Part 4 (2/2)
”I'm sure we will,” Francis said.
It seemed to me that his mind was away on some other great project or problem. He sounded so disinterested.
MURDER. It was the banner scored big and bold across all the street corner newspaper placards, most often garnished with adjectives such as foul, brutal, and insane. The vendors shouted the word in endless repet.i.tion, their scarves hanging loosely from their necks as if to give their throats the freedom necessary for such intemperate volume. They waved their lurid journals in the air like some flag of disaster to catch the attention of the hapless pedestrians.
Francis scowled at them all as we drove back to the police station just before lunchtime. The road seemed busier than usual, with horse-drawn carriages and carts jostling for s.p.a.ce with cars. Since the law banning combustion engines, electric vehicles were growing larger with each new model; the newest ones were easily recognizable, with six wheels supporting long bonnets that contained ranks of heavy batteries.
”Those newspapers are utter beasts,” he muttered. ”Did you hear, we've had to move Justin's parents from their home so they might grieve in peace? Some reporter tried to pretend he was a relative so he could get inside for an interview. Must be a Short. What is the world degenerating into?”
When we arrived at the station it was besieged with reporters. Flashbulbs hissed and fizzled at everyone who hurried in or out of the building. Somehow Francis's angry dignity managed to clear a path through the rabble. Not that we escaped unphotographed, or unquestioned. The impertinence of some was disgraceful, shouting questions and comments at me as if I were some circus animal fit only to be provoked. I wished we could have taken our own photographs in turn, collecting their names to have them hauled before their senior editors for censure.
It was only after I got inside that I realized our family must have interests in several of the news agencies involved. Commerce had become the driving force here, overriding simple manners and decency.
We were shown directly to Gareth Alan Pitchford's office. He had the Venetian blinds drawn, restricting the sunlight and, more importantly, the reporters' view inside. Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar was already there. He wore the same smart suit and s.h.i.+rt that he'd had on for the interviews. I wondered if he'd been here the whole time, and if we'd made a tactical error by allowing him such freedom. I judged Francis was making the same calculation.
The detective bade us sit, and had one of his secretaries bring round a tray with fresh coffee.
”You saw the press pack outside,” he said glumly. ”I've had to a.s.sign officers to escort Justin's friends.”
”I think we had better have a word,” Francis said to Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar. ”The editors can be relied upon to exert some restraint.”
Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar's smile lacked optimism. ”Let us hope so.”
”What progress?” I inquired of the detective.
His mood sank further. ”A long list of negatives, I'm afraid. I believe it's called the elimination process. Unfortunately, we're eliminating down to just about nothing. My team is currently piecing together the movements of all the students at Dunbar preceding the murder, but it's not a promising avenue of approach. There always seems to be several people in the corridor outside Mr. Raleigh's room. If anyone had come out, they would have been seen. The murderer most likely did use the window as an exit. Forensic is going over the wisteria creeper outside, but they don't believe it to be very promising.”
”What about footprints in the snow directly underneath the window?”
”The students have been larking about in the quad for days. They even had a small football game during that afternoon, until the lodgekeepers broke it up. The whole area has been well trampled down.”
”What about someone going into the room?” Francis asked. ”Did the students see that?”
”Even more peculiar,” the detective admitted. ”We have no witness of anyone other than Mr. Raleigh going in.”
”He was definitely seen going in, then?” I asked.
”Oh yes. He chatted to a few people in the college on his way up to his room. As far as we can determine, he went inside at about ten past ten. That was the last anyone saw him alive.”
”Did he say anything significant to any of those people he talked to? Was he expecting a guest?”
”No. It was just a few simple greetings to his college mates, nothing more. Presumably the murderer was waiting for him.”
”Justin would have kept those windows closed yesterday,” I said. ”It was freezing all day. And if the latch was down, they'd be very difficult to open from the outside, especially by anyone clinging to the creeper. I'm sure a professional criminal could have done it, but not many others.”
”I concur,” Francis said. ”It all points to someone he knew. And knew well enough to open a window for them to get in.”
”That's a very wild a.s.sumption,” Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar said. ”Someone could simply have gone to his room hours earlier and waited for him. There would have been several opportunities during the day when there was n.o.body in that corridor outside. I for one refuse to believe it was in use for every second of every minute during the entire afternoon and evening.”
