Strange Affair

“Most of us aren’t,” said Templeton. “That’s why looking at a picture helps.” He lifted his briefcase. “May I?”

“Of course,” said Cropley.

Templeton showed him the sketch.

Cropley stared at it for a while, then he said, “It could be him.”

“Only could be?”

“As I said, I didn’t get a good look.”

“But he did turn to look at you when the driver pulled right out in front, didn’t he? You told me that.”

“Yes, but it was dark.”

“The petrol station was well lit.”

“I’m still not certain. I mean, I wouldn’t want to swear to it in court. Is that what you want?”

“Not yet. We just want to find him.”

“Well, it definitely looks like him. The hair, the general shape of the head, but it was too dark to make out his features.”

“I understand that. Was he well-built?”

“He did have rather broad shoulders, now I come to think of it, and not much of a neck. And he seemed tall, high in the seat.”

“Fine,” said Templeton, putting the drawing away. “Many thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Cropley. “But you said you came to talk to my wife. She wouldn’t have been able to identify this man as she wasn’t with me.”

“Just seizing the opportunity, Mr. Cropley. Saved me a trip to London, this has.” Templeton took out his notebook.

“So what did you want to ask me? ” Mrs. Cropley said.

Templeton scratched the side of his nose. “That’s another matter entirely, Mrs. Cropley. At least we think it is. On the twenty-third of April this year, a young woman named Claire Potter was raped and stabbed just off the M1 north of Chesterfield. She was last seen at the Trowell services a short time earlier.”

“You mentioned this the last time you were here,” said Roger Cropley. “It meant nothing to me then and it means nothing now.”

Templeton ignored him and faced Mrs. Cropley. “We’ve now got quite a bit more information about that crime,” he said, “and believe me, whoever did it must have picked up quite a bit of blood. I was just wondering if you had ever noticed anything about your husband’s clothing around that time – you know, unusual stains, that sort of thing. Devilishly hard to get rid of, blood. You do the washing around here, don’t you?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” said Mrs. Cropley. “The sheer nerve of it.”

“Well, I’ve never been faulted for my lack of nerve,” said Templeton. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That’s my motto. So if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest…”

“I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, the clothes might have been beyond salvation, I suppose,” said Templeton. “Have any of your husband’s clothes gone missing over the past few months?”

“No.”

“Still,” Templeton mused aloud, “the killer washed the victim’s body, so the odds are he managed to deal with his own clothes. Very fastidious, he was. Are you a fastidious man, Mr. Cropley?”

“I like to think so,” said Cropley, “but it doesn’t make me a killer, and I resent these accusations.”

“Of course you do. It’s only natural. But I have to ask. I’d be a pretty useless detective if I didn’t, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite frankly I don’t care what kind of bloody detective you are,” said Cropley. “One thing I do know is that you’re a very offensive person and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my house immediately.”

“Just one more question, please, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Eileen Cropley glared at him.

“How often has your husband been unusually late home from work on a Friday? Say, after midnight.”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely you ought to be able to remember something like that? Don’t you wait up for him?”

“No. I usually take a sleeping pill at eleven o’clock and go to bed. I’m fast asleep before midnight.”

“So he usually gets back after eleven, then, can we say?”

She looked at her husband. “I suppose so.”

Templeton turned to Roger Cropley. “Nearly done now, sir. I remember the last time I was here with DC Jackman that you distinctly told me you usually try to get away by mid-afternoon to beat the rush-hour traffic.”

“If I can. I don’t always succeed.”

“How often in the last four months?”

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”

“I think I’d remember,” said Templeton.

“I’m not you.”

“No, you’re right about that.” Templeton put his notebook back in his inside pocket. “Well, I’ll be off now. Thanks for your time. No need to see me out. I know the way.”

Templeton walked toward the door, but just before he opened it, he turned to face Cropley again. “One more thing.” He took out his notebook again, frowned and consulted it. “The twentieth of February. Were you on your way home late that Friday, do you remember? Did you stop at Newport Pagnell?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Only, a young girl called Paula Chandler was driven off the road and an attempt was made at assaulting her. It failed. Her car doors were locked. There’s a chance she might be able to identify her assailant.”

“Am I under arrest?” Cropley said.

“Of course not,” said Templeton, “I’m only-”

“Then I want you to leave now or I’m calling my solicitor,” said Cropley, getting to his feet and striding toward Templeton. “Go on, get out!”

For a moment, Templeton thought Cropley was going to hit him, but he merely grabbed his shoulder and steered him toward the front door. Templeton didn’t resist. When the door slammed behind him, he stood for a few moments enjoying the fresh, wet smell of the late-afternoon air. It had stopped raining but the sky was still overcast and the streets were glistening. To the west, the low hills were faint gray outlines against a darker gray background. He could hear the sound of flowing water nearby, probably a beck, and a bird was singing in one of the trees. All in all, he thought, it had been a much more successful interview than the previous one.

As he got in his car, Templeton noticed a few flakes of Cropley’s dandruff on his sleeve jacket and moved to brush it off. Then he had a better idea. If Roger Cropley was their man, he thought, he was damned if DS Susan Browne was going to get all the glory.

A

She made her way through the crowds, narrowly avoiding a poke in the eye from one of the many raised umbrellas. She didn’t care where she was walking as long as she was getting away from the people. Eventually, when she got off Euston Road and took her bearings, she found herself winding her way via the back streets toward Bloomsbury.

When she got to Russell Square, she remembered the small hotel she and Banks had stayed at a few years ago, when their relationship had been just begi