‘Mr Piggott,’ interrupts Jobson. ‘That is a very serious allegation to make.’
‘Examples,’ you say. ‘Just examples of avenues open to exploration.’
Jobson stares at you. He says: ‘There were witnesses -’
You nod.
‘Forensic evidence.’
You nod again. ‘As I say, I am feeling somewhat overfaced.’
‘That surprises me,’ smiles Jobson.
‘Eyes bigger than my belly, would you believe?’
Jobson shakes his head: ‘I’d say you seem to have the measure of things.’
‘No, no, no,’ you say. ‘Not at all. You see, I keep running into the same names, the same faces, again and again.’
Jobson stares at you.
‘Both with Michael Myshkin and now with Jimmy Ashworth -’
‘They did live on the same street,’ says Jobson.
‘I know, I know, I know,’ you reply. ‘But what with you pulling Jimmy Ashworth in over this Hazel Atkins business and her having gone missing from the same school as Clare Kemplay did nigh on ten years ago, the murder of whom Michael Myshkin is now serving life imprisonment for -’
‘And to which he confessed.’
‘And to which he allegedly confessed,’ you add. ‘Well -’
‘Well what?’
‘Well,’ you say. ‘Is this all just one big bloody coincidence or is there something I should know before I waste any more of Mrs Ashworth and Mrs Myshkin’s money and my time?’
‘Mr Piggott,’ he smiles. ‘You want me to tell you how to spend your time and other people’s money?’
You shake your head. ‘No, but I would like you to tell me if Michael Myshkin murdered Clare Kemplay?’
Jobson stares at you.
You stare at him.
He says: ‘Yes he did.’
‘Alone?’
Then, right on fucking cue, there’s the knock at the door.
Jobson looks up and away from your face.
You turn around in your chair -
‘Boss,’ says a man with a moustache -
A man you recognise from the night Jimmy Ashworth hung himself downstairs, a man you recognise from the funeral -
All three of them.
‘Give me two minutes, will you, Dick?’ says Jobson.
But the man shakes his head: ‘It’s urgent.’
Jobson nods.
The door closes.
Jobson stands up, his hand out. ‘If you wait downstairs, I’ll make sure you get her son’s belongings.’
You stand up. You reach over the desk. You take his hand. You hold it. You say: ‘I went to Rochdale, Mr Jobson.’
Jobson drops your hand. ‘So?’
‘I know about the shoebox.’
Jobson stares at you. ‘So?’
‘So I know Michael Myshkin didn’t kill Clare Kemplay.’
Jobson blinks.
‘And I know Jimmy Ashworth didn’t take Hazel Atkins and I know he didn’t kill himself.’
Jobson stares at you -
You stare at him -
He says: ‘You know a lot, Mr Piggott.’
You nod.
‘Maybe too much,’ he smiles.
You shake your head. You stare at him -
The Owl.
He says: ‘Goodbye, Mr Piggott.’
You turn. You walk over to the door. You stop. You turn back round. You say: ‘You won’t forget about the motorbike, will you?’
‘I won’t forget, Mr Piggott,’ says Chief Superintendent Jobson. ‘I never forget.’
‘See you then,’ you say.
‘No doubt,’ he replies.
You close the door. You hear -
You swear you hear -
Hear him say:
‘In the place where there is no darkness.’
You walk down the corridor and back down the stairs and over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -
No more Christmases.
The policeman on the desk is picking the scabs off his boils.
You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and the chair marks -
‘Mr Piggott?’
You look up.
‘Sign here please, sir,’ says a young, blond policeman -
A young Bob Fraser -
Smiling and holding out a clipboard, two large brown paper bags on the desk.
You take the clipboard and the pen from him. You sign the papers.
He hands you the large brown paper bags. ‘Here you go, sir.’
You stand up. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
You walk across the linoleum floor, the white squares and the grey, the boot marks and the chair marks, walk towards the double doors and out -
‘Sir,’ the young officer calls after you. ‘Just a minute.’
You turn back round -
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘You wanted a copy of the inventory, didn’t you?’
You nod.
He hands you a photocopied piece of A4. ‘The Chief would’ve had my guts for garters. He said to be sure you got it.’
You sit in the car in the car park between the bus station and the market, still in the shadow of Millgarth, the two large brown paper bags open on the passenger seat with the photocopied piece of A4 in your hand:
One pair of black leather motorcycle boots, size nine.
Two pairs of blue navy wool socks, size eight.
One pair of white underpants, size M.
One pair of Lee blue denim jeans, size 30, with black leather belt.
One brown handkerchief.
One pair of medium-sized black leather motorcycle gloves.
One white T-shirt, size M.
One blue and white cotton check shirt, size M.
One sleeveless Wrangler blue denim jacket with patches and badges, size M.
One black leather jacket, marked Saxon and Angelwitch with bird wing motif.
One pair of round-framed gold spectacles.
One Casio digital calculator wristwatch.
One black leather studded wristband.
One Star of David metal key-ring with three keys attached.
One brown leather wallet containing one five pound note, driving licence in the name of James Ashworth, 69 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam, a Mass card and stamps to the value of twenty-five pence.
One packet of Rothmans cigarettes containing five unsmoked cigarettes.
One disposable white plastic cigarette lighter.
One packet of Rizla cigarette papers.
Seventy-six-and-a-half pence in loose change.
You put the list down. You root through the bags for the belt.
You find the jeans first, but the belt isn’t in them -
It’s at the very bottom of the second bag.
You pull it out. You hold it up:
They open the door to Room 4 and there he is, his boots still turning as they struggle to cut him down, the stink of piss among the suds, his body attached to the ventilation grille, a belt holding him there by his neck, hanging in a jacket that says Saxon and Angelwitch between a pair of swan’s wings, his tongue swollen and eyes as big as plates, still struggling to cut him down and take him away, to put him in a hole in the ground and make it go away -
But it won’t and it never will -
Not for her -
Nor you.
But you cannot remember if it was this belt -