A Twist in the Tale Read online

  An inquest will be held on April 19.

  Miss Moorland’s daily, Maria Lucia (48), said—exclusively to the Express—that her employer had been with a man friend when she had left the flat at five o’clock on the night in question. A neighbor, 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 newsagent’s 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 the office even before my wife had woken. 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 had to say. I found the number needed 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 dialed 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’ 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.

  * * *

  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 open 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 shareholders a dividend that year.

  I came away from the meeting relieved, almost elated. 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 I was now able to go for a whole day without fear entering my mind. Strangely, I felt no guilt about Menzies’ 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 26—I shall never forget it—that I received a letter which 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 be involved, I knew I wouldn’t