CRIME IN THE COLLEGE
There was something about an Oxford winter that got right into your bones, Bill Knowles told himself as he leaned gingerly against the wall at the bottom of staircase eleven in Sherwin College. The stonework was so clammy with condensation and damp that it was no wonder the students had runny noses whenever he clapped eyes on them.
Not that too many students were left in college on that Saturday 12 December, most having made tracks as soon as term finished the previous weekend. They had that many bleeding holidays, it was a wonder they did any work at all, he reflected sourly.
And now the sodding Projects Manager had dragged him in at the weekend to investigate dry rot. As if it couldn’t have waited till after Christmas. The wife was livid he couldn’t take her shopping at the Westgate, so he’d be in the doghouse till god knew when. The only upside was he didn’t have to face her gobby mother and sister (aka the Gruesome Twosome) and listen to them moaning on about men being a waste of space. It was a wonder to him that the poor bastards they married hadn’t done a runner long ago.
Mind, at least the Westgate was nice and warm, he thought irritably as a rheumatic twinge made him wince. Whereas even in summer Sherwin College always felt arctic, especially the older buildings. The gawping tourists oohed and aahed about its “charm” and “character”, but as far as he was concerned you could stick all that Olde English bollocks. Give me central heating and decent carpets any day, he thought crossly, ’stead of all this mouldering heritage malarkey.
He felt even crosser as tantalizing smells suggestive of a roast dinner wafted across the quadrangle from Hall. Looked like those coppers down for the police conference were going to have a slap-up feed after a morning banging on about firearms or statistics or whatever the hell it was they were debating today. He could feel his mouth watering at the thought.
As for him, well he’d be lucky to get some curled-up sandwiches and cold tea knowing the skinflint Head Porter. Nothing too much trouble for the boys in blue, but it’d be slim pickings for anyone else.
And anyway, he thought with a fresh surge of resentment, he wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to do about the dry rot. It wasn’t as if they were going to fork out for a new staircase. More like, they’d expect him to do some sort of bodge job on the cheap – shore up any dodgy timbers and make sure it wasn’t a death-trap.
He was willing to bet the Bursar and Fellows didn’t even know about this. It was just another bright idea of snot-nosed ‘Johnny Clipboard’ desperate to impress the Principal.
Bill sighed gustily, watching his breath spiral into the freezing air of the staircase. Trying to put off the evil hour when he would have to poke around in the exposed crawl space under the wooden staircase, he peered out into the quadrangle.
Although it was only early afternoon, the light was already starting to fade and third quad, as it was called, was wreathed in a vaporous mist that made Bill think of ghosts and graveyards. No lights shone from any of the rooms that overlooked the courtyard, since the conference guests were accommodated mainly in second quad and would anyway now be piling into the Great Hall which formed one side of the courtyard.
There was something unsettling about a day like this. Something about the swirling fog which made him think of childhood stories about creatures that changed their shape and size and slid along the eaves of ancient buildings before vanishing into the murk.
Altogether it was a mournful prospect and he shivered, suddenly craving the bright lights and hubbub of the Westgate…. even the maddening inanities of his womenfolk as they bickered over Christmas bargains.
As he stood there, the college librarian appeared on the other side of the quad and began walking towards the little alleyway that led to second quad and the Great Hall. Eerily, she looked for all the world like a sleepwalker, swimming in a milky sea as though skimming through his dreams.
Bill felt a sudden irrational wish for snow instead of fog. Proper picture-postcard crunchy snow with the footprints of the college population etched into the white like some pristine code that only the initiated could read.
Yeah, give me snow any day, he thought. That’s what you want before Christmas, not this nasty cotton wool stuff that gets in your lungs like you’re choking…. or drowning.
He gave himself a shake.
No way did he want to be stuck on this staircase once it was properly dark. Even with all these coppers around, it still felt uncanny. Better dig around that crawl space and work out what was amiss. With any luck, repairs would keep till after the holidays….
Twenty minutes later, Bill sank back on his haunches wiping sweat, dust and cobwebs off his face.
He’d transferred most of the rubble to a waiting wheelbarrow, so that he could take a closer look at the wooden struts, but there remained a stubborn patch of what appeared to be debris mixed with tar and other builder’s sludge. First off, he needed to chisel off what he could with a pickaxe….
Chiselling completed, he reached for a spade and set to with a will.
Then suddenly recoiled.
That’s all he needed. Some moggy or other poor animal must’ve got trapped and ended up with a barrowload of debris dumped on top….
As he turned over another spadeful, Bill’s bowels turned to water.
There were too many bones for a cat or rodent.
Despite the cold of the staircase, he suddenly felt burning hot.
There were lots of delicate bones…. looked like they belonged to a hand…. what did they call them, phalanges or metacarpals…?
Easy, fella, he told himself, mindful of his dicky ticker. Easy.
With these places – centuries-old in parts – who knew what might turn up. There were prob’ly monks and peasants and whatnot buried hereabouts, just like folk had come across in other colleges.
Deep down, though, Bill failed to convince himself. The builders were bound to have turned up anything like that – any remains – when the staircase was overhauled in 2000…. Even though it was twenty years ago, apparently the university had strict rules about that kind of thing. Mister clever dick Projects Manager had impressed it upon him from the outset, like he fancied himself George Clarke or one of them lah-di-dah archaeologist types. ‘Anything like that, Bill, everything stops and we notify the relevant authorities tout de suite.’
Tout de fucking suite.
That poncy phrase just about summed up why he hated the affected little git.
But there was no getting away from it.
Any bones couldn’t be from medieval types cos they’d have turned them in way back in 2000. And then, like as not, they’d have ended up under glass at the Reynolds Museum.
A fine example of a displaced Tudor burial….
He didn’t watch Time Team for nothing.
Bill was starting to feel light-headed.
C’mon, he urged himself. Just dig it up and chuck whatever you find in the wheelbarrow. Leave it to mister clever dick to sort out the rest.
The spade had closed on something hard and substantial.
He steeled himself.
What emerged from the sludge was a skull.
Unmistakeably a human cranium.
Afterwards, Bill couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t had a coronary right there on the spot.
The wife had told him to sue the college. ‘They left a body down there,’ she squawked, ‘A body for you to find…. And you with your iffy heart and all.’
An iffy heart that he never told them about.
There was something horrible about the sightless sockets staring back at him.
A memory came to him as he rocked back on his heels staring at it.
His grandson excitedly yammering away about the Princes in the Tower.
‘They found the princes’ bones in a box, grandad. Under a staircase in the Tower of London!’
But instinctively, he just knew this wasn’t any old monk or historical skeleton or fairy-tale nobleman he had discovered.
This was newer.
Thank god those coppers were on site. They could take over now.
Unsteadily, Bill lurched to his feet and manoeuvred himself out from under the crawl space.
