by Vanda Symon
This time it was the professor turning to look at me. It was as though he had only just registered my presence. He gave me a searching look and a smile which left me feeling warm and thinking again of that earlier incarnation of James Bond. ‘She was researching drug-delivery systems, specifically looking at a new way of administering insulin.’
‘Sounds interesting.’ Smithy’s fine brand of sarcasm again. I had to turn away and pretend to look at some equipment to hide my smile.
‘It was very important research which looked like it would have very useful commercial applications and potentially save lives. Unfortunately, I can’t go into it further, as it’s commercially sensitive.’
Like a couple of detectives were going to spill the beans. Smithy took the reins again. ‘What were you doing on Friday evening?’
The prof looked a little taken aback at the directness. ‘I would have been here, in my office. I think I was going over another doctorate student’s thesis. I worked to about six, then met up with some friends at the Staff Club for a few drinks. That’s what we do every Friday night. After that I went home.’
‘And do you have anyone who’d be able to corroborate that?’
The prof’s eye’s narrowed, but to his credit, he maintained an air of calm.
‘There were a few people on this floor when I was working. I’m certain one of them would have seen me. There must have been, I guess, twenty people or so at the Club, and my wife, once I got home.’ So there was a Mrs Professor, and she dressed him funny. ‘Do you want everyone’s names?’
While Smithy quietly took down the list of names being passed on with a long-suffering tone, I looked around me. The office was a contrast to the man. Although filled with books, folders and papers, it was orderly and everything seemed to be in its place. No scruffiness around the edges here. There was an impressive number of framed degrees and certificates on the walls which no doubt intimidated the fresh-faced undergraduates who found their way here. There were some from Europe, as well as Australia.
My curiosity was interrupted by my cellphone. I took a look at the caller display and felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach. ‘Excuse me,’ I said as I retreated to the corridor. ‘Shephard,’ I said, trying to sound officious, yet cheerful.
‘Johns. Where are you?’
‘I’m at the university.’
‘What are you doing there?’
‘We’re interviewing Professor Simpson and then some—’
‘Who said you could do that?’
‘Smithy invited me along to help interview the victim’s associates.’ I wondered if Smithy would get it in the neck later.
‘Get yourself back here now. I need you to do another job.’
‘Can I finish the interviews fir—’
‘No. Now.’ He ended the call as abruptly as he’d spoken, and I had to take a few deep breaths to compose myself and resist the urge to fling the phone down the hall.
Arsehole.
7
Fan-bloody-tastic. Here I was, back at the circus, which normally wouldn’t be such an onerous task – they were supposed to be fun, after all. But today the necessity pissed me off. The oh-so-important thing that DI Johns pulled me off the university interviews for was to return the digital camera card to the circus folk and tidy up their complaint. Whoop-de-do. At the morning’s briefing, the DI had gone on at how much pressure we were under to solve this case and quickly, in light of the string of unsolved murders in the lower South Island recently. Government and the media were putting the acid on about the rate of solving or lack of solving in these cases. God knows the police didn’t need any more bad press after the recent taint of sex scandals and corruption. If he was so concerned, why the hell was I here and not doing something useful? My cynical little self knew the answer to that one.
Some calming down was in order before I faced the walking abrasion that was Terry Bennett. I didn’t want to fly off the handle at him because I was pissed off with the boss. Fortunately for me, the equivalent of Valium on four legs was corralled just around the corner. ‘Hello Cassie,’ I said quietly to the forlorn-looking elephant.
I climbed up the metal steps to the booking trailer. A middle-aged, twinset-clad, bespectacled lady greeted me from behind the security grille window. A less circus-like woman I could hardly imagine. ‘Detective Constable Shephard. I’m here to see Mr Bennett.’
‘I’ll text him to let him know you’re here; won’t be a minute.’ She may have looked all steamed pudding and knitting, but her voice had a gravelly steel to it.
The circus was a damned sight more peaceful than the last time I visited. The absence of protesters had a lot to do with that. The only visible activity in the midday light was someone walking purposefully towards one of the trailer homes. Judging by the general desertion, it must have been lunchtime for the troops. And in spite of myself, I found I was impressed at the size and number of their mobile living quarters. There was an orderly line-up of eight along this perimeter of the circus town and more around the corner. There were all the typical trappings of family life with bikes and trikes discarded in front of doors, as casually as you’d expect to see littering the driveways of suburbia. One nearby trailer even had one of those big half-shell plastic things with a bit of sand in the bottom and a colourful collection of plastic buckets and spades. And clothes airers were laden with all manner of washing, making the most of the return of the sunshine and a pleasant sea breeze while it lasted. I smiled at the normality of it all. Not even the glamour of the circus could escape the drudge of doing the laundry.
The door opened on the deluxe trailer at the front of the queue and the sizable form of Terry Bennett appeared. The whole thing listed to the right as he walked out on to the step. ‘Don’t they give you a lunch break?’ he called out.
Judging by the dusting of crumbs on his chest and belly, he’d just consumed his.
