A Genuine Mistake by Ted Tayler (best life changing books .txt) 📕

the hallway and didn’t keep him hanging around. They buzzed him straight through.

“Good morning, DS Davis,” said Nick Barrett. “I’ve been considering what you asked for on the phone. I need to put on my thinking cap, don’t I? You realise that asking a chap to cast his mind back thirty years to one particular night is a chore?”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, sir,” said Neil. “We need to check that none of the nights Gerry Hogan spent in someone else’s bed didn’t lead to his murder. After we’ve done that, we can move on to another period in his life to search for what provoked the actions of the man on the doorstep.”

“I can see the logic behind that, DS Davis,” said Nick Barrett. “If only it were elementary.”

“Why not start from when you landed in Australia, sir,” said Neil. “Or did Gerry Hogan join the Mile High Club on the flight from Singapore?”

“Gerry and I both spent most of that journey sleeping,” said Nick. “After we landed in Darwin, we stayed up as late as we could before crashing at our digs and didn’t venture far until we got acclimatised.”

“Jet lag?” asked Neil.

“Everybody reacts differently,” said Nick. “We started setting our body clock to our destination time a day or two before we drove to Heathrow. We cut out the alcohol, drank plenty of water, ate in moderation, and slept between London and Singapore when we could. After the flight delay that I mentioned, we were too tired to stick to the system. I was asleep before the safety checks.”

“So, you spent the first few days in the city?”

“You won’t remember Cyclone Tracy. It was before you were born,” said Nick. “That cyclone flattened Darwin back in 1974. So, when we got there in 1981, they hadn’t long finished rebuilding it. The city itself isn’t much to write home about, but the nearby attractions more than compensate. One of the early trips we made was to a local cove where we saw our first saltwater crocodiles. That was an experience for two lads from Bradford-on-Avon, I can tell you. We travelled to and from the cove in a combi-van. I soon lost count of the number of trips we made in one of those. There were six of us altogether, plus our driver. Gerry and me, a guy from Cardiff and his girlfriend from our digs, plus two girls we collected from a hostel half a mile away.”

“It didn’t take long for Gerry to score after he recovered from jet lag, then?” said Neil.

“That was typical of Gerry. We spent the day at the cove, and when we made the return journey, he sat next to the prettiest girl of the pair. The other girl sat in the spare seat next to the driver. I knew it would not be my lucky day. Gerry persuaded the girls to join us for a drink in the Victoria Hotel. They had finished rebuilding that place four years earlier. The Vic was an institution in Darwin, one of its oldest watering-holes. The food was excellent too. We had showered, changed, and reached the bar at eight. The girls didn’t make it until nine.”

“The other girl was reluctant,” said Neil. “I remember that experience. Can you remember their names or where they came from?”

“What I remember most was that they were on the last leg of their trip. Those two girls flew out of Darwin two days after we met. Although nothing happened for me on that brief encounter, it was great to meet them. They had been to Uluru, Alice Springs, the Great Barrier Reef, Sydney, and a couple more places we had on our wish list. I spent the evening asking Bronwen where the best hostels were and which tourist spots were worth visiting. Gerry and Cat left us to visit another well-known bar on Cavanaugh Street. We never saw them again before closing time. I walked Bronwen back to their hostel; she shook my hand and dashed inside. I was tipsy and staggered the half-mile to our digs and fell asleep without getting undressed. Gerry was in the other bed when I woke up, but I had no clue what time he’d got in.”

“Bronwen and Cat,” said Neil, “where were they from, can you remember?”

“Bronwen came from a seaside resort near Tenby,” said Nick. “Her accent was stronger than the couple from Cardiff. Bronwen didn’t recognise them as Welsh, anyway. She termed them as quasi-English and ignored them while we were at the cove. Bronwen’s family spoke Welsh and went to chapel every Sunday. No wonder I only got a handshake.”

Neil wasn’t that interested in the Nick Barrett side of the story. He was interested in Gerry Hogan’s companion that night.

“What about Bronwen’s friend, Cat?” Neil asked. “Was she from the same part of Wales?”

“No, not a bit,” said Nick. “Her accent was bland, not a regional one that you immediately recognise. Cat’s voice wasn’t posh, though, just neutral. Before I heard her speak, I guessed her name was Myfanwy, Megan, or another Welsh favourite. She wore a t-shirt with a kitten on the front and shorts.”

“If they travelled together, surely Bronwen must have mentioned Cat’s real name and where she lived?”

“I don’t think they’d met before they got on the plane, DS Davis. Two young girls, early twenties, on the adventure of a lifetime. Sensible enough not to risk travelling alone. We didn’t see them after that night. We were planning to move on, and they were getting ready for the long flight back to Blighty.”

“Did Gerry say what happened that night?” asked Neil.

“I asked what time he got in. Gerry gave a big grin and went for a shower. I told your boss the other day, Gerry didn’t elaborate on any of his conquests.”

“So he