The second hand showed one minute had already passed.
“I saw a man leaving her flat that night.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“At the bus stop on the same side of the road.”
“Can you give me a description of the man?” Simmons’ tone was every bit as casual as my own.
“Tall. I’d say five eleven, six foot. Well built. Wore one of those posh City coats—you know, the black ones with a velvet collar.”
“How can you be so sure about the coat?” the detective asked.
“It was so cold standing out there waiting for the No. 19 that I wished it had been me who was wearing it.”
“Do you remember anything in particular that happened after he left the flat?”
“Only that he went into the paper shop opposite before getting into his car and driving away.”
“Yes, we know that much,” said the Detective Inspector. “I don’t suppose you recall what make of car it was?”
Two minutes had now passed and I began to watch the second hand more closely.
“I think it was a BMW,” I said.
“Do you remember the color by any chance?”
“No, it was too dark for that.” I paused. “But I saw him tear a parking ticket off the windscreen, so it shouldn’t be too hard for you to trace him.”
“And at what time did all this take place?”
“Around six fifteen to six thirty, Inspector,” I said.
“And can you tell me…?”
Two minutes fifty-eight seconds. I put the phone back on the hook. My whole body broke out in a sweat.
“Good to see you in the office on a Saturday morning,” said the managing director grimly as he passed my door. “Soon as you’re finished whatever you’re doing I’d like a word with you.”
I left my desk and followed him along the corridor into his office. For the next hour he went over my projected figures, but however hard I tried I couldn’t concentrate. It wasn’t long before he stopped trying to disguise his impatience.
“Have you got something else on your mind?” he asked as he closed his file. “You seem preoccupied.”
“No,” I insisted, “just been doing a lot of overtime lately,” and stood up to leave.
Once I had returned to my office, I burned the piece of paper with the five headings and left to go home. In the first edition of the afternoon paper, “The Lovers’ Tiff” story had been moved back to page seven. They had nothing new to report.
The rest of Saturday seemed interminable but my wife’s Sunday Express finally brought me some relief.
“Following up information received in the Carla Moorland ‘Lovers’ Tiff murder,’ a man is helping the police with their inquiries.” The commonplace expressions I had read so often in the past suddenly took on a real meaning.
I scoured the other Sunday papers, listened to every news bulletin and watched each news item on television. When my wife became curious I explained that there was a rumor in the office that the company might be taken over again, which only meant I could lose my job.
By Monday morning the Daily Express had named the man in “The Lovers’ Tiff murder” as Paul Menzies (51), an insurance broker from Sutton. His wife was at a hospital in Epsom under sedation while he was being held in the cells of Brixton Prison under arrest. I began to wonder if Mr. Menzies had told Carla the truth about his wife and what his nickname might be. I poured myself a strong black coffee before leaving for the office.
Later that morning, Menzies appeared before the magistrates at the Horseferry Road court, charged with the murder of Carla Moorland. The police had been successful in opposing bail, the Standard reassured me.
* * *