Drowned Lives

11

There were two of them, just the way you always expect. Detective Sergeant Graham was slim, with a narrow, worried face. He had greying hair and the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, but a vigilant look in his eyes. He wore a leather jacket and fawn chinos with a black belt. The female officer at his side was Detective Constable Hanlon, looking broad-shouldered in a padded jacket and a pair of jeans, with her fair hair scraped back off her forehead and a direct gaze that was probably meant to be disconcerting.

They turned up on the doorstep at nine o’clock. I’d only been up a few minutes, and I was still feeling groggy from lack of coffee. After they’d shown me their warrant cards, I let them into the house. As people must often do, I was wondering what I’d done wrong. In my case, drinking and driving invariably flashed through my mind when I saw a policeman, even when I hadn’t been drinking. What else could it be? Was my tax disc out of date? Quite possibly. I couldn’t remember.

But no. I had enough sense to know that two detectives wouldn’t visit me at home for something so trivial. I had a panicky moment when I tried to recall what might be lying around the house that I wouldn’t want them to see. A few weeks before, I’d stupidly invited back some people I met in the Stowe Arms, and one of them had passed round a joint. Could traces of it linger so long? There might also be a pornographic magazine lurking somewhere. But it was too late to worry about it now.

As I took them into my sitting room, my last thought was that their visit might be related to the road protest at Hilton. Had I been reported for trespassing perhaps? Had I seen something I shouldn’t?

But in the next second, all my speculations went out of the window.

‘Mr Buckley, we understand that you’re acquainted with a Mr Samuel Longden.’

‘Good God.’

‘Sorry?’ DS Graham looked intrigued at the reaction.

‘I mean — yes, I am. It was a bit of a surprise, you mentioning his name.’

‘What else did you think we’d come about?’ asked DC Hanlon smartly. She thrust her hands aggressively into her jacket pockets as if she had two hidden revolvers pointing directly at my groin.

‘Hanlon thinks everyone has a guilty secret,’ said Graham, with a smile.

‘It’s just such a short time since I first heard his name,’ I said.

Graham cocked his head. ‘Perhaps we’ll come back to that in a moment, sir.’

He said it like a threat. And I wasn’t fooled for a minute by that word ‘sir’. There’s nobody like a policeman for infusing the word with whatever meaning he chooses to give it. DC Hanlon pulled her hands out of her pockets. But there were no revolvers, only a notebook and a ballpoint pen. In a way, I would have preferred the guns.

‘So what’s this all about?’ I asked, knowing they must be the same words thousands of people use to police officers every day.

‘We’re investigating an incident last night involving Mr Longden. We’d like to ask you a few questions, sir. So that we can eliminate you from our inquiries, you understand.’

‘Right.’

They both smiled then, as if at some police officers’ in-joke. At this point, many householders might have offered them a cup of tea, but I wasn’t feeling that way inclined. Until they arrived at my door, I’d always thought I was a law-abiding citizen, but these two made me feel positively seditious.

‘Could you explain to us how you come to know Samuel Longden, Mr Buckley?’

‘It’s a bit of an odd story,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about that. We hear plenty of those.’

So they sat down, and I told them about the old man appearing at the canal restoration site, how he’d wanted me to do something for him, and the mysterious hints he’d dropped. They listened carefully, and DC Hanlon made the occasional note. But their faces were impassive, and they gave nothing away. For some reason, I didn’t tell them about the files and the wooden box that still sat on my table in the other room.

‘How many times did you meet Mr Longden?’ asked DS Graham.

‘Just the twice. The first time, when he approached me at Fosseway. And again two days later, when we met in the Cathedral Close.’

‘Just twice. Hmm.’

‘Yes?’

DS Graham wasn’t trying to conceal the fact that he didn’t believe me. ‘Just twice. And the first meeting was only a few days ago. Would you say that was enough of a relationship to make you a friend of Mr Longden’s?’

‘No, not really.’

He looked at Hanlon, and Hanlon looked at her notebook. ‘Yet three days ago you told Mrs Sylvia Wentworth that you were a friend of his,’ she said.

‘Sorry? Who?’

‘Mrs Sylvia Wentworth. Mr Longden’s next-door neighbour in Whittington.’

‘Ah.’

‘It was you, Mr Buckley, who called at Mr Longden’s home on Thursday evening looking for him?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘And you spoke to Mrs Wentworth, asking after the whereabouts of her neighbour.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And you told her you were Mr Longden’s friend.’