Standing on the threshold of staircase eleven, he looked out into the misty quad and took a deep breath.
The curtain was about to rise on what became known as the Oxford College Murders.
DI Gilbert (‘Gil’) Markham found the restrained Gothic style of Sherwin college chapel very much to his taste.
It was Sunday morning and he felt a strong inclination to linger, savouring the warmth of a shaft of sunlight which picked him out in the choir stalls as he reflected on the startling developments of the previous day.
He had been looking forward to nothing more exciting than jam roly-poly and custard followed by a soporific address from Oxford’s divisional commander when Bill Knowles had burst into Hall with news of the grim discovery beneath staircase eleven.
‘Looked like the ole lard bucket were gonna keel over,’ DS George Noakes had declared afterwards with all the severity of a fellow chubster who had been put on a strict diet following the previous year’s health scare. ‘Anyway, it’s par for the course with a place like this, innit…. You’re bound to trip over skellies all over the shop with it being medieval an’ all that.’
The DI was amused by his wingman’s assumed sang-froid, Noakes having clearly made up his mind not to be impressed by the city of dreaming spires. ‘One more for the museum,’ the DS had said comfortably, declining to be distracted from his pud. ‘“Jane Doe from Henry the Eighth’s times” or whatever. The punters’ll go gaga. Kerching!’
But even Noakes was obliged to revise his opinion when informed that these remains were highly unlikely to be ancient, given nothing of the kind had been called in by the builders who renovated that same staircase some twenty odd years previously.
Judging by the reaction of Markham’s boss DCI Sidney (or ‘Slimy Sid’ as he was known to the troops), one might have thought the DI had personally engineered the discovery in order to wriggle out of the ‘seminal’ session on restorative justice scheduled for that afternoon.
‘It’s almost as though murder follows you around,’ Sidney observed disagreeably on hearing of the find beneath the staircase where Markham had lived as a final year student.
‘He made it sound like you freaking well dumped them bones there yourself!’ Noakes exclaimed wrathfully. ‘Like you were doing a Doctor Crippen or summat…. when anyone’d know you had your nose in a book all the time.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sergeant.’ He tried to ignore the implication that he was far too busy to have murdered anyone.
‘Not that I’m saying you were the murdering kind, boss.’ Too late, Noakes realized his gaffe.
Markham grimaced. ‘When in a hole, Noakes –.’
‘Stop digging,’ DC Doyle and DS Kate Burton chorused in unison.
The gangling red-haired young DC and DS Burton, the other members of Markham’s close-knit ‘gang’, were visibly delighted to be in Oxford.
Only Noakes resolutely refused to succumb to its picturesque charms.
But then George Noakes was a law unto himself….
As he sat there, the DI congratulated himself on having kept Noakes out of the clutches of Sidney’s henchmen on the Retirement Plan Committee and the rubber-soled mob at the Office for Police Conduct. No mean feat given Noakes’s spectacular talent for alienating his superiors and the investigation into what had occurred at the conclusion of the Bluebell murder case. The latter was the tightest of corners, but somehow it had bound the two men even more closely together.
Markham well knew that he and Noakes were called ‘The Odd Couple’ by CID’s resident wits, but he could not conceive of ever being able to dispense with his point man. If anything, watching his upwardly mobile contemporaries greasing away to Sidney and the top brass at this conference made him all the more appreciative of Noakes’s unvarnished authenticity, even if his political incorrectness made life decidedly tricky at times.
‘Can’t you rein the man in, Markham,’ was Sidney’s never-ending complaint. ‘He gives an appalling impression of service values.’
Noakes didn’t give a flying fajita for ‘service values’, but he never misstepped when it came to comforting the anonymous victims of murder or making ‘toerags’ squirm once they were in his sights.
Moreover, the DS was instinctively simpatico to his legendarily chilly and fastidious boss, somehow taking in Markham’s unuttered past as a victim of childhood abuse without anything explicit on the subject having ever passed between them.
Added to all of this – and Markham’s lips quirked at the incongruity – his teacher girlfriend Olivia Mullen was a staunch adherent of Noakes, revelling in his sergeant’s subversiveness and touched by his devotion to ‘the guvnor’. She was just about the only person able to get away with teasing the old warhorse – certainly the only one able to dispel any grouchiness.
The thing was, for all Noakes’s run-to-seed slobbishness – the salt and pepper thatch that never would lie down along with the hangdog features, paunchiness and shockingly bad dress sense – he had a romantic, almost poetic, chord in his nature which vibrated to Olivia’s lightest touch. Hugely admiring of her willowy ethereal looks and long red hair, he confided to Markham that she put him in mind of ‘them witches in picture books’ (a typically mixed compliment, but Markham got the gist) and never objected when she discoursed on books and poetry on the basis that ‘her voice was like music or a choir doing one of them oratorio thingies’.
These troubadourish tendencies did not go down well with Muriel Noakes, the sergeant’s snobbish overbearing wife who had a soft spot for ‘Gilbert’ Markham (‘such a charmer and so reliant on George’) but little time for his ditzy partner with the bohemian hair and clothes.
It was a wonder to many back home in Bromgrove how Noakes and his ‘missus’ had ever ended up together, but Markham knew that whatever the truth of the matter his DS was bound to Muriel by ropes of steel. They were regulars on the ballroom dancing circuit – ‘poetry in motion’ was one surprising description of the stumpy policeman and his Bet Lynch lookalike wife – and Noakes was fiercely protective of Muriel and their daughter Natalie. When Noakes found out during the Bluebell case that Natalie was almost certainly not his biological daughter but the result of Muriel’s teenage indiscretion, he went temporarily off the rails, almost precipitating a crisis in his relationship with Markham. But the two detectives had weathered the storm and come out the other side, though Markham had no idea whether Noakes had made a clean breast of everything to the women in his life. Somehow, he suspected family Omertà had won the day, so he was destined never to have an answer to that question.
Initially, Kate Burton and Noakes had been as prickly as a pair of cacti. A psychology graduate, she was earnest, quietly tenacious and according to Noakes ‘an all-round smarty pants’. Her parents had opposed a career in the force (‘no job for a woman’), but she had won them round to the point where they were inordinately proud of her success. Earmarked for great things, she had appeared to waver after splitting from her fiancé in the fraud squad and deferred taking her inspector’s exams.
It was an open secret in CID that she carried a torch for Markham, but the DI had been incredulous when Noakes finally took it upon himself to deliver a few home truths, dismissing it as an over-developed sense of respect for her boss. ‘Nah guv, you c’n take it from me, she’s got it bad,’ the DS replied, before adding graciously, ‘but I’ll give her this, the lass never made a tit of herself down the pub or owt like that.’ Seeing as Burton was virtually teetotal, a sozzled meltdown was unlikely to occur, but this was small comfort to Markham in the circumstances and he vowed to raise the subject of her promotion again once the conference was over.
