Braithwaite’s works stood in a rural setting some twenty miles to the west of Cannonbridge, a small disused factory Braithwaite had taken over on borrowed capital twelve years ago in a spirit of buoyant optimism.
It was approaching noon when Sergeant Lambert drove in through the rusting iron gates. Chief Inspector Kelsey got out of the car and stood surveying the premises: flaking brickwork, peeling paint, blistered window frames, weeds thrusting up through the concrete surround, rubbish lying about, waste materials none too tidily stacked.
On the door of a small shed-like structure standing apart from the main building the word OFFICE was visible in ancient paint. The Chief knocked on the door. It was opened by an anxious-looking middle-aged woman who gave the two men a rapid, assessing glance.
Kelsey told her who he was and asked if he might have a word with Mr Braithwaite. She vanished into an inner room, returning after some little delay to tell them yes, Mr Braithwaite could spare them a few minutes. She took them through into his office.
Braithwaite stood up from behind a desk strewn with untidy papers. He came round to greet them, shook hands, offered them chairs, instructed his secretary to bring in coffee. A small, slight man, his clothes hanging on him, jacket unbrushed, shirt far from clean, his whole appearance seedy and run-down.
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he inquired when he had resumed his seat. He offered them cigarettes which they refused. He lit one himself and drew on it heavily. The ashtray in front of him was full of savagely crushed-out stubs. He was barely forty, Kelsey judged, but he looked haggard and drawn, on the verge of exhaustion.
Kelsey came straight to the point. They had spoken to a Mr Paul Clayton in connection with inquiries they were making and he had told them in the course of his statement that he had called on Mr Braithwaite last Friday. Could Mr Braithwaite confirm this?
‘Yes, I can,’ Braithwaite answered readily. He didn’t ask what was the nature of the case that had prompted their inquiries but went on at once, unasked, to supply the times of Clayton’s arrival and departure; these coincided exactly with what Clayton had told them. He further added that he was able to be so precise because Clayton himself had mentioned the time when he arrived and when he left.
Kelsey asked if he had seen what vehicle Clayton was driving.
Yes, he had seen it. When Clayton left he had walked out with him to his car. It was clear from his description that it was the car Clayton had shown them on Saturday morning, the dark green runabout.
Kelsey then asked if there was anyone else who could substantiate Clayton’s account.
‘Yes, my secretary,’ Braithwaite told them. Again he volunteered additional information: his secretary was a single woman, without domestic ties, she always stayed on when he worked late. She had spoken to Clayton, had made them some tea.
Straight on cue came a light knock on the door and the secretary entered with a tray of coffee. The Chief put the same questions to her. Her manner was nervous but she gave the same version of events. And yes, she had seen Clayton’s car. She had looked out of the window at the sound of his arrival, not expecting anyone at that time of evening. She had seen him drive up and park. Her description tallied with what Braithwaite had said.
When she had left the room Kelsey changed tack and asked questions about the nature of Braithwaite’s business, the link between himself and Clayton. It seemed that Braithwaite was a manufacturer of heating appliance control equipment and Clayton was one of his suppliers. One of his principal suppliers, he agreed reluctantly after the Chief pressed him on the point. He had known Clayton a good many years, since they were both young men employed by others. ‘We started out on our own at around the same time,’ he added.
Kelsey drank his coffee. ‘Clayton seems to be doing well,’ he observed. Braithwaite gave a nod. ‘Better than you,’ the Chief added bluntly. ‘Judging by appearances.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the dilapidated works, the weeds, the rubbish.
Braithwaite lit another cigarette. ‘Difficult times,’ he said with an attempt at lightness. ‘All this foreign competition. They live on peanuts out there. They’ve got kids of ten making the stuff. We’re supposed to match their labour costs.’ He managed a smile of sorts. ‘But we get through. We have our ups and downs but we stagger along.’ His voice grew firmer. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve got hopes of a very good order. Should hear definitely this week. That’ll set us straight.’
Kelsey drained his cup, refused the offer of a refill. ‘You’re in financial difficulties,’ he said crisply.
Braithwaite uttered a sound of protest. ‘Maybe a temporary difficulty in cashflow. We can’t always get our own customers to pay up promptly. You can’t push them too hard or you risk losing them altogether.’