‘I — might have done.’

‘Might?’

‘Yes, I suppose I did. But it’s just an expression. It’s shorter than saying “acquaintance”, that’s all. It means nothing.’

‘Would “acquaintance” describe your relationship with Mr Longden more accurately then?’

‘Yes, indeed. Certainly.’

‘Thank you. An acquaintance. But an acquaintance who was anxious to see Mr Longden about something?’

‘Not anxious exactly.’

‘But you called at his house. Peered through his windows. Questioned his neighbour. Put a note through his letter box.’

‘There was something I wanted to tell him, that’s all.’

‘We have the note in our possession, Mr Buckley. It said that you couldn’t help him.’

‘That’s right. That’s what I wanted to tell him.’

‘So why, then, did you arrange to meet Mr Longden again yesterday?’

I didn’t have time to wonder how they knew all this. The question of who had known about the meeting we arranged in the market square was much too difficult for me to contemplate anyway.

‘It was Samuel who arranged the meeting,’ I said. ‘He wanted to persuade me to change my mind.’

‘About this project of his?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And did he manage to persuade you, Mr Buckley?’

Now I did hesitate. How was I to explain to them that I hadn’t gone through with the meeting? Could I tell them that I’d sat in the pub and watched the old man growing cold and disappointed, that I’d been a coward and hidden from an awkward moment? I could already see their contemptuous, disbelieving stares.

‘I didn’t turn up for the meeting.’

‘Any particular reason?’

I shrugged, trying to avoid their questioning eyes. ‘I just didn’t want to meet him. I’d given him my message. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of it.’

‘But you hadn’t told Mr Longden that, had you?’

‘No.’

‘You let him think you’d turn up.’

‘Yes.’ Then a little glimmer of hope began to form. ‘His letter only arrived that morning. It was much too short notice for me. I couldn’t get there.’

There was silence in the room for a few moments. I’d just lied to them, and I was afraid they knew it. It must have been scrawled all over my face. DC Hanlon would be jotting my name down on her guilty secrets list. I needed to do something to distract their attention. Then I realised I hadn’t asked the question they must be expecting from me.

‘Has something happened to Samuel? Has he had an accident?’

‘You might say that,’ said Graham grimly, with that uneasy shifting of the eyes that communicated bad news.

‘Is he... is he dead?’

‘Yes, Mr Buckley. But as for an accident... at the moment we can’t actually say whether it was an accident or not.’

‘That’s why we need to trace his exact movements during his last few hours,’ said Hanlon, trying to pierce me with her glare.

‘It’s a real pity you didn’t turn up for that meeting,’ said Graham. ‘You might have saved him, Mr Buckley.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘He died shortly before six-thirty. If you’d turned up to meet him, you might still have been with him then.’

‘Six-thirty? But—’

‘Yes?’

I hesitated, holding back what I had been going to say. ‘He was still in the city centre then?’

‘Yes, he died in Frog Lane.’

‘In the street? What happened?’

‘He was knocked down by a car. A hit and run.’

The news shocked me more than anything I’d been imagining. ‘Have you caught the driver?’

‘No. We haven’t been able to interview anybody else in connection with the incident yet.’

I didn’t miss the ‘anybody else’. Did they really think it might have been me driving the car that had run Samuel over?

‘You must have some description of the vehicle?’

‘Yes, there was a witness,’ said Graham, with a hint of satisfaction.

‘But you can’t say whether it was an accident. Why not?’

‘An inquest might say it was misadventure. If Mr Longden had wandered out into the road, for example. He was an old man — and rather frail, we understand. If he’d been waiting outside in the cold for a long time, he might have been unsteady on his feet.’

‘The verdict might even be suicide,’ said Hanlon. ‘If he was distressed about something. If he was upset enough by your failure to turn up, say.’

‘And then again, we can’t rule out the possibility of a murder charge,’ said Graham, and watched for the effect on me, which must have been clearly visible. ‘Now shall we just go back to the beginning, Mr Buckley?’

I went through the story again. Their tactic was obvious. If you make a story up, you’re more likely to make a mistake, to let slip an inconsistency, when you’re asked to repeat it. There’s a natural tendency to start embroidering the details. So I decided to be sensible and come clean. I told them I’d been in the Earl of Lichfield while Samuel sat in the market square. The detectives looked suitably shocked, and Hanlon made another note — guilty secret confirmed.

‘So the last time you saw Mr Longden, he was walking towards the Three Spires shopping centre. Did he look as though he was heading anywhere in particular?’ asked Graham.

