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'Yes. I did some work, then I played a game called
Despot
.'
'Nobody called round, nobody saw you?'
'No, they didn't.' I try to remember what happened that evening. 'I had a
phone call.'
'About what time would that be?'
'Midnight.'
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'And who was that from?'
I hesitate. 'Look,' I say. 'Am I being charged with anything? Because I mean
if I am, this is just ludicrous but I want a lawyer -'
'You're not being charged with anything, Mr Colley,' the inspector says,
sounding reasonable and slightly offended. 'These are enquiries, that's all.
You're not under arrest, you don't have to tell us anything, and certainly you
may have a lawyer present.'
Sure, and if I don't cooperate they might arrest me, or at least get a search
warrant for the flat. (Gulp.
There's a couple of quarters of dope, some speed and at least one ancient tab
of acid in there.)
'Well, it's just, I'm a journalist, you know? I have to protect my sources, if
- '
'Oh. Was this midnight phone call on a professional matter then, Mr Colley?'
the inspector asks.
'Ah ... ' Shit. Decision time. Now what? What do I do? Fuck it; Andy won't
mind. He'll back me up. 'No,' I
tell the inspector. 'No, it was a friend.'
'A friend.'
'His name's Andy Gould.' I have to spell his surname for the sergeant, then
give them the phone number for Andy's decrepit hotel.
'And he called you?' the inspector says.
'Yes. Well, no; I called him, left a message on his answer-machine and then he
called me back a few minutes later.'
'I see,' the inspector says. 'And this was on your home phone, correct?'
'Yes.'
'The one that comes with your flat.'
'Yes. Not on my mobile, if that's what you're driving at.'
'Mm-hmm,' the inspector says. He folds the last three centimetres of his
cigarette carefully into the ashtray and takes out a little notebook and flips
it open to where the page is held by an elastic band. He looks from the
notebook to me. 'And what about October the twenty-fifth, and September the
fourth, and
August the sixth, and July the fifteenth?'
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I almost laugh. 'Are you serious? I mean, are you asking me do I have alibis?'
'We'd just like to know what you were doing on those dates.'
'Well, I was here. I mean, I haven't left Scotland, I haven't been anywhere
near London, or ... I haven't been down south for nearly a year.'
The inspector smiles thinly.
'Okay, look,' I say. 'I'd have to check in my diary.'
'Could you fetch your diary, Mr Colley?'
'Well, I say my diary; it's in my lap-top. My computer.'
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'Ah, so you do have one of those. Is that in the building?'
'Yeah. It's downstairs. I just got a new one but all the files are
transferred. I'll - '
I start to stand, but the inspector holds up one hand. 'Let Sergeant Flavell
do that, eh?'
'All right.' I sit down again, and nod. 'It's on my desk,' I tell the sergeant
as he goes to the door.
The inspector sits back in his seat and takes out his B&H packet. He sees me
watching him again and waves the packet at me. 'Sure you won't -?' he asks.
'Um, yeah, I will, thanks,' I say, reaching out to take the cigarette and
hating myself as I do it but thinking, Christ, these are exceptional
circumstances here; I need all the help I can get; every prop counts.
The inspector lights my cigarette and then stands up and walks to the windows
facing out towards Princes
Street. I turn in my seat to watch him. It's a blustery day; cloud-shadows and
patches of golden sunshine slide quickly over the face of the city, turning
the buildings to dark then shining grey.
'Lovely view from here, isn't it?' the inspector says.
'Yeah, great,' I say. I'm getting a fairly decent hit from the cigarette. I
should give up more often.
'Dare say they don't use this room much.'
'No. No, I don't think they do.'
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'Shame, really.'
'Yes.'
'Funny thing, you know,' the inspector says, peering out over the city to the
distant fields of Fife, grey-
green under heavier clouds on the far side of the river. 'The night Sir Toby
was killed, and the morning after Mr Persimmon was found, somebody rang up
The Times and claimed they were IRA attacks.'
The inspector turns to look at me, face wreathed in smoke.
'Yes, well,' I say, 'I heard the IRA claimed they killed Sir Toby, but then
retracted.'
'Yes,' the inspector says, looking, seemingly puzzled, at his cigarette.
'Whoever it was used the same IRA
code-word both times.'
'Oh?'
'Yes; that's what's funny, you see, Mr Colley. You and me, we both know there
are code-words the IRA
use when they phone in a bomb warning or take responsibility for a murder or
some other crime. You have to have these codes or otherwise any Tom, Dick or
Paddy could call in and claim they were the IRA;
close down London, they could, first time. But our murderer ... he knew one of
the code-words. A recent one.'
'Uh-huh.' I'm feeling cold again. I can see where this is leading. Brazen it
out. 'So, what?' I say, pulling on my fag, eyes narrowing. 'You suspect an
ex-policeman, yeah?'
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