My Name is Michael Sibley Read Free Page A

so, the Inspector opened his briefcase and brought out a buff-coloured folder containing papers. I handed them their drinks.
    “Cheerio,” I said.
    “Good health, sir,” said the Inspector.
    “Cheers,” murmured the Sergeant.
    “It’s just a routine call,” went on the Inspector. “As I said, it’s about the death of Mr. Prosset. You’ve seen it in the papers, I expect.”
    “Yes, I have. I thought you’d call.”
    “Why, sir?” The Inspector looked at me with his hard, pebble eyes.
    “Because I knew him very well. Besides, I’m a newspaper reporter. I know a certain amount about police methods.”
    “Well, that’s an interesting job, I expect, sir. Better paid than ours, too.” He smiled ruefully, and looked across at the Sergeant.
    “I don’t suppose my pension will be as big as yours, even supposing I get one,” I replied. We discussed our different jobs for a few moments. Police officers are easy to get on with. They meet all sorts and classes of people, and are good conversationalists.
    “Well, Mr. Sibley,” said the Inspector at length, “I don’t suppose we’ll keep you very long. I would just like you to tell us what you know of Mr. Prosset. I’d be very grateful, sir.”
    He spoke now in a polite, almost wheedling tone, in striking contrast to the natural harshness of his voice when he was not asking a favour.
    “I’ll tell you all I can.”
    I was on the point of adding that as a matter of fact I had seen Prosset the day before he died, and had been at Ockleton with him. In fact, I was looking forward in a mild sort of way to the look of interest on the Inspector’s face when I should tell him. But although the words were on the tip of my tongue, the Inspector spoke again before I could get them out. I didn’t mind. I thought they would sound even more dramatic a little later.
    He said, “I don’t suppose you mind if the Sergeant takes a few notes?”
    “Of course not.” I smiled at them. They smiled back.
    “Well, let’s start right at the beginning. That’s always the easiest way, sir. What are your full names, Mr. Sibley?”
    “Michael Sibley.”
    “And you are a journalist? What paper, if I may ask, just so we can give you a tinkle about anything during the daytime?”
    I gave him my office address and a few more personal particulars. “And how long have you known Mr. Prosset, sir?”
    “About fifteen years, off and on. We were at school together.”
    “Were you, indeed? Well, we’re in luck. I expect you know all about him.”
    “I know him fairly well,” I said.
    “Only fairly well? I see, sir. I thought you said when we came in that you knew him very well.”
    “Well, I did, in a way. I knew him very well at school. But I haven’t seen an awful lot of him since then. Not an awful lot.”
    The Inspector nodded.
    “Well, it’s a pity in a way,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “Well, sir, no offence of course, but you’re a newspaper man—” He paused and looked at me hesitantly.
    “You can talk off the record.”
    “Have I your word for that, sir?”
    “You have. Definitely.”
    He looked at me again carefully. He seemed reassured by my promise.
    “Well, then, between ourselves, sir, it’s not quite as straightforward as people think.”
    “What do you mean? What isn’t straightforward?”
    “Well, Mr. Prosset had head injuries, for one thing.”
    “From falling beams or something?”
    “No, sir. He was found in rather a protected position, as a matter of fact, with his head under the kitchen table. He hadn’t been injured by beams or falling masonry. And there were traces of petrol. See what I mean? What’s more, although the whisky bottle contained the remains of pure whisky, there was a good percentage of water in the remains in the beer bottles, sir. You might almost think they had been brought in from the pile at the back of the house to give the wrong idea.”
    I stared at him. “You mean he was killed? Murdered?”
    “I didn’t say that,