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Was he hurrying?’

‘No. Walking rather slowly. He used a stick anyway.’

‘Yes, he was a rather fragile old man.’

I began to get irritated. ‘Look—’

‘Do you think he might have been heading towards the bus station?’

‘Quite possibly. He might have been planning to get a taxi from there to go back home. Did you say the accident happened in Frog Lane?’

‘Yes, near the corner of Castle Dyke,’ said Graham. ‘By the exit from the multi-storey car park.’

‘I see.’

I was starting to piece the scenario together bit by bit. I could see Samuel tottering off, a little unsteady on his feet, his legs perhaps numb with cold. Maybe he’d been deep in thought, his brain going off on one of those strange tangents I’d come to recognise. He must have walked a few yards down Bore Street and cut through Tudor Row to reach Castle Dyke. And just beyond there he’d stepped in front of a car. Perhaps it had been driving down the ramp too fast, and the accident was entirely the driver’s fault.

Somehow, the thought didn’t make me feel any better. I remembered too clearly the sound of the revving engine, the squealing tyres. And that deep, racking cough. Was it significant? Why didn’t I tell these police officers? Because I didn’t want them to know I’d been so close to the scene where Samuel Longden had died. I’d been much too close. If I told them, it would only double their suspicions.

‘But you haven’t found the driver?’ I said.

‘Not yet. We’re checking all the possibilities.’

I sensed that something else was coming. ‘Yes?’

‘So would you mind if we had a quick look at your car while we’re here, Mr Buckley?’

‘You don’t think—’ But obviously they did. That was their job, after all. I was the last person known to have seen the old man alive. Perhaps I was also the person who’d run him over. Why not? They were obliged to be suspicious.

‘That is your Escort we saw in the car port?’ asked Hanlon.

‘It is. Do you want the keys?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

We all trooped back outside. I trailed behind them, not knowing quite what to do as they examined the exterior of my car, particularly the bodywork and bumper at the front, the trim on the door and even the wing mirrors. They also looked at the tread of the tyres.

‘Where did you park your vehicle last night, sir?’ asked Hanlon.

‘The Bird Street car park,’ I said promptly. ‘Behind Iceland.’

Unfortunately, the Escort was of an age when it was starting to show quite a number of scratches and small dents, most of them completely innocent — a stone thrown up from the road, someone opening their door too close in a car park. All these little incidents left their mark. I wondered how they could possibly mean anything to the two police officers. Did their inspection mean there were injuries to Samuel that could be matched to a part of the car that hit him? Did they think there might be a match to that dent in the wing of my Escort? The idea made me shudder as I watched DS Graham scrutinise my paintwork, tilting his head from side to side to get a better view.

Eventually, they stood up and dusted off their knees.

‘Well, I think that will be all for now, Mr Buckley. But we’d like you to call in at the station during the next day or two to sign a formal statement.’

‘No problem.’

‘Oh, and we may need you at the inquest.’

‘Really? But I can hardly tell you anything about Samuel’s death.’

‘His state of mind immediately prior to the incident might prove to be important.’

‘And his physical condition,’ said Hanlon, who clearly had me pegged as an OAP molester.

‘But how could anyone get away with running an old man down in the middle of the street and not even stopping?’

‘It happens,’ said Hanlon. ‘Usually it’s some drunk who panics and drives off.’

‘Yes, I see.’

There was a significant pause.

‘Which pub did you say you were in that night, Mr Buckley?’

The gibe had come from DS Graham. I flushed angrily at the insinuation. ‘I told you. The Earl of Lichfield. And I wasn’t drunk.’

‘Was the pub busy?’

‘Very quiet, actually.’

‘No doubt the staff will remember you, then.’

They left me in no doubt they would check.

‘We’ll be in touch, then.’

‘Yes. All right.’

They drove off, leaving me standing on my driveway in my shirt sleeves and slippers. It was a moment or two before I suddenly realised how cold I was, and a shudder ran through me.

It was obvious that I wasn’t going to be allowed to forget Samuel Longden. Because there is nothing rational about guilt. And it was certainly guilt that had etched last night’s scene into my mind, leaving me with a permanent recollection of a defeated, dejected old man shuffling painfully into the darkness, surrounded by a miasma of misery caused by me.

He’d looked like a man walking to meet his fate, a condemned criminal going to the gallows, with no hope of reprieve. He had, of course, been walking to his death.