”The method of entry isn't too relevant at this time,” the detective said. ”We still have absolutely no motive for the crime.” I resisted giving Francis a glance. I have to say I considered the method of entry to be extremely relevant. A professional break-in opened up all sorts of avenues. As did Justin opening the window for a friend.
”Very well,” Francis said levelly. ”What is your next step?”
”Validating the alibis of his closest friends. Once I'm satisfied that they are all telling the truth, then we'll get them back in for more extensive interviews. They knew him best, and one of them may know something without realizing it. We need to review Mr. Raleigh's past week, then month. Six months if that's what it takes. The motive will be there somewhere. Once we have that, we have the murderer. How they got in and out ceases to be an issue.”
”I thought all the alibis were secure, apart from Maloney's,” Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar said.
”Maloney's can probably be confirmed by his professor,” the detective said. ”One of my senior detectives is going out to the chemistry laboratory right away. Which leaves Antony Caesar Pitt with the alibi most difficult to confirm. I'm going to the Westhay Club myself to see if it can be corroborated.”
”I'd like to come with you,” I said.
”Of course.”
”I'll go to the chemistry laboratory, if you don't mind,” Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar said. Louche (??), I thought. We swapped the briefest of grins.
Unless you knew exactly where to go, you'd never be able to locate the Westhay. Norfolk Street was an older part of Oxford, with buildings no more than three or four stories. Its streetlights were still gas, rather than the sharp electric bulbs prevalent through most of the city. The shops and businesses catered for the lower end of the market, while most of the houses had been split into multiple apartments, shared by students from minor families, and young manual workers. I could see that it would be redeveloped within fifty years. The area's relative lack of wealth combined with the ever- rising urban density pressure made that outcome inevitable.
The Westhay's entrance was a wooden door set between a bicycle shop and bakery. A small plaque on the wall was the only indication it existed.
Gareth Alan Pitchford knocked loudly and persistently until a man pulled back a number of bolts and thrust an unshaven face round the side. It turned out he was the manager. His belligerence was washed away by the detective's badge, and we were reluctantly allowed inside.
The club itself was upstairs, a single large room with bare floorboards, its size decrying a grander purpose in days long gone. A line of high windows had their shutters thrown back, allowing broad beams of low winter sunlight to s.h.i.+ne in through the grimy, cracked gla.s.s. Furniture consisted of st.u.r.dy wooden chairs and tables, devoid of embellishments like cus.h.i.+oning. The bar ran the length of one wall, with beer bottles stacked six deep on the mirrored shelving behind. A plethora of gaudy labels advertised brands which I'd never heard of before. In front of the bar, an old woman with a tight bun of iron-gray hair was sweeping the floor without visible enthusiasm. She gave us the most fleeting of glances when we came in, not even slowing her strokes.
The detective and the manager began a loud argument about the card game of the previous evening, whether it ever existed and who was taking part. Gareth Alan Pitchford was pressing hard for names, issuing threats of the city licensing board, and immediate arrest for the suspected withholding of information, in order to gain a degree of compliance.
I looked at the cleaning woman again, recalling one of my lectures at the investigatory course: a line about discovering all you need to know about people from what you find in their rubbish. She brushed the pile of dust she'd accrued into a tin pan, and walked out through a door at the back of the bar. I followed her, just in time to see her tip the pan into a large corrugated metal bin. She banged the lid down on top.
”Is that where all the litter goes?” I asked.
She gave me a surprised nod.
”When was it emptied last?”
'Two days ago,” she grunted, clearly thinking I was mad.
I opened my attache case, and pulled on some gloves. Fortunately the bin was only a quarter full. I rummaged round through the filthy debris it contained. It took me a while sifting through, but in among the cellophane wrappers, crumpled paper, mashed cigarettes ends, shards of broken gla.s.s, soggy beer mats, and other repellent items, I found a well-chewed cigar b.u.t.t. I sniffed tentatively at it. Not that I'm an expert, but to me it smelled very similar to the one which Antony Caesar Pitt had lit in the interview room. I dabbed at it with a forefinger. The mangled brown leaves were still damp.
I dropped the cigar into one of my plastic bags, and stripped my gloves off. When I returned to the club's main room, Gareth Alan Pitchford was writing names into his notebook; while the manager wore the countenance of a badly frightened man.
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