fingernails with the end of a beermat, I swallowed a large mouthful of whisky.
“Look,” said Jamie. “The prosecution case is white and the defense case is black, all right? And the truth, Tommy, the truth—thank
Christ—gets lost in the gray fog between. I know, it’s a crap system. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”
After that neither of us much wanted to talk. I tried not to look at him as he guzzled his whisky. For I feared that I was
becoming more like Jamie Armstrong. And I wondered whether in years to come I would bring a younger man to that place and
would tell him how it was with a bottle of malt.
Then I heard a clipped voice, bristling with irony. “Well, if it isn’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” it said.
When I screwed up my eyes, I could just make out the features of Inspector Stanley Payne. He was the officer charged with
putting Kingsley behind bars for life.
“I never thought you had it in you, Mr. Fawley,” he said. I nodded in his direction, feeling terribly embarrassed, like a
child caught red-handed pinching the custard creams. “Of course,” said Payne, “it’s nice to see you in here again, Mr. Armstrong.”
Jamie looked up at him with contempt. “Why don’t you crawl off and catch some real criminals?”
“Oh, but we’ve got one already, Mr. Armstrong. Haven’t you heard? Oh, yes. We got ourselves a real bad ‘un this time, haven’t
we, Mr. Fawley?”
I didn’t reply.
“Things look a little grim for poor old Kingsley,” Payne said, “now that we’ve found the second girl.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Payne carefully took off his long leather gloves, pulling at one finger at a time. He was a very pale man, viperous almost.
The veins stuck out on his neck as he spoke and his skin had a strangely luminous quality.
“What’s the defense then, Mr. Fawley? Wheelchair was punctured, was it?”
“Don’t speak to him,” said Jamie.
By then, however, I was lost somewhere between inebriation and unconsciousness. “Alibi,” I said.
Payne was delighted. “Come, come, sir,” he said. “A man of your”—he looked me up and down and smiled when he saw the wet yellow
stain on my shirt and the drunkenness in my eyes—“a man of your caliber can do better than that.”
“I’m warning you, Payne,” said Jamie. I was frightened of Jamie when he was like that.
“Alibi,” I repeated. “Philip Templeman. Our alibi.”
“But you can’t run alibi, Mr. Fawley.”
“Some… some law against it?” Jamie was rapidly losing both his temper and his power of speech.
Payne tutted to himself. He held his leather gloves in his left hand and stroked them as if he were holding a small kitten.
As Payne hovered in front of me, I asked, “What’s wrong with alibi?” I could make out his face and little else now.
“You got no witness,” he said. “Gone. Flown the nest. Scarpered.” Then he added in a melodic voice, “They seek him here, they
seek him there, those bobbies seek Templeman everywhere.”
He repeated this refrain twice as his voice slowly receded into the bar. Just before he vanished, he turned and said, “You
see, no one can find your witness and we’ve suddenly found ours. Strange how things work out. See you in court, sir.”
Jamie and I again sat in silence.
I finally said, “I don’t want this case.”
“What you want,” said Jamie, “is a swift nightcap. Set you up for tomorrow.”
C HAPTER S IXTEEN
A S I FOUGHT THROUGH THE CROWDS AT B LACKFRIARS Station on the third day of the trial, I had a bitter taste, like burnt almonds, in my mouth. I hadn’t slept well that night.
Nor had I expected to. I dreamt that I was falling and falling, but never reached the ground.
Throughout the tube journey I had short stabs of pain behind my eyes. Lurking somewhere just below the surface was something
I didn’t want to know.
Once I arrived at the Old Bailey, I barged to the front of the queue patiently waiting to
“Look,” said Jamie. “The prosecution case is white and the defense case is black, all right? And the truth, Tommy, the truth—thank
Christ—gets lost in the gray fog between. I know, it’s a crap system. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”
After that neither of us much wanted to talk. I tried not to look at him as he guzzled his whisky. For I feared that I was
becoming more like Jamie Armstrong. And I wondered whether in years to come I would bring a younger man to that place and
would tell him how it was with a bottle of malt.
Then I heard a clipped voice, bristling with irony. “Well, if it isn’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” it said.
When I screwed up my eyes, I could just make out the features of Inspector Stanley Payne. He was the officer charged with
putting Kingsley behind bars for life.
“I never thought you had it in you, Mr. Fawley,” he said. I nodded in his direction, feeling terribly embarrassed, like a
child caught red-handed pinching the custard creams. “Of course,” said Payne, “it’s nice to see you in here again, Mr. Armstrong.”
Jamie looked up at him with contempt. “Why don’t you crawl off and catch some real criminals?”
“Oh, but we’ve got one already, Mr. Armstrong. Haven’t you heard? Oh, yes. We got ourselves a real bad ‘un this time, haven’t
we, Mr. Fawley?”
I didn’t reply.
“Things look a little grim for poor old Kingsley,” Payne said, “now that we’ve found the second girl.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Payne carefully took off his long leather gloves, pulling at one finger at a time. He was a very pale man, viperous almost.
The veins stuck out on his neck as he spoke and his skin had a strangely luminous quality.
“What’s the defense then, Mr. Fawley? Wheelchair was punctured, was it?”
“Don’t speak to him,” said Jamie.
By then, however, I was lost somewhere between inebriation and unconsciousness. “Alibi,” I said.
Payne was delighted. “Come, come, sir,” he said. “A man of your”—he looked me up and down and smiled when he saw the wet yellow
stain on my shirt and the drunkenness in my eyes—“a man of your caliber can do better than that.”
“I’m warning you, Payne,” said Jamie. I was frightened of Jamie when he was like that.
“Alibi,” I repeated. “Philip Templeman. Our alibi.”
“But you can’t run alibi, Mr. Fawley.”
“Some… some law against it?” Jamie was rapidly losing both his temper and his power of speech.
Payne tutted to himself. He held his leather gloves in his left hand and stroked them as if he were holding a small kitten.
As Payne hovered in front of me, I asked, “What’s wrong with alibi?” I could make out his face and little else now.
“You got no witness,” he said. “Gone. Flown the nest. Scarpered.” Then he added in a melodic voice, “They seek him here, they
seek him there, those bobbies seek Templeman everywhere.”
He repeated this refrain twice as his voice slowly receded into the bar. Just before he vanished, he turned and said, “You
see, no one can find your witness and we’ve suddenly found ours. Strange how things work out. See you in court, sir.”
Jamie and I again sat in silence.
I finally said, “I don’t want this case.”
“What you want,” said Jamie, “is a swift nightcap. Set you up for tomorrow.”
C HAPTER S IXTEEN
A S I FOUGHT THROUGH THE CROWDS AT B LACKFRIARS Station on the third day of the trial, I had a bitter taste, like burnt almonds, in my mouth. I hadn’t slept well that night.
Nor had I expected to. I dreamt that I was falling and falling, but never reached the ground.
Throughout the tube journey I had short stabs of pain behind my eyes. Lurking somewhere just below the surface was something
I didn’t want to know.
Once I arrived at the Old Bailey, I barged to the front of the queue patiently waiting to
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