At least she and Noakes had now shaken down well together, each valuing the other’s loyalty and dedication. Burton no longer flinched at her colleague’s breaches of PC good taste while he refrained from excessive eye rolls when she ‘went off on one’, as in sharing her prodigious knowledge about various branches of psychology (‘the world and everything’). Indeed, a shared enthusiasm for true crime documentaries had even resulted in some amicable fact-sharing that had proved useful in recent investigations. Noakes had mellowed to the point that he was almost fatherly towards his eager beaver colleague while she had come to appreciate the nonconformist integrity that ran through him like a stick of rock. Markham suspected Burton still occasionally resented the intimacy he shared with Noakes, but these days she was less touchy about being a third wheel.
DC Doyle, for all his youth, was what Markham thought of as a Steady Eddie. Now he had obtained that criminal law degree and passed his sergeant’s exams, the promotion board beckoned so he would doubtless be moving to pastures new in due course. In the meantime, he was a valued member of the unit. Gangling, ginger-haired and personable, he was affectionately irreverent towards Noakes, who was his invariable confidant when it came to matters of the heart (since for some reason the course of true love never did run smooth) and the prospects of their beloved Bromgrove Rovers.
Yes, Markham was highly satisfied with his little band whose loyalty was unquestioned (despite Sidney’s best efforts) and regarded it as a stroke of good fortune that they were all at the conference together.
His gaze drifted to the black-and-white chequerboard tiling of the chapel floor. Something about the symmetry of its patterns soothed him and he lingered on, enjoying the sunlight and the peace.
As houses of God went, this little chapel was unpretentious and almost cosy.
His eyes wandered to the far end where an oak screen depicted the twelve apostles posing stiffly in choir stalls much like the one in which he was sitting. Was it his imagination, or did Judas Iscariot – carrying the money purse with its thirty pieces of silver – bear more than a passing resemblance to DCI Sidney?
Above the screen an arched stained-glass window depicted a repentant Mary Magdalene, clad in ruby red, raptly contemplating a skull in the depths of a turquoise cavern. Markham had been fond of this image from his student days and knew it was a traditional memento mori – as emphasized by the faded flowers and miniature coffin in the background – but the discovery of that skeleton beneath staircase eleven gave it a new and poignant resonance.
Was their victim a woman, he wondered. The Magdalene’s eyes seemed to look sorrowfully out of the stained-glass image as though to say ‘Yes’.
He recalled the muttered commentary of the pathologist who attended the scene yesterday afternoon. ‘Gracile bones…. circular pelvic inlet…. most likely female…. all a bit jumbled.’ Markham had shuddered at that. ‘I’ll confirm after the PM.’
Now he thought how much he missed Doug ‘Dimples’ Davidson, their usual pathologist back in Bromgrove, the compassionate eyes belying his bluff farmer’s appearance. ‘Dimples wouldn’t have talked about them bones like they were a bleeding Rubik’s cube,’ as Noakes put it, not caring at all whether he was overheard.
Beneath the main window were three smaller arches depicting Saint George and the dragon. Something about the earnest gaze of the wimple-clad princess the saint was supposed to have rescued reminded Markham of Kate Burton….
Burton, of course, would be waiting impatiently in the Bursar’s office behind the Porter’s Lodge, itching to get on with it but reluctant to seem too eager.
He understood that mixture of emotions only too well… the adrenalin rush of a murder investigation which was also somehow shameful and vampiric because it derived from the extinction of a fellow human being. As though they were feasting on dead men’s bones.
His gaze wandered back to the Magdalene and that sightless skull.
Do not store up treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, but rather lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven.
An unwelcome picture of those neglected remains, cobwebbed over with spiders’ webs and runnelled by insect larvae and god knows what else, suddenly rose up before him. But he forced it down. Whoever their victim was, he or most likely she was long past their pain. Nothing could hurt them further.
All that remained was to seek justice.
His mouth twitched at the thought that Noakes and Doyle were probably tucking into a full English in Hall while Kate Burton was forced to cool her heals in the Bursar’s office. Personally, he couldn’t face a grease-fest with the rest of them, preferring to gather himself in the seclusion of the college chapel.
Sidney, gimlet-eyed, had reluctantly acceded to the Principal’s suggestion that ‘one of their own’ take over the investigation. Markham hadn’t warmed to Sir Paul Mirfleet with his bombast and drinker’s complexion, but he jumped at the offer to solve the mystery of staircase eleven. No doubt there would be ‘territorial’ issues with Thames Valley Police, but they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Superintendent Ian Charleson from St Aldates was due to see them, so hopefully any ruffled feathers could be smoothed down…. assuming Noakes didn’t trample all over local sensibilities with his size twelves.
The Bursar Philip Greaves had combined maximum efficiency with minimal warmth towards the DI and his team. Another florid specimen with pinched features, he aped the mannerisms of the Principal in a way that Markham found faintly nauseating. But at least he had temporarily made over his own rooms behind the porter’s lodge for their convenience. ‘Prob’ly bugged ’em,’ Noakes observed with cheerful insouciance. ‘That fella looks like a grade A snoop.’ Privately, he resolved to do a sweep before installing full incident room facilities.
The minutes ticked by and yet Markham still could not tear himself away….
His mind travelled back in time to those halcyon student days which had seemed then to stretch out hazily to infinity.
The framed group pictures of students in full fig (sub fusc academic dress) that lined the oak panelled corridor outside the chapel made him feel sad. So much starry-eyed anticipation. So many hopes and dreams…. And then the bitter-sweet awakening once the wine of life was drunk, leaving only the dregs….
Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be, he told himself wryly looking slowly round the chapel.
The sun had now moved round to the plain-leaded lancet windows that lined both sides of the choir leaving his stall in shadow.
Markham shivered, as though a chilly finger had touched him, admonishing him for wasting time when there was a murderer to catch.
But was this murder, he asked himself.
And if so, whose were the bones interred in the sludge under that staircase…. such a desolate resting place. Even more horrible when one thought of all the students pounding up and down stairs, blithely unaware of the grave site beneath their feet.
His eyes returned to the enigmatic Magdalene in her strange subterranean lait. The ruby red mantle had somehow lost its lustre, seeming to pool about her feet like an upswell of blood…. Unconstrained. Unstoppable.
Somehow, he was unable to look away.
Above her in a rose window, God the Father extended his arms wide as though to welcome all lost sheep into the pen.
But there was a wolf in the sheepfold,
And Markham was determined to find him.
As far as Noakes was concerned, the Bursar’s rooms were a distinct improvement on the usual accommodation available for CID investigations.
‘He’s got one of them George Clooney Nespresso machines an’ all…. Jammy bastard.’
