I sat in the corner of my local pub, where I knew I couldn't be seen from behind the bar. A tomato juice by my side, I began slowly to turn the pages of the paper.
She hadn't made page one. She hadn't made the second, third, or fourth page. And on page five she rated only a tiny paragraph. “Miss Carla Moorland, aged 31, was found dead
at her home in Pimlico earlier this morning.” I remember thinking at the time they hadn't even got her age right. “Detective Inspector Simmons, who has been put in charge of the case, said that an investigation was being carried out and they were awaiting the pathologist's report but to date they had no reason to suspect foul play.”
After that piece of news I even managed a little soup and a roll. Once I had read the report a second time I made my way back to the office parking lot and sat in my car. I wound down the other front window to allow more fresh air in before turning on
The World at One
on the radio. Carla didn't even get a mention. In the age of semiautomatics, drugs, AIDS, and gold bullion robberies the death of a thirty-two-year-old industrial personal assistant had passed unnoticed by the BBC.
I returned to my office to find on my desk a memo containing a series of questions that had been fired back by the managing director, leaving me in no doubt as to how he felt about my report. I was able to deal with nearly all his queries and return the answers to his secretary before I left the office that night, despite spending most of the afternoon trying to convince myself that whatever had caused Carla's death must have happened after I left and could not possibly have been connected with my hitting her. But that red negligee kept returning to my thoughts. Was there any way they could trace it back to me? I had bought it at Harrodsâan extravagance, but I felt certain it couldn't be unique, and it was still the only serious present I'd ever given her. But the note that was attachedâhad Carla destroyed it? Would they discover who Casaneva was?
I drove directly home that evening, aware that I would never again be able to travel down the street Carla had lived on. I listened to the end of the
PM
program on my car radio, and as soon as I reached home switched on the six o'clock news. I turned to Channel Four at seven and back to the BBC at nine. I returned to ITV at ten and even ended up watching
Newsnight.
Carla's death, in their combined editorial opinion, must have been less important than a Third Division football result
between Reading and Walsall. Elizabeth continued reading her latest library book, oblivious to my possible peril.
I slept fitfully that night, and as soon as I heard the papers pushed through the mail slot the next morning I ran downstairs to check the headlines.
DUKAKIS NOMINATED AS CANDIDATE stared up at me from the front page of
The Times.
I found myself wondering, irrelevantly, if he would ever be president. “President Dukakis” didn't sound quite right to me.
I picked up my wife's
Daily Express
and the three-word headline filled the top of the page: LOVERS' TIFF MURDER. My legs gave way, and I fell to my knees. I must have made a strange sight, crumpled up on the floor trying to read that opening paragraph. I couldn't make out the words of the second paragraph without my glasses. I stumbled back upstairs with the papers and grabbed the glasses from the table on my side of the bed. Elizabeth was still sleeping soundly. Even so, I locked myself in the bathroom, where I could read the story slowly and without fear of interruption.
Police are now treating as murder the death of a beautiful Pimlico secretary, Carla Moorland, 32, who was found dead in her flat early yesterday morning. Detective Inspector Simmons of Scotland Yard, who is in charge of the case, initially considered Carla Moorland's death to be due to natural causes, but an X-ray has revealed a broken jaw which could have been caused in a fight.
An inquest will be held on April 19th.
Miss Moorland's daily, Maria Lucia (48), saidâexclusively to the
Expressâ
that her employer had been with a man friend when she had left the flat at five o'clock on the night in question. Another witness, Mrs. Rita Johnson, who lives in the adjoining block of flats, stated she had seen a man leaving Miss Moorland's flat at around six, before entering the newsagents opposite and later driving away. Mrs. Johnson added that she
couldn't be sure of the make of the car but it might have been a Rover ⦠.
“Oh, my God,” I exclaimed in such a loud voice that I was afraid it might have woken Elizabeth. I shaved and showered quickly, trying to think as I went along. I was dressed and ready to leave for work even before my wife was awake. I kissed her on the cheek but she only turned over, so I scribbled a note and left it on her side of the bed, explaining that I had to spend the morning in the office as I had an important report to complete.
