The Silent One

by M K Farrar

  In truth, she wanted to see if there were any inconsistences in his story in case he had to be interviewed another time in the future.

  He shrugged. “It was just a normal evening. We had dinner, watched a bit of television, and I did a bit of work on my laptop. Then we went to bed.”

  “When you say ‘we’, who are you talking about?”

  “Myself and my wife, Sarah.”

  “It’s just the two of you at home? No children?”

  “No, it’s just us.”

  Erica continued. “What did you watch on TV?”

  “Umm, some show about people giving up their city lives to move to the countryside. My wife loves all that stuff. I think she’s hoping I might suggest it one day.”

  She relaxed her voice. “You don’t fancy it, then?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “The countryside doesn’t smell so fresh after one of the farmers has been muck-spreading, you know. Besides, we’re comfortable here. I don’t see why we need to change that.”

  She picked up on a little tension in his tone. So, was that a bone of contention in his marriage? He’d said they were happily married, but perhaps his wife was bored of city living and wanted to move. There were also no children in the marriage. Had that been by choice? She made a mental note to find out.

  “Did you go to bed at a normal time?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Just after ten. I’m up early, so I don’t stay up late.”

  “And you were in bed all night?” She gestured with both hands. “No reason to get up?”

  Lines appeared between his bushy brows as he thought. “I think I got up to use the bathroom at around two, but that was all.”

  “And then what time did you get up again?”

  “Just after five. My alarm went off, and I snoozed it, but then I forced myself to get up. I try to sneak out and not wake up my wife. She doesn’t like it when I wake her up too early.”

  Erica smiled and gave a small chuckle. “My husband is the same.” She caught herself using the present tense and winced but didn’t correct herself. “How do you get to work?”

  “I catch the Tube. It’s only a few stops, and there’s never enough parking at the university.”

  “What time would you say the train was that you caught?”

  “About five thirty-five, at a guess. I can’t say I was really paying much attention, though. I was still half asleep. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have noted everything down.”

  She offered him a smile. “Don’t worry, Dr Young. An approximation is fine. It’s not as though we expect you to have predicted what was going to happen.”

  Unless you were the one who killed the student and all of this is bullshit to cover up your own mistake. They hadn’t had any reports back from SOCO yet, but she already had a good idea that Professor Young couldn’t have got his DNA and prints over more of that crime scene if he’d tried.

  “So, then you walked from the station?” she prompted him. “What route did you take?”

  “I got off at Whitechapel Station and walked up the high street. It’s the same route I take every day.”

  “Did you see anyone unusual? Anyone who caught your attention?”

  He shook his head. “No, not at all. But like with the time, I wasn’t really paying much attention. If I’d known I was sharing the street with a killer, I definitely would have been on the lookout.”

  “Of course. Let’s get to the point where you found Adam Humphries’ body. Can you talk me through what happened?”

  He nodded and glanced back down at the table. “I entered the university grounds and walked towards the economics department. It was quiet, and I didn’t see anyone else. The route takes me past the courtyard where the student halls are and a couple of shops, too. I don’t know what made me look over, but something must have caught my eye. I saw his feet first, at least his trainers, sticking out from behind the bushes of the walled raised bed. For a second, I thought someone had just lost their shoes on the way back from a night out—the students quite often do stupid things during those first few weeks. They steal traffic cones and stick them on the heads of the statues around campus. It’s all just harmless fun, really.”

  He must have realised he was getting off track as he gave his head another slight shake and then ran his hand over his face.

  “But then I saw there were a pair of legs attached to the shoes. I thought he might have been drunk. It’s the students’ first time away from home, and they don’t have any parents looking over their shoulders, making sure they’re behaving themselves. Then I saw the blood and I realised he must be hurt. I reckoned he’d fallen and hit his head and perhaps had knocked himself unconscious. It wasn’t until he didn’t respond to me calling to him that it dawned on me that something was terribly wrong, and then I knelt down beside him and touched his shoulder, and then I knew for sure he was dead.”

  Erica stepped in. “And yet you still turned his body over?”

  “I had to check there was nothing more that could be done for the poor boy.”

  “You just said you knew for sure that he was dead the moment you touched his shoulder,” she probed.

  “Yes, well, I didn’t know for sure. I mean, how could I?” His already ruddy complexion flared in embarrassment and perhaps even a little anger. “He could have recently stopped breathing for all I knew, and perhaps CPR would have saved him.”

  “Did you try CPR?” she asked.

  He glanced down at his hands and shook his head. “No. I could see he’d already been dead a couple of hours by that point.”

  Erica narrowed her eyes. “You could? Do you have some experience with working out times of death?”

