Free The Strange Attractor by Desmond Cory

inquiries Jackson had incarcerated him in his study. Pontin found him there, slumped down in his chair at the computer desk; in the grip of some powerful nervous reaction, he was snoring faintly. Pontin shook him briskly by the shoulder, resting his burly frame against the desk; the desk creaked ominously in protest. This complaint Pontin ignored.
    “Just a little chat, sir, if you don’t mind, Detective-Superintendent Pontin.”
    He fixed Dobie with what would have been a cold and level inquisitorial stare if the light from the Anglepoise above the desk hadn’t been so strong as to make him blink uncontrollably, causing him to resemble a barn owl repressing a sneezing fit. “… Yes, we’ve met before, I rather fancy. Can’t remember what it was I sent you down for, but I never forget a face. And yours is familiar. Very familiar.”
    What he had in fact for the moment forgotten was Dobie’s name. It was a standing grievance with Pontin that the criminals with whom he customarily dealt never had readily memorable names, like Featherstonehaugh or Pontefract. It didn’t matter. It would come back to him. “Wait a second now. Don’t tell me… Shoplifting , that was it, I recall it distinctly. Tacey’s Stores? Ladies’ knickers? In 1982, wasn’t it? I never forget—”
    “It was the day before yesterday, actually. At the police station.”
    “At the… What were you nabbed for?”
    “Nothing. I came in to ask you about Sammy Cantwell.”
    “What’s that got to do with it?”
    “Nothing. That’s where you saw me before.”
    Pontin decided to change tack, as was his frequent strategy when dealing with a slippery witness. Leaning in a confidential manner towards his victim, he adopted an altogether more insidious, avuncular tone. “Now see here, Mr um ah. I think I should tell you that we’ve managed to locate the murder weapon. And doubtless there’ll be prints. Oh yes, we’re pretty sure we’ll find plenty of prints. And bearing that in mind, you may feel you’d be well advised to run through your story with me once again. Just for my benefit. Possibly we’ll find that you explained it all to Inspector Jackson a little too hurriedly, see? And there may even be a few little points where you’d like to change your… Just a few little… Wake up , will you?”
    “Eh?” Dobie said. “Oh yes. I’m sorry. I really have had a very tiring day.”
    “I’m quite sure you have and what I want to know is , what that lady is doing without any clothes on in your bedroom.”
    Dobie yawned. “I think it’s the gas fire. It makes me doze off.”
    Pontin began to speak very slowly and distinctly, in a way that reminded Dobie acutely of Jane herself. “I want. To know. What that lady. Is doing. In the bedroom.”
    “Oh yes. You mean Jane. She isn’t doing anything. She’s dead.”
    “Ah.” Pontin leapt at once upon the cogent point. “Then you admit. That you know. Who she is?”
    Dobie, having yawned cavernously again, began to show some signs of making a spirited recovery. “Jane? Of course I know Jane. I’ve known her for years. She’s probably my wife’s best friend.”
    “Then what made you. Decide. To kill her. Sir?”
    Dobie saw the trap in time. “Beg pardon?” he said.
    “Someone.” Pontin executed a chopping motion with his right hand. “Bopter. An accident, perhaps. Was it?”
    “Good heavens, no, I didn’t kill her. She wasn’t killed here , you know.”
    “Not here?”
    “No. It was over in her house, I saw how it happened. Didn’t that other chap tell you? Earlier this… There was this burglar with a hat and a raincoat and then he must have brought her over here and put her in my bedroom but I didn’t see her because I had this headache and it wasn’t until I thought I’d better have an aspirin that I went to get it, you see.”
    Throughout this account Pontin had slid himself slowly back along the full length of the desk, his attitude, moreover, undergoing another subtle