‘Do you owe Clayton money? Oustanding bills?’
He moved his shoulders. ‘Just the current invoices.’
‘Nothing beyond that?’
There was an appreciable pause.
‘We can always get a squint at your books,’ Kelsey told him.
‘Maybe the last invoice as well,’ Braithwaite conceded.
‘Yes, and the one before that, I’ve no doubt.’ Kelsey struck the desk. ‘The truth is you’re up to your eyes in debt. Clayton could put the squeeze on you, make you bankrupt.’
Braithwaite looked at him with tortured eyes. ‘He’d never do that. We go back too far.’
‘Did Clayton call in here at all last Friday?’
‘Yes, he did,’ Braithwaite answered with force. ‘I swear it.’
‘If he did call in, then it wasn’t just to pass the time of day, to chat about the exhibition, about old times. It was to talk about his money, demand payment, threaten court proceedings.’
Braithwaite sat with lowered gaze, shaking his head.
‘It wouldn’t take much effort on my part to find out,’ Kelsey assured him.
Braithwaite glanced up at him. ‘It doesn’t alter what I told you about last Friday,’ he declared obstinately. ‘Every word of that was the truth. You can check it up hill and down dale. You won’t be able to alter it.’ He stuck absolutely to the times he had given for Clayton. He would be happy to adhere to the same story in court, under oath.
The Chief leaned forward. ‘I put it to you that if Clayton called here at all last Friday it was in the morning, on his way to the exhibition, not in the evening, on his way back.’
Braithwaite gave an emphatic shake of his head. ‘That is not so. He called here in the early evening, as I’ve told you.’
The Chief sat regarding him without speaking. ‘You don’t ask why we’re so interested in what Clayton was doing last Friday evening,’ he said at last.
Braithwaite pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘It’s no business of mine. If you want me to know I dare say you’ll tell me. In any case, I don’t greatly care.’
‘I thought you and Clayton were old mates.’
‘Yes, but only in a strictly business way. I’ve never been to his house or met his family and he’s never met mine. Clayton’s always seemed to me more than capable of looking after himself. I know nothing of his personal life.’
‘Why should you suppose it’s his personal life that interests us? Why shouldn’t it be his business life?’
Braithwaite’s eyes jerked open. ‘His business life?’ he echoed with an air of astonishment. ‘I’d be very surprised at that.’
‘But you wouldn’t be surprised if it was his personal life?’
‘I couldn’t be either surprised or not surprised. I told you, I know nothing about it.’ He moved a hand. ‘He’s not a man I’ve ever thought of as having much of a personal life. As long as I’ve known him he’s always struck me as being wrapped up in business.’
Kelsey changed tack again. ‘When was Clayton last in touch with you?’
Braithwaite eyed him warily. ‘When he called in here on Friday evening.’
‘I’m asking when he last phoned you.’
Braithwaite’s eyes flickered but he said nothing.
‘We had a good long talk with Clayton a couple of days ago,’ Kelsey remarked. ‘That thought might help to clear your mind.’
Braithwaite answered hesitantly, ‘He did phone for a moment on Friday evening.’
‘What time was that?’
Again some hesitation. ‘It was after I got home. It must have been about half past nine, a quarter to ten.’
‘Does he often phone you at home?’
He shook his head.
‘Has he ever phoned you at home before?’
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘Why did he phone?’
Another pause. ‘He said he’d been thinking over what I’d said, particularly about the order I’m expecting. He was willing to give me a bit more time, see if I get the order, before doing anything.’
‘I put it to you,’ the Chief said, ‘that he rang to say he’d be willing to stay court proceedings against you if you agreed to tell the police when they came calling that he was indisputably here last Friday evening between ten minutes to six and six-thirty.’
Braithwaite shook his head with vigour. ‘He said nothing of the kind. You can sit there till Domesday but you won’t get me to say he did.’
A few minutes later as Sergeant Lambert pulled out into the road and turned the car in the direction of Wychford the Chief said, ‘We can scrub Clayton’s alibi, it isn’t worth tuppence.’ He fingered his chin. ‘Clayton’s wife tells us he got home around seven-fifteen on Friday evening. Even if he killed the girl as late as six-thirty, that still gives him time to cover the distance from Overmead Wood and be home by seven-fifteen.’