  It was hard enough to get a time of death from professionals at the scene of a crime. At best, they could normally guess at a ballpark figure. What made Paul Young so certain he knew how long the student had been dead for?

  “You can answer ‘no comment’,” Donna Clark reminded him, but Young ignored her.

  His head snapped back up. “Of course not! But you can tell, can’t you? His eyes were... not right. And his skin was pale.”

  The solicitor held up her hand in a stop motion. “I’d like to stop the questioning to have a moment alone with my client.”

  Erica smiled sweetly. “Of course.” She spoke out loud. “For the benefit of the recording, the interview is being paused.”

  She did as she’d said, and then gathered her papers and stepped out into the corridor. She let out a sigh and leaned her back against the wall. While these interruptions were frustrating, they were important when it came to a conviction. Not that she believed the professor was necessarily guilty. In her experience, the killer was far more likely to be fleeing the scene than he was calling the police, but there was always a first time.

  The door opened and Donna Clark’s head popped through the gap. “Okay, we’re ready for you again.”

  Erica re-entered the room and took her seat.

  “My client wishes to continue answering your questions,” Clark said, though the tight pinch of her mouth told Erica the solicitor wasn’t happy about it.

  “Thank you. Starting the recording again at ten twenty-six a.m.” She looked across the table at Paul Young. She already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask him. “What time is sunrise at the moment?”

  “I believe it’s not until at least seven,” he replied.

  “In which case, you’re saying you could tell the victim had been dead a couple of hours by the time you found him, and you were able to decipher this in the dark?”

  His jaw went rigid, and he glared at her. “Are you accusing me of something, Detective, because it certainly feels that way.”

  “Not at all. Like you said, the victim was already dead when you found him, and I’m sure you have an alibi for the early hours of this morning, when he was most likely killed.”

  “Like I already told you, I was with my wife.”

  Erica raised both
eyebrows. “And she can confirm that?”

  “Absolutely. Just call her. She’ll tell you that I was there all night.”

  “Thank you, Dr Young. I’ll be doing that.” She took a breath, centring herself again. “What about other people? Did you see anyone else hanging around?”

  “No, no one else.”

  “And you picked up the brick as well?” She lifted both eyebrows curiously.

  “Yes.” He let out a long sigh. “I can see that was stupid now. I don’t even know why I did it. I was running on auto.”

  Erica nodded, as though she understood why he would have touched the brick so unnecessarily. “So, when you realised Adam Humphries was dead, did you call for help?”

  “I did with my phone. It was in my pocket, and I took it out and called nine-nine-nine. One of your colleagues took it from me and put it in a little plastic bag after they arrived, but I have no idea why.”

  “I believe it has Adam Humphries’ blood on it,” she said.

  “Yes, but only because it was already on my hands from trying to help him.” He paled. “The same with my clothes. That’s not going to get me in trouble, is it? What’s the world coming to when you can’t try to help someone for fear of being accused of being the one who’s hurt them?”

  “Like I said, Dr Young, all of this will be cleared up with forensics, and of course if you have a solid alibi, that will go a long way to corroborating your story. If you have nothing to worry about, you won’t need to worry, will you?”

  He glanced down. “No, I won’t.”

  Was he hiding something? She wasn’t sure if it was that he’d killed Adam Humphries, but he definitely seemed more jittery than perhaps he should have if his story was completely straight.

  Paul Young shifted in his seat. “So, when am I likely to get my stuff back? Will it be when I’m released? I’m not bothered about my clothes, but I really need that phone.”

  “I’m afraid you might want to sort out a new one in the meantime.”

  “Right.” His lips thinned in disapproval.

  A jab of irritation went through her. “I’m sure Adam Humphries’ parents would happily swap the inconvenience of having to arrange a new phone compared to having to arrange their son’s funeral.”

  “Yes, of course.” He seemed suitably cowed. “My apologies.”

  Erica forced a tight smile. “Right. Let’s go over all of that again, make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

  Paul Young let out a long sigh and sat back. “I think I might want that coffee now.”

  OVER AN HOUR LATER, Erica stepped out of the interview room. Young was free to leave whenever he wanted, though his solicitor had indicated that she wished to speak to him first.

  Her phone buzzed, and she checked the message—it was from Shawn.

  Just got back. How is it going with Young?

  She typed out a reply.

  Going to speak to his wife. He’s named her as his alibi. Meet me by the car.

  By the time she made her way through the station, Shawn was already waiting beside the unmarked Ford Mondeo, leaning against the passenger door. He straightened as she approached.

