Read Shooting Elvis for Free Online Page A

until we closed in October 1998. Twenty-nine years. Alf started before me and retired about 1996, I think, so I must have known him for, what, twenty-seven years?’
    I took his word for it. All those dates were making my head buzz. I glanced down at his feet and noticed that he wasn’t wearing bicycle clips. Very suspicious.
    ‘Can we sit down somewhere, please?’ Dave asked. ‘We still have a few more questions to ask.’
    Smallwood looked uncomfortable and pulled the door closed. ‘Um, yes,’ he replied. ‘We can sit round there.’
    He led us round the corner to where a hardwood table and two chairs stood on a small patio. He took one chair, me the other, and Dave perched on the corner of a low wall that enclosed a rockery. The sun was shining and a peacock butterfly settled on a sedum plant, flicking its wings closed then slowly lowering them in some ritual designed to repel predators. A glass of lager would have gone down well, but Smallwood wasn’t offering. His helmet was one of those streamlined ones that project at the back. It said JetPro on the side, and was fastened with a clasp under his chin.
    ‘Did Mr Armitage have any special friends at Ellis and Newbold’s?’ Dave was asking. A blue tit landed on the fence, looked at us and flew off in ahuff. Someone nearby was cooking bacon.
    Alfred, it appeared, was an insular sod who never spoke to anybody if he could help it.
    ‘So why did Ellis and Newbold’s close after all those years?’
    Smallwood shuffled in his seat. ‘Various reasons,’ he replied. ‘Cheap imports from the Far East. To start with they were counterfeiting our products, right down to the packaging. Mr Newbold tried to take action: spoke with the Department of Trade; various politicians; but to no avail. Then they started to undercut us on the open market. There’s not much you can do about that.’
    ‘Was there ever any suspicion of any irregularities at the factory?’ Dave asked.
    ‘Irregularities? What do you mean: irregularities?’
    ‘You tell me. I’m not an accountant, but it occurs to me that Mr Newbold could have been siphoning off excess profits, or Alfred could have been diverting valuable non-ferrous metal to friends in the scrap trade. In your position as chief accountant did you ever suspect anything like that?’
    Negative. The firm had gone into steady decline, caused by unfair competition, and, in spite of attempts to diversify, the writing had been on the wall for the final few years. Say it, Dave, I thought. Ask him if he had his neatly manicured fingers in the till. Instead he asked for the names of other workers at the factory, and Smallwood offered tomake a comprehensive list over the weekend.
    ‘Anything to add, Chas?’ he asked, turning to me.
    ‘No,’ I replied in my best bedside voice. ‘I think you covered everything. Thanks for your cooperation, Mr Smallwood, and we apologise for disturbing you.’ I rose to my feet and they did the same, Dave brushing a hand across the seat of his pants.
    As we walked round to the front I said, ‘I take it you’re a keen cyclist, Mr Smallwood.’
    He shook his head and looked puzzled. ‘A cyclist? No. What made you think that?’
    ‘Oh, sorry. The helmet. I assumed you were about to go for a ride. It’s a lovely day for one.’
    He reached up and touched the helmet. ‘Oh, this. No, I wear it for medical reasons.’
    ‘Medical reasons?’ I echoed, instantly regretting the incredulity in my voice.
    ‘Yes. The hospital suggested I wear one. I had a scan a few years ago and they discovered that my skull is paper-thin. Thinner than an egg shell. Any simple knock could prove fatal.’
    I hoped I wasn’t smiling as I asked, ‘And they suggested you wear it all the time?’
    ‘Well, actually, I asked if it would be a good idea and they said it would.’
    I wanted to know more but couldn’t trust myself. Dave does deadpan better than me. I heard him say, ‘What do you do at night? If you fell out of bed