Ahead of his Time by Adrian Cousins (read novels website .TXT) 📗

“All students taking the two-year Pitman secretarial training. We have three classes that regularly use them as part of their education.”

“Who else would use them?”

“No one. The only other typewriter is in the school office, which Miss Colman, my secretary, uses. I’m certain that’s a different model, and she’s the only other person who requires the use of a typewriter.”

“Please can you arrange for a list of names to be prepared of the students taking the Pitman course?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll ask Miss Colman to pull that together today for you.”

“Yes please, sir. I’ll get an officer to collect it later this afternoon.”

DI Roberts interjected. “As we discussed earlier, we’ll return at four-thirty this afternoon with a forensic officer. We will need to look at each typewriter, so we’ll collect the list then.”

“I think that will do for now. Obviously, as stated, this is in the strictest confidence, and we’ll return later as discussed.” DI Litchfield stood and shook Roy’s hand and turned to shake mine, his grey eyes boring into my head. I was convinced he could see into my brain and the big guilty sign that was waving at him from behind my eyes.

DI Roberts opened the door and stood waiting for his colleague as Miss Colman fell in. I guess she was leaning against the door as it was yanked open. She recovered herself by grabbing the bookcase, although her face was burning bright with embarrassment. A wisp of hair had escaped her perfectly formed bun and now hung over her left eye, which she blew out of the way only for it to drop back again.

“Oh … Mr Apsley, hum … err…. your interview is here waiting,” she babbled and blushed even brighter as she grabbed the errant wisp of hair, trying to persuade it to return to its allotted position.

“Thank you, Miss Colman. Can you show these gentlemen out, please?” replied Roy, oblivious that his secretary had been clearly caught in the act of snooping.

The two detectives brushed past Miss Colman, although DI Litchfield turned back to look at Roy and then me. “Are any of the students in the secretarial classes male?”

“Good grief, no! Being a secretary is not a man’s job. Why on earth would you suggest that?” Roy fired back. If ever I needed reminding that I was living forty-years in the past, Roy had just delivered it.

DI Litchfield smiled. Although Roy had asked the question, he looked at me. “Males tend to hit the keys harder, making a deeper indent on the paper,” he replied, as I flushed bright-red … again.

11

Magaluf

The two interviews were conducted as requested by Roy. The process in this era was very different from my previous interviewing experience in 2019. With no computers or internet, the applications consisted of a typed covering letter and the candidate’s CV. Disappointingly, I couldn’t trawl through Facebook to look up their profiles and see what misdemeanours they’d got up to in their social lives.

Back in my days as Sales Executive for Waddington Steel, that was always the part which I used to find the most entertaining. Having a candidate sitting across the desk looking all professional, when only a few minutes ago, I’d spotted a cringe-worthy picture of them when pissed in a night club or trying to set light to their farts as they bent double with a cigarette lighter between their legs.

I recalled interviewing Martin about eight years back; well … eight years back from 2019 and not 1977. He arrived well-turned out in a smart new suit, sitting ramrod straight, although slightly nervous. A few moments earlier, I’d trawled through his Facebook account which, unfortunately for him, had very low-security settings. I was able to access many of his holiday posts which showed Martin and a group of his mates during pissed-up nights in Magaluf.

One picture had caught my eye, showing whom I presumed was Martin performing a selfie with a girl who’d won the Miss Wet T-shirt competition. He had a bottle of beer in one hand, his other draped over her shoulder, and his tongue poked out at one very visible nipple straining against the wet t-shirt.

I remember having that picture in my mind as Martin recounted his hobbies were supporting community projects, reading, and occasionally socialising with friends. He didn’t mention drunken nights out and nipple-licking of equally drunk girls.

With the entertainment mounting, I was intrigued to hear more about his involvement in the local community. Very noble, I thought. Indeed this would demonstrate there was a certain level of maturity, despite the nipple-licking event. Martin talked through how he often supported his local healthcare centre by providing transport for the elderly to attend appointments and collect and deliver prescriptions. Yes, very noble.

As he was from the generation who daily posted their life story on Facebook, and it appeared in his case to be hourly, I was surprised I could only see one Facebook entry about his community work. That entry I recalled was him moaning about having to fumigate his car after reluctantly agreeing to take his mother’s neighbour up to the Health Centre, as the usual ride had let the old-boy down at the last minute. The picture he’d posted was of him with a plastic peg on his nose whilst wiping the car seat. The caption read, ‘Aftermath of taking that piss-reeking old codger in my car. Never again!’

Although at the time I was concerned about his moral compass, I did, however, offer the job to Martin. It was a junior role, and we all have to start somewhere, I thought. The other plus point, or actually less negative, was his dodgy Facebook entries were less offensive than most other candidates. The world had moved on in those eight years. Martin had matured, which wouldn't have been difficult based on the low point he was starting from. He’d married, become very competent at his job, and now had followed