‘No time for anything as unimportant as food,’ I answered. ‘Things to do, places to go, people to see. You know how it is.’
‘I hope you’re here to tell me you’ve caught the little shits that had a go at my lion and have them safely locked away. They’ll be a damned sight better off with you guys than if I ever got my hands on the bastards.’
I didn’t doubt it for a second.
‘I wish I could tell you that, but no, not yet. We’ve taken the photo files of them off your camera card, so we’ll be able to pick them out at the university easily enough.’ If they were regular troublemakers, the Proctor would know them by sight. Otherwise, I didn’t mention the reality that there was probably no way in hell the university would let us have access to the students’ identification photographs for a misdemeanour as minor as hassling a big cat. It came into the pushing-steaming-smelly-stuff-uphill-with-a-rake category.
I handed the camera card over to him. He didn’t look all that grateful.
‘If I’d known it was going to take you guys this long, I would have gone down and found them myself. God Almighty, we end up having protesters here accusing us of being cruel to animals, then they ignore the stupid buggers who tried to kill one of them by feeding it a can of Coke. Some people live in bloody fantasyland.’
‘How is the lion?’ I asked. ‘Did they do it any harm?’ I imagined the poor beast had enough hassles in its highly restricted life without being stressed out by drunken students.
‘Yeah, he’s fine. Fortunately, he’s got more sense than those stupid buggers, and left the can alone. Lucky for them.’ The implied threat didn’t need elaboration.
‘Well, let’s hope the rest of your stay here is uneventful and you can get on with the business of putting on a show. No more visitations other than the paying kind.’
8
If this was modern policing at its best, it was a farce. My sense of peeve at being shuffled from one pointless task to another had been heightened by the fact I’d had to wait for almost an hour just to get near a bloody computer. DI Johns, in yet another transparent effo
rt at keeping me from anything useful, had put me on to the riveting job of checking through the open murder enquiries nationwide, to see if there were any connections. Okay, maybe it had a small degree of usefulness to it, but bloody hell, an hour to get to a computer? Even the local kindergartens had a better computer-to-kids ratio than we had here. I bet the Minister of Police didn’t have to share with four others.
I also knew that at this moment, while I was swanning around on the dross, Smithy was interviewing Dr Penny Hawkins and I would very much have liked to sit in on that one. The whole idea of a female killer was somehow thrilling, in a sick kind of a way. The likelihood was zilch, but you never knew. Smithy would have to give me a full report later – he wouldn’t be allowed home until he did.
My search did throw up one interesting fact, however. Usually, Auckland was grand crime central which, considering a third of the country’s population lived up there, was to be expected. That, and the fact it was a claustrophobic, jarring and manic sort of a place where the entire population seemed to be obsessed with getting into their cars at exactly the same time and then spending the next few hours in impatient gridlock. I didn’t do cities. Dunedin with its hundred and twenty thousand was at the upper limit of my tolerances. The best thing about Auckland was the departure lounge at the airport, and even that was pretty crummy. But for once, it wasn’t leading the points on murder cases; the South Island had that dubious honour, which surprised me. There were only two recent unsolveds in Auckland, another in Hamilton, and a couple of cases they were near enough making arrests for to tick them off. The rest of the cases, four in all, were in the South Island. One was in Christchurch, which didn’t really surprise me as Christchurch had just nudged Auckland for the highest crime rate per capita. The others were in smaller towns, Timaru, Ashburton, and Oamaru. None of them even remotely resembled the case of Rose-Marie Bateman, other than the fact that someone was prematurely and unnecessarily dead. They were a mix of male and female victims, varying ages, weapons and causes of death. In fact, a couple of them were most likely accidental. I could quite safely say DI Johns had succeeded, yet again, in wasting my day. Hooray.
9
The figure on the screen seemed diminished by the room. His entire body transmitted his grief, the story amplified by the raw emotion on his face. This was not the face of a killer. This was the face of utter disbelief. Rose-Marie Bateman was not murdered by her boyfriend, of that I was certain.
The interview room was spartan – it was not designed with comfort in mind. Quite the contrary. On one side of the table came the barrage of questions from Detective Reihana; on the other side, weathering the brunt, was James Collingwood, aged twenty-three and about to break down into tears again. I reached forward and hit the rewind button as I didn’t catch the question the first time.
‘Did you and Miss Bateman have a sexual relationship?’
The young man’s shoulders shook as he tried to keep the sobs at bay. ‘Yes, well, no, not exactly,’ he said, through rasping breaths. ‘Rosie and I are Christians. We don’t believe in sex before marriage, so we didn’t have intercourse as such, but we messed around a bit.’
‘What exactly do you mean by messed around a bit?’ the detective asked.
‘You know, kissing, fondling, that kind of stuff?’
Not only was the poor boy trying not to cry, his squirming and the ruddiness of his cheeks told me he was hugely embarrassed by this line of questioning.
‘Did the fondling extend to oral sex?’
Shock darted across his face, which reddened even more.
‘God, no, we never went that far. No, she wouldn’t let me. Rosie was a good girl, such a good, good girl.’ At this point James broke down completely and Detective Reihana reached towards my screen to pause the recording.