They arrived at Clayton’s works as the men were breaking off for lunch. The place, by contrast with the factory they had just left, seemed full of energy and bustle. Faces appeared lively, cheerful and good-tempered; there was a general air of order and cleanliness. It was easy to imagine full order books, well turned out products keenly priced.
Clayton was coming out of the main building, talking to a foreman. He broke off at the sight of Kelsey’s car, he came over as Lambert was parking it. He was smartly dressed in a dark grey business suit and white shirt. He seemed in no way disconcerted at this second visitation; he looked alert and energetic, as if he had enjoyed a sound night’s sleep.
He greeted the two policemen in a friendly way. His manner was tightly controlled, poised, he appeared very much in command of himself.
‘One or two points in your statement we’d like to take you over again,’ the Chief told him. ‘It’s best to get them properly cleared up.’
‘By all means.’ Clayton took them across to his office. His secretary was putting on her coat. Clayton introduced her. A markedly competent-looking woman in early middle age, well groomed and well dressed, with a composed, no-nonsense air. Her attitude was detached and professional. She permitted herself no glance of curiosity, no questioning looks. ‘I was just going off to lunch,’ she told Clayton, ‘but I’ll stay if you need me.’ Clayton flicked an inquiring glance at the Chief, who shook his head in reply.
When she had gone Clayton took them into the inner office and sat them down. He took his own seat behind his desk, facing them.
Kelsey at once got down to brass tacks. ‘You told us on Saturday that you had no contact of any kind with Karen Boland after she left her foster parents, the Roscoes, several months ago.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You stand by that?’
‘I do.’
‘You would take your oath on that in court?’
He didn’t falter. ‘I would.’
Kelsey produced the snapshot from his pocket and set it down on the desk in front of Clayton. Clayton glanced down at it. He said nothing, showed no response. He sat very still.
‘Karen went to live at Overmead at the end of July.’ Kelsey stabbed a finger at the photograph. ‘Take a look at those trees, those bushes. The weeds, the grass. That picture was taken in early autumn. Most probably around the end of September.’ He raised a hand as Clayton opened his mouth. ‘To save you the trouble of arguing, we’ve had expert opinion on that.’ Clayton closed his mouth again.
The Chief dipped his hand into his pocket a second time and pulled out the piece of paper Lambert had given him earlier. He set it down beside the photograph. ‘That’s the date you bought your car,’ he said. ‘The car in the snapshot. Two and a half months ago. September 2nd. More than a month after Karen went to live in Jubilee Cottage.’
Still Clayton said nothing.
‘Do you still maintain you had no contact with Karen after she left Wychford?’
Clayton shifted in his chair. He kept his eyes on the photograph, the piece of paper.
‘I didn’t see how I could tell you the truth,’ he said at last. His voice held a note of apology. ‘I was sure you’d try to make something of it. I did see her, but just the once. It wasn’t by arrangement, it was purely by chance.’
He raised his eyes and looked at the Chief. ‘It was one lunchtime, a few weeks back. I was over in Cannonbridge on business. I’d parked my car near the college. I was going back to my car and I saw Karen coming out of the college gates. She saw me and came over. She was very pleased to see me. She was on her way to a snack bar. I went with her and picked up something for us to eat. We went along to the car and I drove a few miles out into the country. We ate the food and talked, that’s all. I asked how she was settling down with her cousin, how she liked the college, that sort of thing. Then I ran her back in time for her afternoon classes.’
‘Did you arrange to see her again?’
He shook his head. ‘We both knew there would be no point in that. Not after all the uproar there’d been.’
‘And the photograph?’
He jerked his head. ‘Oh yes, that was when she took the photograph. She asked if she could take it, to remember me by.’
‘She just happened to have the camera with her?’
He moved his shoulders but said nothing.
‘She’d brought it with her on purpose,’ Kelsey challenged him. ‘It was no chance meeting, it was arranged between you. You were meeting her regularly.’
Clayton shook his head several times, in silence.
‘You were making business calls that day in Cannonbridge?’
He nodded.
Kelsey thrust a finger at the photograph. ‘In jeans? In a striped sweatshirt? I suggest we drop this pantomime. You went on seeing Karen after she left Wychford. And always by arrangement.’