Kate Burton was clearly embarrassed by these Del Boy raptures, but Doyle just grinned. ‘We’re in the wrong job, sarge. Should have worked harder at school, then we’d be the ones with the swank office.’
The DS grunted and continued exploring the Bursar’s oak-panelled domain, clumping through the Axminster-carpeted rooms – study and tastefully appointed bedroom – like it was an episode of Through the Keyhole, thought Burton despairingly as she waited for him to complete his inspection.
‘Flat screen telly…. drinks cabinet an’ fridge an’ two computers…. Talk about a gravy train!’ Noakes plonked himself onto the chesterfield. ‘Hey, d’you think he’s got his fingers in the till? Cos this set-up’s worth a fortune.’
‘They pay vice-Chancellors and all the senior people top whack.’ Doyle pursed his lips and spoke with all the authority of a new-minted BA Law (2:2). ‘Bursar at a place like this…. He’s got to be on a hefty salary.’
‘Plus there’ll be perks and benefits,’ Burton added thoughtfully, looking round at the Old Masters and the vast mahogany desk. ‘And they probably do stuff in the private sector.’
Nice work if you can get it.
‘You c’n tell Greaves is a boozer,’ Noakes declared sanctimoniously. ‘Ain’t seen a nose like that since ole Basher went on the batter at his leaving do.’
Recalling the legendary DCI ‘Basher’ Briggs, Burton privately thought CID was well rid but forced a strained smile.
‘Mr Greaves has certainly done well for himself judging by this lot,’ she said. ‘Bursar’s a responsible position, though, so he must be up to the job…. And anyway, there’s always a drinking culture in places like this. They’re stuck in a time warp…. Brideshead Revisited.’ The censorious sniff with which this last was uttered suggested Burton’s views on Oxbridge leaned towards the puritanical.
‘Brideshead Revisited.’ Noakes mulled it over. ‘Oh yeah, I remember now…. poofters carting teddy bears round the place an’ speaking in daft voices.’
Burton looked as though she regretted having ever mentioned the cult classic, but the DI’s arrival mercifully prevented further discussion.
The lean dark face smiled at them. But Markham’s eyes were sad.
‘I’ve just had a call from the pathologist,’ he said.
‘Oh yeah, the Jigsaw Man.’ Noakes was distinctly unenthusiastic. ‘Fitted all the pieces together has he?’
‘Indeed he has, Sergeant.’ The DI’s gaze wandered briefly to an exquisite Madonna and Child which had the chiaroscuro hues of a valuable antique on loan from the college vaults. Then he looked steadily at the team.
‘Our victim is a young woman, around twenty years old…. She was five months pregnant…. The bones of the foetus had become displaced from the pelvis, but there’s no doubt about it now.’
‘Poor lass,’ Noakes said gruffly, clearing his throat. ‘Pregnant…. an’ chucked out with the rubbish.’
Burton’s throat contracted as she thought of the corpse disappearing beneath cement and slurry, slowly digested to a skeleton…. fermenting underground.
Doyle looked sick. ‘Did the doc say how she died, sir?’
‘Strangulation…. Apparently there was enough left to identify a hyoid fracture.’
Burton found her voice.
‘Is there an ID, boss?’
‘We’re waiting on official confirmation from dental records, but there’s a strong possibility it’s a third-year English student who disappeared from Sherwin during her final year…. Catriona Rowlands…. She was never traced.’
‘How come she jus’ disappeared, guv.’ Noakes got up from the chesterfield and began prowling the deep pile crimson carpet. ‘I mean, a girl that age…. an’ a student here at Posh Central…. They musta had some idea.’ He kicked a thin-legged side table by way of relieving his feelings. ‘An’ her in the family way too…. jus’ don’ make any sense….’
For all that it was a bright winter morning, the Bursar’s quarters seemed suddenly drained of light as though the air had somehow turned grey.
The four detectives contemplated each other, pinch-faced.
‘Sit down, Noakesy. It’s making me sea-sick watching you wear out that carpet,’ the DI said finally.
Moodily, the DS complied, taking a savage satisfaction in the fact that muck from his brothel creepers had transferred itself to the sofa’s chintz valance.
‘They pulled out all the stops,’ Markham continued.
‘Not if they didn’t check under that bloody staircase they didn’t,’ Noakes burst out mutinously.
‘On the face of it there was no reason to reopen the earthworks,’ the DI said levelly. ‘The builders working on staircase eleven were adamant no-one unauthorized had been down there…. the site foreman was positive about it at the time….’
‘“At the time”?’ Burton had picked up on the ambiguity. ‘Does that mean he got it wrong, sir?’
‘I’ve got a hunch that site security wasn’t all it was cracked up to be…. The firm in question was McMaster & Son…. they eventually went bankrupt after settling various claims involving breaches of health and safety.’
‘So they freaking lied.’ Noakes’s piggy eyes had narrowed to suspicious slits.
‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ the DI agreed. ‘But at the time McMaster had a good reputation …. There were contracts with several of the colleges…And besides, the last confirmed sighting of Ms Rowlands was in Cornmarket Street…. Several students placed her there.’
‘What about the family?’ Doyle asked. ‘Did they have any idea she might be pregnant?’
‘Her mother died while she was still at school,’ Markham replied. ‘Father remarried when she was in the sixth form…. I believe there’s a stepmother and half-sister….’
Doyle digested this. ‘What about the dad…. is he still around?’
‘He died five years ago,’ the DI informed them heavily. ‘Ms Rowlands’s stepmother and half-sister are out of the country…. planning to spend Christmas in Lech –.’
‘What’s over there then?’ Noakes asked belligerently.
‘It’s an Austrian ski resort,’ the DI explained. ‘But they’ll be travelling home as soon as it can be arranged. And to answer your original question, Constable, according to the case files, the family had no idea why she went missing…. certainly no notion that she was pregnant.’
It was clear that the DI meant to get a jump on the local police, Burton thought approvingly.
Then a thought occurred to her.
‘Did you ever meet Ms Rowlands…. I mean with its being your old college, sir?’
‘The way Hissing Sid was carrying on yesterday, it sounded like he’s got you in the frame for this one, guv,’ Noakes observed amiably.
‘Very reassuring, Sergeant,’ came the dry response.
Markham smiled at Burton. ‘We were in the same year, Kate, but oddly enough I don’t have any vivid recollection of her…. Strange, because the English students were a pretty flamboyant crowd.’ He reached into the pocket of his immaculately tailored pinstripe and produced a photograph.
‘The Bursar was kind enough to give me this,’ he said. ‘Pass it round.’
‘She was very pretty,’ Burton commented once they had done so. ‘So petite and dainty.’
