unexpressed question.
‘Would you like to tell us where you were?’
‘I wasn’t in Starmouth – not then, I tell you.’
‘When weren’t you in Starmouth?’
‘Not when you says I was!’
‘On Wednesday morning?’
‘No – I left before then.’
In his corner the shorthand constable was deftly whisking it down. Copping, hovering beside the desk, rocked gently on his heels. He was studying Mixer through half-closed lids.
‘I left there before twelve … quarter to, it might have been. Then I just drove around a bit … it was hot, like it is now. I just drove around to keep cool.’
‘On your own, of course?’
‘Yes … no! I had a bit with me.’
‘A woman, do you mean?’
‘That’s right, a bit of stuff. Said her name was Doris or something like that. On the bash, she was. I give her a quid for nothing.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Somewhere … a caff.’
‘And you brought her back to Starmouth?’
‘No … she didn’t live there.’
‘Where did you leave her then?’
‘I dunno … where she told me!’
It was thinner than workhouse skilly, and Mixer must have been aware of it. The super was toying with him with a feline satisfaction. He didn’t need to break the rules. It was superfluous to cross-question. One had only to keep Mixer moving to plunge him deeper in palpable falsehood.
‘You say you did leave her somewhere?’
‘That’s right … a village.’
‘Which village was that?’
‘How should I know which village!’
‘Where did she tell you to go?’
‘Not to no particular village at all. “Turn left”, she says, “turn right” … like that. It’s no good asking me where we finished up.’
‘What time did you leave her?’
‘I dunno … two, at least.’
‘It took you over two hours from Starmouth?’
‘I didn’t say that, did I?’
‘Where did you go, then?’
‘I went back to the Bel-Air at Hiverton.’
‘You found your way back from this village, did you?’
‘I – never you mind!’
Mixer broke off at last, vanquished by the sheer futility of it. Nobody was going to believe this, not even if he produced the woman! He licked his lips and stared sullenly at the floor. What he wanted badly was time to think the story over.
‘That’s all I’m going to say till I’ve seen my solicitor!’
The super shrugged. ‘I’ll want you to sign the statement.’
‘I’m not going to sign nothing.’
‘That’s entirely up to you. Either way it’s evidence and will be put in at court.’
Mixer’s eyes flicked back to the bulky form of Gently. Why had he been half-hoping that the Yard man would intervene? At the moment he’d got his back to Mixer and was fumbling with a package: he seemed to have washed his hands of the cockney, to have abandoned him to the Borough Police.
‘I’m innocent, I tell you!’
Mixer’s voice rose, thrilling with injury.
‘I ain’t done nothing particular – nothing! It’s my hard blinking luck, that’s all it is! I’m the last person on God’s earth – the last … the last …’
His voice trailed away as Gently swung towards him. Held mutely in the inspector’s hands was Simmonds’s painting of Rachel. A panel of flashing colour, it seemed to pulsate under the harsh neons. The wanton body of the woman glowed forth like a living question mark.
‘That bloody little git!’
Mixer’s face had gone pale with rage. His words came strangledly, incoherent with violent passion.
‘ He did that – didn’t he – that’s one of his! And she – she let him … a little git like that!’
He raved in his anger, indifferent of who saw it. His hairy hands were clenched, his eyes bolting from their sockets. Of a sudden he made a spring at the painting, but Gently was too quick for him. Dutt, coining up behind, laid uncompromising hands on Mixer’s person .
‘I’ll do for him, God help me – I don’t care if I swing for it!’
He was foaming at lips which had turned a leaden
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