Not Dead Yet

suit and even flashier tie stood there. Next to him was a rather plain-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with tangled brown hair, wearing a white blouse, black trousers and utilitarian black shoes.
    ‘Good afternoon!’ he said. He could feel beads of sweat popping on his brow. Police always had that effect on him. He noticed the male officer peering down at his feet for a moment.
    ‘Eric Whiteley?’ The man produced a warrant card. ‘I’m Acting Detective Inspector Branson and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Moy. Thank you for taking the time to talk to us.’
    Eric studied his warrant card for some moments because he felt he should, to look like he was taking this meeting seriously. Then he said, expansively, ‘Please have a seat. Can I offer you any refreshments?’
    ‘Thank you,’ the Acting DI said. ‘We’ve already been looked after.’
    ‘Good!’ Eric said. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it!’
    He noticed a quick exchange of glances between the two officers. The two detectives sat on one side of the table, with their backs to the window with its view out across the Pavilion grounds, and he sat opposite them. Immediately he realized he was in a bad position, because the strong afternoon light from the brilliant blue sky was directly behind them, making it hard to see their faces clearly.
    He felt intimidated. Like sitting in front of two school bullies. ‘Erm, I don’t suppose you’ve come about my bicycle?’
    Both of them looked at him strangely. ‘Bicycle?’ the woman said.
    ‘I had it stolen from outside – a long time ago now. The bastards cut through the padlock.’
    ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Branson said. ‘That would be local uniform or CID – we’re from the Major Crime Branch.’
    ‘Ah.’ Eric nodded approvingly.
    The detective was staring very hard at his face, eyeball to eyeball, which made Eric feel even more uncomfortable. As if at any moment he was about to say Ubu! Useless, Boring, Ugly! Instead he said,‘Mr Whiteley, we’re making enquiries regarding the murder of an as yet unidentified body. The torso which was found at—’
    ‘Stonery Farm?’ Eric interrupted.
    ‘Yes,’ Bella Moy said.
    ‘Correct,’ Branson confirmed. ‘There were also body parts which belong to this same body recovered from the West Sussex Piscatorial Society trout lake near Henfield.’
    Eric nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I thought you’d be getting round to me eventually!’ He gave a nervous laugh, but neither detective smiled.
    ‘How long have you worked here, Mr Whiteley?’ Glenn Branson asked.
    He thought for a moment. ‘At Feline Bradley-Hamilton? Twenty-two years. Well, it will be twenty-three in November.’
    ‘And what exactly is your role here?’
    ‘I do company audits, mostly.’
    The detective was still eyeballing him, without blinking. ‘Would I be correct in saying you carried out the audits this year on Stonery Farm and on the West Sussex Piscatorial Society?’
    ‘Something fishy about the West Sussex Piscatorial Society, is there, Detective?’ He giggled nervously at his joke.
    Neither of them smiled, which made him even more nervous.
    ‘Nothing fishy at all, Mr Whiteley,’ he replied, levelly. ‘Could you tell us how long you have been auditing these two?’
    Whiteley thought for some moments. ‘Well, some years.’ He looked down. He was feeling increasingly intimidated. ‘Yes. Ten years, at least. I can check if you would like? With Stonery Farm I could tell you egg-zactly!’ He giggled again, and was met with stony glares.
    ‘We’re investigating a murder, Mr Whiteley,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘I’m afraid we don’t quite share your humour on this. Have you ever been to the premises of Stonery Farm, Mr Whiteley?’
    ‘Every year. I do some of the accounts work on site.’
    ‘And you’ve been to the West Sussex Piscatorial Society trout lake?’
    ‘Only once, just to familiarize myself with the location – it’s the club’s main asset. But I carry out the audit work for the club here – it’s very straightforward.’
    ‘Does anyone else from this firm accompany you when you audit Stonery Farm?’
    He shook his head. ‘No, I get on very well with Mr Winter, the owner; it’s a job for one person, really.’ His armpits were damp. He was sweating profusely now and still could not see their faces clearly. He wanted to get back to his office, to his solitude and his lunch and his newspaper. ‘This murder is a terrible thing,’ he went on.