‘Must be Mediterranean blood somewhere,’ Doyle said thoughtfully. ‘Or maybe South American…. Brazilian perhaps with those big dark eyes….’
‘Nice-looking lass,’ was Noakes’s more prosaic verdict. His stubby forefinger stroked the picture. ‘What a chuffing waste.’ Then almost angrily, as was always the case whenever the DS felt he had been betrayed into showing his emotions, ‘What about boyfriends? With a stunner like that…. there had to be some bloke sniffing around.’
Something flared at the back of his eyes causing Markham to wonder if his wingman was remembering Muriel and Natalie, each of them wronged by a man….
‘Ms Rowlands was on the rebound at the time when she was last seen,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding me.’ Doyle was incredulous. ‘You mean someone knocked her back?’
‘She and her boyfriend had split up a month or so before she went missing,’ the DI informed them before adding, ‘Actually, he’s a Fellow here.’
‘The boyfriend?’ This sounded promising to Noakes.
‘Dr Jon Warrender…. Yes, he’s a senior Research Fellow and Tutor in Classics.’
‘Bully for him,’ Noakes grunted. ‘Where was he when the lass went missing?’
‘A JCR event in the college bar.’
‘That’s the Junior Common Room,’ Burton translated.
‘Off his face then.’ Noakes never had much time for acronyms.
‘Along with most of his peers,’ Markham said. ‘It was June, so everyone was whooping it up after final exams. An all-nighter.’
Somehow Burton couldn’t envisage her elegant boss ‘whooping it up’. Dinner for two at an expensive restaurant was more his style, she thought wistfully.
‘If they were partying, he coulda snuck off an’ done the dirty without anyone clocking him then.’ It was obvious Noakes liked Warrender as their prime suspect.
‘There was never anything to tie him to Ms Rowlands’s disappearance, Noakes.’
Burton noted the formality of ‘Ms Rowlands’. The DI was always mindful of victims’ dignity and woe betide any subordinate who so far forgot themselves as to engage in gallows humour.
‘She had other boyfriends,’ Markham continued, ‘but nothing to explain why she suddenly walked away from her life.’ He sighed, ‘There was speculation that maybe she had a breakdown or something traumatic happened…. maybe an amnesic episode…. or possibly she didn’t want to be found….’
‘You mean they thought she might have done a Reggie Perrin…. faked her own death?’ Doyle sounded bemused.
‘Well, that was one line of thought…. Even so, the case went nowhere.’ The DI ran a hand through the curling black hair that, did he but know it, had led to civilian typists back at Bromgrove Station christening him their ‘studmuffin of the month’.
‘Whass the plan, guv?’ Noakes was growing impatient. Time to feel a few collars as far as he was concerned, and the sooner the better.
The DI glanced at his watch.
‘I’ve asked the Bursar and Chaplain to join us,’ he said. ‘They’ll be along any minute.’
‘What about the local Plod?’ Noakes looked as if he relished the idea of a face-off.
‘Sidney’s squaring it with them. We’ll be meeting with Superintendent Charleson tomorrow morning, Noakes…. Diplomacy’s the order of the day.’
Good luck with that, Burton said to herself, her mind roving over Noakes’s hair-raising track record with officialdom.
Catching Markham’s eye, she blushed. Something about his expression suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘You and Doyle will be setting up our incident room, Kate.’
‘In here, sir?’ It sounded as if she couldn’t believe her luck.
‘Well, if we can manage to sweet talk the Bursar…. and convince him we’re house-trained.’
Her face fell as she looked at Noakes, but Kate Burton was nothing if not determined.
‘I’m on it, sir,’ she said firmly.
There was a discreet rap at the door.
The advance party had arrived.
Sunday evening found Markham and Olivia in his temporary accommodation at Sherwin College on the top floor of staircase one overlooking first quad.
All was quiet outside save for the occasional hollow echo of footsteps on the flags which bordered Sherwin’s immaculate lawn. Now and again the glass of the quaint diamond-paned windows rattled as a gull or curlew swung by, making a diversion on its flight home to Port Meadow for the night. The swirling vapour of a typical dank Oxford evening muffled everything, only the old-fashioned college lampposts illuminating the murk in little pools of yellow light. As she stood looking down into the courtyard, Olivia experienced something of the same shuddering distaste Bill Knowles had felt the previous evening when poking around the entrails of staircase eleven.
Was it just good old-fashioned jealousy that prevented her from succumbing to Oxford’s winter spell, she wondered…? Resentment that she’d been denied the ‘Oxbridge experience’ and consigned to an undistinguished red brick university (her schoolteachers were strong on ‘knowing your limitations’ and ‘not getting above yourself’) ….?
No, that wasn’t it she concluded…. More a case of there being something eerie about these old buildings blotched and stained with damp as though humidity was breaking out on them like a disease. And then there was the nonstop tolling of bells which at this time of year she found more dirge-like than joyful, like some sort of sinister sostenuto that she couldn’t switch off. So strong was this funereal impression that she found herself remembering the steel girders and plate glass of Bromgrove University with something almost like affection….
‘Penny for them, Liv?’ her lover enquired.
She shrugged off her morbid fancies.
‘Who’ve they booted out to make room for you, then?’
‘One of the Junior Fellows…. History tutor…. She’s headed back to the States for Christmas, so,’ he gestured expansively, ‘here we are!’
‘Hmm…. a kitchenette…. and your own en suite too.’ She laughed. ‘I presume the others have to share.’
‘Oh, Burton and Doyle are up for the authentic student experience…. draughty stone staircases, wind whistling round the eaves, wonky floors, vaulted ceilings –’
‘That too. Needless to say, Noakes was distinctly underwhelmed, particularly with there being no television.’
‘He can always catch up with the footie in the Frog and Firkin next door…. They’ve got an obscenely large plasma TV in there.’
‘Yes, I believe he and Doyle have already scoped out the local amenities.’
Something in her lover’s tone told Olivia that he didn’t anticipate there being much opportunity for recreation.
‘And then there’s the ancient plumbing,’ Markham added with an air of resignation. ‘That’s another gripe. Plus I don’t think Noakesy’s keen on queuing for the bathroom in his skivvies…. kept grumbling that it was like being back in the section house.’
‘Let’s hope Muriel packed a bathrobe…. Otherwise the scouts may wish to avert their eyes!’
Chuckling at the thought of the college servants’ likely reaction to Noakes, she asked,
‘So what does George make of the feudal set-up…. scouts tugging their forelock and all that jazz?’ she asked. ‘I’d have thought it was a bit too Downton Abbey for his liking.’
‘Oh, he got on like a house on fire with Ernie Braithwaite.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s the old chap looking after his staircase…. Longest serving college retainer, apparently…. served in the same regiment as Noakes’s cousin Jack, so no problems there.’
‘Was Ernie around when this poor girl went missing?’
