‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ the tall one said. ‘He’s just like that. Insatiable curiosity. By the way, my name’s Bentley, Detective Superintendent Bentley. My colleague over there goes by the name of Inspector Rodmoor. We’re from the Midlands Regional Crime Squad.’ He looked to see Reed’s reactions as he said this, but Reed tried to show no emotion at all.

‘I still don’t see what you want with me,’ he said.

‘Just routine,’ said Bentley. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

‘Be my guest.’

Bentley sat in the rocker by the fireplace and Reed sat opposite on the sofa. A mug of half-finished coffee stood between them on the glass-topped table, beside a couple of unpaid bills and the latest Radio Times.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Reed offered.

Bentley shook his head.

‘What about him?’ Reed glanced over nervously towards Inspector Rodmoor, who was looking through his bookcase, pulling out volumes that caught his fancy and flipping through them.

Bentley folded his hands on his lap: ‘Just try to forget he’s here.’

But Reed couldn’t. He kept flicking his eyes edgily from one to the other, always anxious about what Rod-moor was getting into next.

‘Mr Reed,’ Bentley went on, ‘were you in Redditch on the evening of 9 November? Last Friday, that was.’

Reed put his hand to his brow, which was damp with sweat. ‘Let me think now… Yes, yes, I believe I was.’

‘Why?’

‘What? Sorry…?’

‘I asked why. Why were you in Redditch? What was the purpose of your visit?’

He sounded like an immigration control officer at the airport, Reed thought. ‘I was there to meet an old university friend,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been going down for a weekend once a year or so ever since he moved there.’

‘And did you meet him?’

‘As a matter of fact, no, I didn’t.’ Reed explained the communications breakdown with Francis.

Bentley raised an eyebrow. Rodmoor rifled through the magazine rack by the fireplace.

‘But you still went there?’ Bentley persisted.

‘Yes. I told you, I didn’t know he’d be away. Look, do you mind telling me what this is about? I think I have a right to know.’

Rodmoor fished a copy of Mayfair out of the magazine rack and held it up for Bentley to see. Bentley frowned and reached over for it. The cover showed a shapely blonde in skimpy pink lace panties and camisole, stockings and a suspender belt. She was on her knees on a sofa, and her round behind faced the viewer. Her face was also turned towards the camera, and she looked as if she’d just been licking her glossy red lips. The thin strap of the camisole had slipped over her upper arm.

‘Nice,’ Bentley said. ‘Looks a bit young, though, don’t you think?’

Reed shrugged. He felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.

Bentley flipped through the rest of the magazine, pausing over the colour spreads of naked women in fetching poses.

‘It’s not illegal you know,’ Reed burst out. ‘You can buy it in any newsagent’s. It’s not pornography.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it, sir?’ said Inspector Rodmoor, taking the magazine back from his boss and replacing it.

Bentley smiled. ‘Don’t mind him, lad,’ he said. ‘He’s a Methodist. Now where were we?’

Reed shook his head.

‘Do you own a car?’ Bentley asked.

‘No.’

‘Do you live here by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ever been married?’

‘No.’

‘Girlfriends?’

‘Some.’

‘But not to live with?’

‘No.’

‘Magazines enough for you, eh?’

‘Now just a minute-’

‘Sorry,’ Bentley said, holding up his skeletal hand. ‘Pretty tasteless of me, that was. Out of line.’

Why couldn’t Reed quite believe the apology? He sensed very strongly that Bentley had made the remark on purpose to see how he would react. He hoped he’d passed the test. ‘You were going to tell me what all this was about…’

‘Was I? Why don’t you tell me about what you did in Redditch last Friday evening first? Inspector Rodmoor will join us here by the table and take notes. No hurry. Take your time.’

And slowly, trying to remember all the details of that miserable, washed-out evening five days ago, Reed told them. At one point, Bentley asked him what he’d been wearing, and Inspector Rodmoor asked if they might have a look at his raincoat and holdall. When Reed finished, the heavy silence stretched on for seconds. What were they thinking about? he wondered. Were they trying to make up their minds about him? What was he supposed to have done?

Finally, after they had asked him to go over one or two random points, Rodmoor closed his notebook and Bentley got to his feet. ‘That’ll be all for now, sir.’

‘For now?’

‘We might want to talk to you again. Don’t know. Have to check up on a few points first. We’ll just take the coat and the holdall with us, if you don’t mind, sir. Inspector Rodmoor will give you a receipt. Be available, will you?’

In his confusion, Reed accepted the slip of paper from Rodmoor and did nothing to stop them taking his things. ‘I’m not planning on going anywhere, if that’s what you mean.’

Bentley smiled. He looked like an undertaker consoling the bereaved. ‘Good. Well, we’ll be off then.’ And they walked towards the door.

‘Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s all about?’ Reed asked again as he opened the door for them. They walked out onto the path, and it was Inspector Rodmoor who turned and frowned. ‘That’s the funny thing about it, sir,’ he said, ‘that you don’t seem to know.’

‘Believe me, I don’t.’

Rodmoor shook his head slowly. ‘Anybody would think you don’t read your papers.’ And they walked down the path to their Rover.

Reed stood for a few moments watching the curtains opposite twitch and wondering what on earth Rodmoor meant. Then he realized that the newspapers had been delivered as usual the past few days, so they must have been in with magazines in the rack, but he had been too disinterested, too tired, or too busy to read any of them. He often felt like that. News was, more often than not, depressing, the last thing one needed on a wet weekend in Carlisle. Quickly, he shut the door on the gawping neighbours and hurried towards the magazine rack.

He didn’t have far to look. The item was on the front page of yesterday’s paper, under the headline, MIDLANDS MURDER SHOCK. It read,

The quiet Midlands town of Redditch is still in shock today over the brutal slaying of schoolgirl Debbie Harrison. Debbie, 15, failed to arrive home after a late hockey practice on Friday evening. Police found her partially clad body in an abandoned warehouse close to the town centre early Saturday morning. Detective Superintendent Bentley, in charge of the investigation, told our reporter that police are pursuing some positive leads. They would particularly like to talk to anyone who was in the area of the bus station and noticed a strange man hanging around the vicinity late that afternoon. Descriptions are vague so far, but the man was wearing a light tan raincoat and carrying a blue holdall.

He read and reread the article in horror, but what was even worse than the words was the photograph that accompanied it. He couldn’t be certain because it was a poor shot, but he thought it was the schoolgirl with the long wavy hair and the socks around her ankles, the one who had walked in front of him with her dumpy friend.

The most acceptable explanation of the police visit would be that they needed him as a possible witness, but the truth was that the ‘strange man hanging around the vicinity’ wearing ‘a light tan raincoat’ and carrying a ‘blue holdall’ was none other than himself, Terence J. Reed. But how did they know he’d been there?

The second time the police called Reed was at work. They marched right into the office, brazen as brass, and asked him if he could spare some time to talk to them down at the station. Bill only looked on curiously, but Frank, the boss, was hardly able to hide his irritation. Reed wasn’t his favourite employee anyway; he hadn’t been turning enough profit lately.