I was sitting in the very room where the interview had taken place twenty-four hours earlier, but on my own clock, not the station’s. DI Johns might have been able to keep me off the front line as far as questioning was concerned, but he couldn’t stop me from watching the recorded interviews on my own time, especially if he didn’t know. I was buggered if I was going to be left out of the loop. The station was now tomb-like as it was late Sunday afternoon and everyone else with a life had gone home. It was the perfect opportunity to get up to speed on the murder investigation.
So far what I’d learned from James was that he didn’t do it. Yes, they all say that, but in this instance, I believed him. He had last seen Rose-Marie on the Friday; they had lunch together on the University Union lawn with several other friends. They had first met at a church students’ youth group and had been seeing each other for well over a year, and they didn’t flat together. I found it hard to believe that a hot-blooded young couple could be dating that long and never have jumped in the sack. My hormones were a damned sight more demanding than that and the abstinence would have driven me insane. I guess they were, as he said, very good little Christians. A bit better than a few others I knew who used the title, but who were busy shagging each other’s brains out at any opportunity. Each to their own.
A few zigzaggy black lines danced across the screen as the interview resumed. The timer indicated that it took James ten minutes to compose himself.
‘How often did you see Miss Bateman?’
A very juicy sniff made one eye twitch. ‘Normally, I’d see her most days on campus and perhaps two or three nights a week; we’d study together at our flats or at the library, and then we’d hook up at youth group on Sunday nights.’
‘Normally?’ the detective asked. ‘Had that pattern changed recently?’
‘A bit. This year we were both doing more study. Rosie and I are both doing doctorates, so getting together has been a bit more difficult. We’re in different departments, so I guess I only got to see her for lunch a few times a week and not so much in the evenings. She had a lot of lab work to do.’
‘What sort of lab work?’
‘She was doing work in the Pharmacy Department with medications, dosage forms for insulin, that kind of thing.’
‘You don’t do those kinds of things?’
‘No, I’m in Computer Sciences. Our building is on the other side of the campus.’ He didn’t look like what I’d consider a computer geek. His short-cropped dark hair had a very up-to-date cut and his clothing had a hip kind of style. None of that could deflect from the pain written across his face.
‘So how often did you talk, then?’
‘You mean on the phone?’
‘Yes.’
I was pleased the detective’s voice was firm and patient. He must have realised James Collingwood was no suspect. He seemed a bit of a sap, a good-looking one, but a sap all the same, truth be told.
‘Not that often, actually. A couple of times a week. We messaged or texted all the time though.’
What a strange age it was when you did your romancing via text message. I supposed it helped with the abstinence if you didn’t actually get within arms’ length of each other. What you can’t touch you can’t get into trouble with. They can’t have been hopelessly in love. If they were, they would have seen each other every day come hell or high water. Little things like clashing timetables and pressing deadlines would not have kept me from my Mr Right, if there was such a creature. Rampant ardour was a hard beast to restrain. I decided they’d had an odd kind of a relationship.
‘When you did talk, did Miss Bateman mention she was having difficulties with anyone? Her flatmates or anyone at the university?’
He shook his head slowly.
‘Her flatmates are cool. I thought she was really lucky with them. There was one who kept leaving her heater on thermostat all day when she wasn’t even home, which pissed them all off ’cos they divided up their power bill equally, but I think they’d sorted that out. They’re a great bunch of girls and they were good friends.’
‘What about at university? Did she say there were any issues?’
‘No, not that I can think of. She didn�
�t really talk much about her studies.’
‘Why was that? Was she avoiding talk about her studies? Was she struggling with them?’
Too many questions at once, I thought, don’t bamboozle the guy.
‘No, I don’t think she avoided it, although she did mention some of the things they were doing could be commercially sensitive. She’d never repeat anything said in confidence, she was careful like that…’ He trailed off like he was thinking about other things.
‘And her work?’ Reihana prompted. ‘Was she coping with everything?’
James snapped his head up again and nodded repeatedly. ‘She was really bright, right at the top of her class. Study was never a problem. It all came easy for her. She had a pretty big workload, but it never fazed her. She was happy to put in the long hours. We never talked that much about our studies,’ he said again. ‘It’s just we talked about other stuff.’
‘What kind of other stuff?’
‘You know, friends, family, what was happening around the place. The usual things.’
‘So you had no reason to think she was concerned about her safety?’
The shoulder quaking and thick voice started up again. ‘No, she was just her usual happy self.’
The interview ended shortly after and offered nothing in the way of helpful information other than eliminating one person from the list of likelies. The impression that young man gave was he wouldn’t hurt a fly and was far too well-mannered. I clicked on the next file, one of Rose-Marie’s flatmates. It might give a better picture of the young woman to hear from those who had to live with her day in and day out. So far, she’d been described as an angelic, intelligent young woman who held very old-fashioned views on loyalty, love and propriety. She sounded too good to be true. Perhaps they might offer a different perspective. Nothing like the grind of daily life to show what someone was really made of.