On my journey to work I rehearsed exactly what I was going to say. I went over it again and again. I arrived on the twelfth floor a little before eight and left my door wide open so I would be aware of the slightest intrusion. I felt confident that I had a clear fifteen, even twenty minutes before anyone else could be expected to arrive.
Once again I went over exactly what I needed to say. I found the number in the L-R directory and scribbled it down on a pad in front of me before writing five headings in block capitals, something I always did before a board meeting.
BUS STOP
COAT
NO. 19
BMW
TICKET
Then I dialled the number.
I took off my watch and placed it in front of me. I had read somewhere that the location of a telephone call can be traced in about three minutes.
A woman's voice said, “Scotland Yard.”
“Inspector Simmons, please,” was all I volunteered.
“Can I tell him who's calling?”
“No, I would prefer not to give my name.“
“Yes, of course, sir,” she said, evidently used to such callers.
Another ringing tone. My mouth went dry as a man's voice announced, “Simmons,” and I heard the detective speak for the first time. I was taken aback to find that a man with so English a name could have such a strong Glaswegian accent.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“No, but I think I can help you,” I said in a quiet tone which I pitched considerably lower than my natural speaking voice.
“How can you help me, sir?”
“Are you the officer in charge of the Carla-whatever-her-name-is case?”
“Yes, I am. But how can you help?” he repeated.
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's tone was every bit as casual as my own.
“Tall. I'd say five eleven, six feet. Well built. Wore one of those posh City coatsâyou 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 apartment?”
“Only that he went to the newsstand 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 windshield, 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 hung up. 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 âLovers' 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 meant I could lose my job.
By Monday morning the
Daily Express
had named the man in “The Lovers' Tiff murder” as Paul Menzies, fifty-one, an insurance broker from Sutton. His wife was in 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 and left 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.
It takes six months, I was to discover, for a case of this gravity to reach the Old Bailey. Paul Menzies passed those months on remand in Brixton Prison. I spent the same period fearful of every telephone call, every knock on the door, every unexpected visitor. Each one created its own nightmare. Innocent people have no idea how many such incidents occur every day. I went about my job as best I could, often wondering if Menzies knew of my relationship with Carla, if he knew my name, or if he even knew of my existence.
It must have been a couple of months before the trial was due to begin that the company held its annual general meeting. It had taken some considerable creative accountancy on my part to produce a set of figures that showed us managing any profit at all. We certainly didn't pay our stockholders a dividend that year.
I came away from the meeting relieved, almost elated. Six months had passed since Carla's death, and not one incident had occurred during that period to suggest that anyone suspected I had even known her, let alone been the cause of her death. I still felt guilty about Carla, even missed her, but after six months I was now able to go for a whole day without fear entering my mind. Strangely, I felt no guilt about Menzies's plight. After all, it was he who had become the instrument that was going to keep me from a lifetime spent in prison. So when the blow came it had double the impact.
It was on August 26âI shall never forget itâthat I received a letter that made me realize it might be necessary to follow every word of the trial. However much I tried to convince myself I should explain why I couldn't do it, I knew I wouldn't be able to resist.
That same morning, a FridayâI suppose these things always
happen on a FridayâI was called in for what I assumed was to be a routine weekly meeting with the managing director, only to be informed that the company no longer needed me.
“Frankly, in the last few months your work has gone from bad to worse,” I was told.
I didn't feel able to disagree with him.
“And you have left me with no choice but to replace you.” A polite way of saying, “You're fired.”
“Your desk will be cleared by five this evening,” the managing director continued, “when you will receive a cheque from the accounts department for 17,500 pounds.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Six months' compensation, as stipulated in your contract when we took over the company,” he explained.
When the managing director stretched out his hand it was not to wish me luck but to ask for the keys of my Rover.