Stupid, but the gear was good stuff, a few thousand quid’s worth, and the guy didn’t want it out of his sight overnight. So, for fifty quid and a few drinks, Bill had driven to Margate, picked up the gear, brought it to Folkestone, sat through the gig, then hauled it back to Margate again before returning to Folkestone, absolutely knackered. It was a lot of work for fifty quid, but then Chas was a mate, and besides, Bill liked being a road manager. He’d have liked to play in a band himself had he been what you would call musical. Musical he was not. He’d tried auditioning as a vocalist once — not in Chas’s band, in another local outfit — but the ciggies had shot his voice to hell. Like the band’s leader said, his timing and pace were superb, and he’d plenty of emotion, but he just couldn’t “hold a tune.” Whatever that meant.
The door opened and in walked the same CID man who’d spoken to him in the turnout.
“Well about bloody time,” said Bill. “Listen, I can’t hang around here any longer, and I’m —”
They kept filing into the room, three of them as well as the CID man. The room, which had been so empty before, now seemed overfull.
“These gentlemen have driven down from London to see you, Mr. Moncur,” said the CID.
“Bit pokey in here, innit?” said one of the men. He looked to Bill Moncur like an old boxer, semi-pro. The speaker turned to the CID man. “Haven’t you got an office we could use?”
“Well...” The CID man thought about it. “There’s the Chief’s office. He’s not around this afternoon.”
“That’ll do us, then.”
The other two Londoners were silent. They seemed happy enough to let their colleague do the talking. They all trooped out of the interview room and along to a more spacious, airier office. Extra chairs were carried in, and the CID man left, closing the door behind him. The oldest of the three Londoners, craggy-faced and grim looking, had taken the chair already behind the desk, a big comfortable leather affair. Moncur was sitting in the other chair already in place on the other side of the desk. He kept looking to Craggy Face, who seemed like the boss, but he still wasn’t speaking. The one who’d done all the speaking, and who now remained standing, started things off.
“We’re Special Branch officers, Mr. Moncur. I’m Inspector Doyle, and this” — with a nod to the third man, who had taken a seat against the wall — “is Inspector Greenleaf. We’re particularly interested in what you told Detective Sergeant Hines. Could you go through your story again for us?”
“You mean I’ve been kept in here waiting for you lot to arrive from London? You could have asked me over the phone.”
“We could have, but we didn’t.” This Doyle was a short-fuse merchant, Moncur could see that. “The sooner we have your story, the sooner you’ll be out of here. It’s not as if you’re in any trouble...”
“Tell that to my boss.”
“If you want me to, I will.”
The third Londoner, Greenleaf, had picked up a briefcase from the floor and rested it on his knees. He now brought out a twin-cassette deck, an old-fashioned and unwieldy-looking thing. The other one was speaking again.
“Do you mind if we record this interview? We’ll have it transcribed, and you can check it for mistakes. It’s just a record so we don’t have to bother you again if we forget something. Okay?”
“Whatever.” He didn’t like it, though. The man with the briefcase was plugging in the deck. Positioning it on the desk. Checking that it worked. Testing, testing: just like Chas at a sound check. Only this was very different from a sound check.
“You were out on a run in your van, Mr. Moncur?” asked Doyle, almost catching him off guard. The interview had started already.
“That’s right. Sunday night it was. Last day of May.”
“And what exactly were you doing?”
“I was helping a mate. He plays in a band. Well, their PA had broken down and I had to fetch another from Margate, see. Only, after the show, the guy who owned the PA wanted it delivered back to him. So off I went to Margate again.”
“Were you alone in the van, Mr. Moncur?”
“At the beginning I was. Nobody else in the band could be bothered to —”
“But you weren’t alone for long?”
“No, I picked up a hitchhiker.”
“What time was this?”
“Late. The dance the band was playing at didn’t finish till after one. Then we had a few drinks...” He caught himself. “I stuck to orange juice, mind. I don’t drink and drive, can’t afford to. It’s my livelihood, see, and I don’t —”
“So it was after one?”
“After two more like. After the gig, we’d to load the van, then we had a drink... yes, after two.”
“Late for someone to be hitching, eh?”
“That’s just what I told her. I don’t normally pick up hitchhikers, no matter what time of day it is. But a woman out on her own at that time of night... well, that’s just plain bloody stupid. To be honest, at first I thought maybe it was a trap.”
“A trap?”
“Yeah, I stop the van for her, then her boyfriend and a few others appear from nowhere and hoist whatever I’m carrying. It’s happened to a mate of mine.”
“But it didn’t happen to you?”
“No.”
“Tell me about the woman, Mr. Moncur. What sort of —”
But now the man behind the desk, the one who hadn’t been introduced, now he spoke. “Before that, perhaps Mr. Moncur could show us on a map?” A map was produced and spread out on the top of the desk. Moncur studied it, trying to trace his route.
“I was never much good at geography,” he explained as his finger traced first this contour line, then that.
“These are the roads here, Mr. Moncur,” said the man behind the desk, running his finger along them.
Moncur attempted a chuckle. “I’d never make it as a long-distance driver, eh?” Nobody smiled. “Well, anyway, it was just there.” A pen was produced, a dot marked on the map.
“How far is that from the coast?” asked Doyle.
“Oh, a mile, couple of miles.”
“All right.” The map was folded away again. The questioning resumed as before. “So, you saw a woman at the side of the road?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Long hair, dark brown or maybe black. I didn’t have the lights on in the cab, so it wasn’t easy to tell. Sort of... well, I mean, she was quite pretty and all, but she wasn’t... she wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.”
“What about height?” This from the one behind the desk.
“I dunno, average. Five seven, five eight.”
“A little taller than average, maybe,” he suggested. “What was she wearing?”
“Jeans, a jacket. She looked cold.”
“Did she seem wet?”
“Wet? No, it wasn’t raining. But she looked cold. I turned the heating up in the cab.”
“And what was she carrying?”
“Just a bag, a haversack sort of thing.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Was the haversack heavy?”