night?’
‘My wife and the kids, that’s them in the photograph by the door… they were at her mother’s that week. She has a home in Spain. My wife likes her own space.’
He offers us a let’s commiserate together, man-to-man expression. He gets no takers.
‘Would anyone else be able to prove you were where you say you were?’
‘No,’ he shrugs. In my experience, innocent people who’ve had little contact with the police become a little bit uncomfortable around now. I call it The Customs Moment. Like when you’re walking through the Nothing to Declare section. You have nothing illegal about your person, but still you feel the eyes of everyone in the room drilling into your luggage. It’s a behavioural double negative.
He doesn’t have an alibi for the evening in question and it either doesn’t cause him a moment’s concern or he is a consummate actor. Whatever it is, there is something not quite right here. Perhaps I can shake him out of his tree.
‘So. You have no alibi for the evening a man was murdered? A man we know raped your sister. A man we know you threatened to kill.’ The last statement is thrown in for effect. But who wouldn’t make threats in such circumstances.
‘People say things like that when they are distraught. I made that threat when I was only a boy.’
‘Boyhood promises can take on the aura of quests.’
‘Quests?’ he snorts a laugh. ‘You’ve been watching The Lord of the Rings ?’
‘It’s not looking good for you. No alibi, a threat in front of witnesses and a strong motive.’
‘I believe the burden of proof is yours. Now if you‘ll excuse me, I'm busy.’ He stands up. Gary stands up as well. I remain in my seat. A question leaps from my mouth, without conscious thought.
‘How do you get on with your stepdaughter?’ I stand up now.
‘My stepdaughter? Fine… why do you ask?’ He puts one hand in his trouser pocket, the other reaches across the desk for the pen. I grab it first.
‘Nice pen.’ A Mont Blanc.
‘Thanks. I won it. Top salesman.’
‘Top salesman. Nice. So it really is possible to fool most of the people most of the time.’ I click his pen. Petty, I know, but hey we can’t all be perfect.
As we pass the reception desk, Eileen is busy pretending to be busy. After years of observing people from the point of view of suspicion you can generally tell when someone is distracted.
Eileen has a perm out of the seventies, shoulder pads from the eighties and looks so mousy it’s a wonder there isn’t a gang of cats ready to pounce.
‘Enjoy your job, Eileen?’ I ask.
She nods, meets my gaze for a second and squeaks, ‘Yes.’
‘Is Mr Irving a good boss?’
‘The pay’s no’ too bad.’ Her fingers move over the keyboard and she checks their progress. Not a good sign for a secretary.
‘You worked here long, Eileen?’
Her curls bob as she nods. This is an easier question to answer. The keyboard goes unchecked. ‘Ten years.’
‘That was a lovely photograph of Mrs Irving I saw as I left the office.’
‘Aye, the bairns are lovely. I’ve known them since they were just wee tots.’ Eileen’s shoulders drop a little and her fingers hover. She smiles wistfully. Probably single, with no kids and no prospect of them either. The mousy secretary in front of me fits the stereotype rather well.
‘Bairns?’ I ask. ‘There’s only one in the photograph.’
Worry creases Eileen’s brow.
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