‘Yes…. He was Catriona’s scout at the time. Seemed badly cut up about her murder.’
‘I suppose it was murder, Gil?’ There was a pleading note in his lover’s voice.
‘No doubt about it, sweetheart. But look,’ he steered her across to one of two comfortable wingback tartan armchairs in front of the cosily glowing electric fire where a tray of coffee and biscuits was waiting. ‘Tell me about your day first and then I’ll bring you up to speed on the case.’
She allowed herself to be ensconced in an armchair.
‘Blimey that feels good,’ she sighed. ‘Bit of a cushy billet this.’
Her expression suggested the accommodation at Rochford College, where she was attending a residential course, was somewhat lacking by comparison.
Markham poured the coffee. ‘What’s Rochford like?’
‘Oh, I still can’t quite believe I wangled this creative writing gig.’
‘Always good to have Mat Sullivan on your side,’ he observed.
Mathew Sullivan, the Deputy Head at Hope Academy in Bromgrove where Olivia taught English, was an old friend who had been caught up in a particularly gruesome investigation at the school. It was a case that had strained old loyalties, but they somehow came through unscathed and were if anything even closer because of it.
‘Well, you know how passionate he is about Bright Young Things,’ she said referring to the initiative which linked Oxford colleges with teachers in North-West inner-city schools. ‘Really sold it to SLT and the governors.’ A reminiscent giggle. ‘Laid it on a bit thick actually…. made me sound like a cross between JK Rowlng and Hans Christian Anderson by the time he’d finished.’
‘Better watch out…. They’ll have you doing all the literacy initiatives if you’re not careful.’
She nibbled delicately on a chocolate Florentine (god, even the biscuits were exclusive).
‘It’d almost be worth it if I manage to go on courses like this now and again.’
‘Good tutors then?’
‘Fantastic. It’s a bit shy-making having to read your own stuff out, but there’s a great buzz.’
‘Do I get to see any of the magnum opus?’ Markham asked slyly.
‘Not till I’m on the second draft,’ was the solemn reply. ‘I haven’t quite found my groove yet.’
He smothered a smile.
‘What’s the accommodation like?’
‘Standard student set-up, but it’s comfortable enough…. Certainly not as…. picturesque as Sherwin.’ She hesitated. ‘Not quite so Fall of the House of Usher.’
‘You think this place is creepy?’ He was surprised.
‘You’ve got to admit there’s something foreboding about it at this time of year…. The walls are so grey and, well, damp…. Like they’re sweating witch-ointment or something.’
‘Rochford’s pretty historic too,’ he countered thinking of the college’s gracious mellow buildings in the Queen Anne style.
‘Yes, but somehow it feels benign…. reassuring…. like a favourite great aunt…. Whereas Sherwin….’
Despite himself, he was amused.
‘Not everyone’s favourite relative then.’
‘Not mine.’ She looked somewhat shamefaced. ‘God, I’m coming over all “arty-farty” aren’t I?’ She looked thoughtfully towards the windows which, their heavy damask curtains drawn back, disclosed only the starless inky night. ‘It must be that medieval vibe and all the stone…. Makes me feel like Richard Crookback’s lurking behind the ramparts somewhere…. waiting to slither out and wreak evil.’
Despite the warmth of the fire, Markham gave a reflexive shiver.
Olivia was instantly stricken with compunction.
‘Oh Gil, I’m sorry. The last thing you want is me bringing that up….’
He forced a smile, although her reference to history’s most famous Wicked Uncle was an unwelcome reminder of the art gallery murders in which the legend of the Plantagenet king had recurred like a particularly horrible leitmotif. Markham had lost a friend during that case, afterwards declaring to Olivia that it felt as though the entire investigation lay under a curse.
‘All behind us, sweetheart,’ he said lightly. ‘Actually, the workman who found Catriona’s remains under staircase eleven felt much the same as you…. He was totally freaked out because apparently his grandsons had been doing the Princes in the Tower at school and couldn’t stop talking about bones turning up under staircases.’
Now it was her turn to shiver.
‘How awful,’ she said with feeling. ‘And pregnant too…. the poor, frightened girl.’
‘She disappeared in 2000 …. last sighted on Cornmarket at the end of finals week.’
‘The height of summer,’ she ruminated. ‘Everyone demob happy because the exams were over.’
‘Demob happy…. Yes, that’s a good way of putting it.’ Markham’s brows furrowed. ‘All punch-drunk with relief and excitement…. so no-one noticed when Catriona slipped out of focus…. into the shadows.’
I’m going to refocus the picture somehow, he vowed. Recall her to life.
‘And then she ended up under the cement….’ Olivia’s eyes wandered to the window.
‘Her killer took advantage of a restoration project.’ There was a marked edge to Markham’s tone. ‘The contractors were cowboys by the look of things…. which made it easy to conceal a corpse. The killer just slid it into the tar pit and shovelled asphalt on top.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It seems there were wheelbarrows of the stuff and no security to speak of. Perfect for the killer’s very own DIY SOS.’
‘And that was it?’ Olivia sounded disbelieving. ‘She was just written off as a missing person….? And nobody thought to check out building sites…. What were they playing at?’
‘There was an investigation, Liv,’ he sighed. ‘Though I grant you, things would be done differently these days…. It’s easy to condemn with the benefit of hindsight, but when Catriona went missing there were works going on all across the city so nobody thought of excavating under college staircases, particularly not when the contractors said everything was kosher.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Like the Madeleine McCann investigation, I suppose…. The police over there in Portugal chasing their tails and no-one bothering to check out construction trenches even though half the holiday resort was being dug up.’
‘And all the while Catriona’s killer must’ve been watching and gloating…. like one of those sneaky little gargoyles on that parapet outside.’ Intently, she contemplated the glowing bars of the electric fire. ‘D’you think whoever did it is still here, Gil? In college?’
‘We’re proceeding on that basis…. The killer would have had the worry of knowing that the grave site might one day be uncovered. Plus,’ he added sombrely as though the words were dragged out of him, ‘I think it’s likely they felt somehow possessive of Catriona and wanted to keep her close…. keep an eye on her, so to speak.’
‘God, you make it sound like the Dennis Nilsen spree…. What did he call it… “killing for company”?’
More like the Bluebell murders, Markham thought grimly, recalling how that particular investigation had ended.
Aloud he said, ‘It’s just a hunch, Liv…. I’ve got nothing to go on except gut instinct.’
At this, Olivia narrowed her eyes in ferrety suspicion and simulated DCI Sidney’s unpleasantly strident honk.
‘Be wary of flair, Markham. Good solid legwork…. that’s what’s needed…. None of your Flash Harry notions.’
It was an uncannily accurate impersonation and Markham felt his spirits lift.
‘You should’ve seen Sidney’s face when the Principal said he wanted a “Sherwin man” to run the investigation. His eczema flared up like Erysipelas and he was tugging the goatee so hard I thought it might come off.’
‘Ugh. I hate the way he always strokes that tufty bumfluff like he thinks it makes him some kind of sex god.’
‘Sidney…. A sex god!’
‘Well, only in his dreams obvs.’ She grinned roguishly. ‘Too bad all those miniskirted students with legs up to their armpits have broken up for the holidays and aren’t available to soak up his lethal charm.’
‘You forget Sidney’s delightful lady wife has spies everywhere,’ her lover said drily. ‘I doubt he’d risk it.’
‘Oh yes.’ Olivia rolled her eyes at the mention of the DCI’s Valkyrie-like spouse. ‘Didn’t Brunhilde go to St Ursula’s?’
‘That’s right. And firmly part of the Oxford mafia as I understand it.’
‘Come to think of it, her name came up when we had drinks with the Dean yesterday,’ Olivia said.
‘How did that go?’
‘Oh, he’s a nice bloke…. Peter Hart…. Teaches Classics. His wife Margaret Payne’s the Junior Dean.’
‘Quite the family affair,’ he observed drily.
‘That’s Oxford for you.’ She tried to keep resentment out of her voice. ‘The Old Boy Network alive and kicking.’
‘I take it they’re both Oxbridge.’
‘Actually they were at Sherwin together.’
His antennae twitched.
‘When was that, Liv?’
‘They did their finals in…. let me see…. 2000.’
‘Which would make them contemporaries of Catriona Rowlands,’ he said slowly.
‘I guess so.’ She sounded troubled, reminding him of the various investigations in which she had become embroiled.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to storm Rochford and expose you as a policeman’s moll,’ he joked. ‘…. At least not just yet. But,’ he said carefully, ‘it would help to have a word with them…. perhaps later in the week.’ Markham’s voice held a question.
‘Fine by me.’ Olivia had recovered her equilibrium. ‘Anyone who was at Sherwin with Catriona…. well they’ve got to remember something, right?’
‘We were all pretty selfish at that age, Liv…. obsessed with our own petty concerns…. oblivious of the bigger picture…. failing to connect.’
‘Perhaps that’s what Oscar Wilde or whoever it was meant when they said youth is largely wasted on the young,’ she said shakily.
‘Well when it comes to Oxford’s gilded youth, I’ve no doubt of it,’ Markham agreed wryly. ‘Back then I barely registered Catriona’s disappearance,’ he added softly. ‘There was the flurry of police interest and some excitement in college…. then it was next day’s fish and chip paper.’ The dark eyes were unfathomable pools. ‘Meanwhile there were people whose lives would never be the same again.’
Including her murderer.
In the silence that followed, the bell in the college clocktower tolled 9 p.m..
The lovers counted each individual stroke.
When the city bells pealed out on the last day of Catriona Rowlands’s life, she couldn’t have known that for her peers the carillon announced the start of summer festivities – parties, balls and Pimms – while for her they heralded the approach of eternity. Olivia liked to imagine the young student caught up in a giddy whirl of post-exam euphoria, touched by no shadow of what was to come….
A thought occurred to her.
‘D’you think Catriona died the same day she disappeared, Gil?’ Suddenly it felt as though the Florentine was stuck in her throat. ‘Or was she…. kept somewhere…. abused or maybe tortured?’
‘I think she most probably died soon after she vanished,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’m willing to bet the kill took place in Sherwin close to staircase eleven. Given the level of decomposition, the pathologist couldn’t tell us whether or not she was assaulted or raped.’
‘But where do you even start after all this time….’
‘Those living on staircase eleven and the other staircases in third quad on the date Catriona disappeared,’ he said.
‘Was there a boyfriend?’
‘Yes, though they’d split up…. Dr Jon Warrender…. He’s a Fellow here.’
Her expression said it all. Nepotism again.
‘I imagine as far as George is concerned it’s pretty much all sewn up then.’
Markham gave a mirthless laugh.
‘There are a number of contenders for the top spot, Liv…. Ernie Braithwaite was very illuminating on the subject.’
‘Ernie…. Oh right, the scout…. Noakes’s new bestie.’
‘The very same. He said Catriona was a popular girl and there was at least one other serious boyfriend –’
Olivia pulled a droll face. ‘Don’t tell me…. He works here too.’
‘As a matter of fact, yes…. Name of Mark Drexler…. Modern Languages don.’ Markham smiled reminiscently. ‘You could tell Ernie thought he was an arrogant tosspot.’
She smiled. ‘Did he say that or are you quoting George?’
‘Let’s just say Noakesy was at hand to translate.’
‘So, two ex-boyfriends are in the frame and now a “Sherwin man” is going to head up the investigation. The whole thing’s positively incestuous,’ she declared, sinking back into her armchair.
‘It gets better, Liv.’
Deliberately, he poured them some more coffee enjoying her reaction.
‘Come on, Gil, the suspense is killing me.’
‘Well, the Bursar was an undergraduate here too.’
‘At the same time as Catriona?’
‘Wow.’ She sipped her coffee mulling over the revelation. ‘I think I saw him in the porters’ lodge when I was signing in earlier…. tall and rather snooty…. barking orders.’
‘Yes, that sounds like Philip Greaves.’
‘He’s not all that bad looking,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘if it wasn’t for the sneery expression and the nose.’
Markham grinned. ‘You’re a stern judge, Liv. What’s wrong with his nose?’
‘Oh, it’s one of those beaky purplish types straight out of Dickens…. The ones that always seem to have a drop of moisture at the end of ’em.’
‘Delightful…. Well you said it yourself, Liv. It must be the cold and damp.’
‘Too much claret more like.’ Her prejudices were hard to shift.
‘Hmm…. Sherwin has a fine cellar, I believe…. perk of the job.’
‘Did George’s chum have any dirt for you on Greaves?’
‘We call it intelligence gathering,’ he said in mock reproof.’
‘Whatever.’ She waited implacably.
‘Apparently Catriona beat Greaves to various college prizes. She also sent him up in the Sherwin Confidential.’
‘Sent him up?’
‘As in poked fun at him in a sketch…. It was nothing malicious according to Ernie…. She just had a naughty way with words. “A bit of fun” was how he described it.’
‘Have you seen a copy?’
‘Not so far, but I’ve put Doyle on it.’
‘Greaves looked like a slimy cold fish,’ she mused. ‘But murder…. That’s a stretch.’
‘Not when you’ve got jealousy in the mix.’ As Markham knew all too well.
‘But he’s done well for himself, surely… I mean, Bursar in an Oxford college.’
‘No academic glory though, Liv.’ Markham stretched out long legs, enjoying the warmth of the fire. ‘You’ve got to go back twenty years when Catriona outshone him. According to Ernie, their tutor was convinced she was the one with great potential…. destined to wind up as the kind of talking head who publishes a string of books and is “never off the telly”.’
‘Lashings of charisma.’
‘Undoubtedly…. whereas it looks like Greaves never truly fulfilled his potential.’
‘So he hated her then,’ she said flatly.
‘Well if so, he wasn’t the only one.’
There was a flush on Olivia’s cheek as she leaned in eagerly. No wonder Noakes described her as a sorceress, Markham thought, with those glittering grey-green eyes and the piled up red hair.
‘Go on, Gil. I’m all ears.’
‘There was a scout who ended up being dismissed for pestering female undergrads…. A man called Ray Cunliffe…. Catriona was one of those who complained.’
‘A sex pest….’
‘It happens from time to time…. ‘over-familiarity’ they call it.’
‘They bloody would.’
‘There was also some sort of issue with the Reverend Dr Royston De’Ath. That’s the Chaplain Emeritus –’
‘Posh speak for a former Chaplain – they get to be honorary Fellows after retirement from the pastoral side.’
‘God, don’t tell me he was perving as well.’
‘There were rumours he was somewhat over-interested in particular students.’
‘As in laying on of hands.’ Her tone was grim.
‘Nothing concrete and no official complaints…. we’re talking about gossip on the scouts’ network…. If anyone did report him, it was hushed up.’
‘What a beaut.’ Olivia sounded disgusted. ‘You don’t mean to say he’s still here enjoying the “perks”.’
‘Oh, he’s very much in evidence. Still has a high-profile role at Sherwin…. heavily involved with liturgy and the like…. mentors the college organist Andrew Skeffington….’
‘Where does Skeffington fit in…. is he another one who had the hots for Catriona?’
‘Nothing like that…. ultra-respectable and a don into the bargain. Did his BA at Courtenay Hall… thought about becoming a Catholic priest but changed his mind. Later, he had a plum job as Director of Music at Southwark Cathedral before Sherwin poached him.’
‘All very illustrious. But if he’s Doctor Death’s sidekick, there’s got to be something hinky.’
‘I’m keeping an open mind, Liv…. haven’t met any of them yet except the Bursar,’ he said mildly. The Chaplain was down in London with Dr De'Ath, so that's a pleasure deferred.'
Instantly, she regretted her sarcastic tone.
‘Sorry, Gil, I’m being obnoxious…. Sounds like there are a few people who might’ve had problems with Catriona.’
‘She was the kind of girl others were drawn to,’ he said quietly, ‘like moths to a flame…. But in the end, she was the one who got burnt.’
‘What about women?’ Olivia caught herself up. ‘But no…. a woman couldn’t have managed that, surely.’ The pleading note was back.
‘Catriona was a slight girl…. doll-like…. The pathologist says a woman could easily have done it if she was taken by surprise…. She could have transported the body to staircase eleven…. in a wheelie suitcase or travel trolley, perhaps…. With all the college revels going on that night, the quads and stairwells were deserted –’
‘But it was still a massive risk.’
‘Well, it could have been passed off as some sort of prank…. especially if someone helped her.’
His lover stared at him.
‘You mean an accomplice.’
‘It’s possible, Liv. Maybe they didn’t even need a wheelie bag…. Remember, students were letting off steam that night…. maybe all anyone saw was a girl slung over some bloke’s shoulder in a fireman’s lift…. playing caveman…. horsing around, that kind of thing….’
‘Everyone slaughtered cos it was the end of exams…. Yes,’ she said meditatively, ‘I can visualize something like that.’ She held out finely tapered almost translucent hands towards the fire. ‘Could be the bloke didn’t even twig that Catriona was dead…. thought she was drunk and just dumped her on that staircase so her “friend” could take care of her…. God….’ Her eyes were wide with horror.
As though to comfort herself, she murmured, ‘But you haven’t got any women in the frame yet….’
‘There’s an events organizer at Gaysoc we need to interview,’ he said reluctantly. ‘A woman called Alice Matheson.’
‘Apparently she “had a thing” for Catriona when they were undergrads.’
‘And Catriona wasn’t interested?’
‘It’s not clear what happened…. but the friendship soured.’ Markham rubbed his eyes vigorously. ‘Ernie got a bit queasy round the subject of same-sex liaisons.’
‘Ah, just like George then,’ she laughed.
‘Oh yes, definitely singing from the same hymn sheet.’ He sighed. ‘But I just had the feeling there might be more to come on that score…. And then there’s the family….’
‘You’re tired,’ she said, watching him try to smother a yawn. ‘And I should be getting back to Rochford.’ A mischievous smile made her eyes dance. ‘I suppose in the old days when this place was all-male, you’d have had to smuggle me over the wall once the gates were locked.’
‘I’ll get you a taxi, Liv. No,’ he declared firmly at the look on her face, ‘no way am I letting you walk back by yourself with a killer on the prowl.’
‘It’s just up the road, Gil…. Just off the High…. And besides, Catriona’s killer isn’t interested in me….’
‘Who can say what a madman will do,’ Markham muttered darkly. And then, ‘You may as well give in graciously, Liv. Come on, I’ll walk you over to the lodge.’
Outside, a vaporous mist coiled about their feet like some pestilential exhalation breathed out by the stone flags.
Suddenly Olivia was glad her lover was with her.
A rustle from the adjoining staircase made her jump.
She wheeled round, nervy as a whippet. ‘What was that?’
‘Just some loose ivy flapping about,’ he laughed. ‘Look, there’s no-one there, Liv.’
But for a moment she was almost sure there had been…. someone with glittering eyes specking the gloom.
Eyes full of hate.
‘Lay off the Edgar Allan Poe tonight, Liv.’
‘I’ll try Morse instead.’
He gave a mock-theatrical groan.
‘Text me when you’re safely home.’
‘Will do.’ She reached up to kiss his cheek, conscious of the night porter watching them from the glass kiosk that fronted the lodge. ‘What’re you up to tomorrow?’
‘A meeting with the local police first thing.’
‘Oh dear…. territorial wrangles?’
‘Most likely, yes.’
‘Better unleash George…. your master diplomatist.’
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Then his tone brightened. ‘At least Kate will have the incident room up and running, so we can hopefully start the interviews.’
There was the sound of an officious cough from the other side of the glass.
Markham signalled to the porter to admit Olivia and reached for his mobile.
‘You wait in there, Liv, until the taxi arrives, do you hear me?’
‘Fat chance of making a break for it with Fulton Mackay’s beady eye on me,’ she riposted before sweeping into the lodge with a radiantly insincere smile.
Markham retraced his steps. All he wanted now was a whisky and bed. Thank heaven he had thought to pack the Glenlivet.
Soon all was silent in first quad and the college slept.