  “What did you make of Young then?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. He did seem genuinely horrified at the possibility of being accused of killing Adam Humphries.”

  “Or horrified at the idea he’s been questioned about it?”

  Erica shrugged. “I expect everyone is already talking about the fact that we’ve brought him in for questioning. It’ll be right around campus. I can’t say I blame him.”

  “He found the body,” Shawn said. “Of course we’re going to want to talk to him. It doesn’t make him guilty.”

  “Yes, but you know what teenagers can be like. One hint at a bit of gossip, and it’ll be twisted and spread in seconds.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Yeah, this will probably follow him for years, with all the students whispering about how he was the professor who found a student’s dead body.”

  Erica let out a sigh. “There’s nothing we can do about that except make sure we catch the person who did kill Humphries.”

  He glanced over at her. “Does that mean you don’t think it was Young?”

  “If he has an alibi all night, plus he has no motive, we don’t have anything on him except that he has no idea how to treat a crime scene.”

  “Or he deliberately got his DNA all over it to cover his tracks.”

  “I have considered that’s a possibility, but we can’t get overly focused on that at the expense of catching whoever did do it.” Erica climbed into the car. “Let’s speak to the wife and get her version of events before too much of the gossip gets fed back to her.”

  Chapter Five

  Lucas Gill didn’t like all these police hanging around.

  He’d hoped they’d have got whatever it was they needed and buggered off—he’d already been to a couple of lectures that morning—but there seemed to be just as many here now as there had been when he’d woken up. He was still fighting the bleariness of his hangover, his mouth dry and tasting bad, and a gnawing hunger that refused to go away, no matter how many bacon sarnies he’d got down him.

  He didn’t have any reason to feel anxious about Adam Humphries getting killed. It wasn’t as though it had anything to do with him. Humphries was a bit of a loner, as far as he could tell, and he’d probably got involved with some weirdo online. That was what normally happened to kids their age these days. Not that they were really kids anymore. They were eighteen years old and considered adults.

  Across the other side of the courtyard, he recognised Jasmine’s familiar bouncy walk. She saw him, and her face lit up, and she headed over.

  When she got close enough, he hooked his arm around her neck and kissed the top of her head.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” he said.

  It looked like she’d managed to dump her hanger-on friend since this morning. The other girl, Paige, was like Jasmine’s limpet, always craving attention and trying too hard to fit in. The desperation rose off her in waves. Lucas found he couldn’t relax when she was around.

  “Hi, I wondered where you were,” Jas said.

  He switched into flirt mode. “Did you miss me?”

  She smiled up at him. “Always.”

  God, she was so pretty. Her sweetness did something to him.

  “Hey, Lucas, dude!”

  The shout came from Ben Redding, one of the guys he’d become friends with since they’d been at university. They were both doing degrees in Computer Science and Economics, and their rooms were on the same floor, a couple of doors apart. He and Ben had instantly got on. They both liked the same shit—gaming, drinking beer, hanging out. Neither of them were particularly into sports, and Lucas was happy not to have to pretend to have conversations about things that didn’t interest him.

  Lucas was pleased to be away from home. Both his parents were controlling dickheads, and he couldn’t have got out of there fast enough. His dad was some bigwig in a hedge fund bank, and because he called all the shots at work, he thought he could do the same at home. Lucas had been privately educated, with tutors, and he knew going to this East London uni hadn’t been what his parents wanted for him.

  His mum stayed at home, doing her best to look busy by volunteering for whatever she could half her time, and spending the other half with women exactly like her at the local Golf and Country Club. She did whatever his dad told her, getting doled out ‘spending’ money like she was the child in the house. It was pathetic. She droned on at him about having respect for her when he was late home from parties or didn’t pick up his breakfast dishes, or dumped his dirty clothes all over the floor, but really, what was there to respect? As far as he could tell, she was just a paid maid. She kept the house clean and tidy, made their meals, ensuring the fridge-freezer was always fully stocked. Wasn’t that her role in life—well, that and keeping her appearance respectable for when she was on his dad’s arm during any busin
ess dinners? His dad didn’t pay for all the personal training sessions, and hair and nail appointments for nothing. So, Lucas didn’t really see what she had to complain about all the time, but that didn’t stop her from complaining. All the fucking time. Nag, nag, nag. It was no wonder Lucas had jumped at the first chance to get out of there.

  Some of the other uni students were having to work part-time in bars or restaurants to supplement their student loans, but Lucas didn’t have to worry about any of that. His dad was paying for everything, even though Lucas hadn’t got into Oxford or Cambridge like his dad had wanted. That was another area that he and Ben had in common. They were both privately educated, with parents who’d thought they would have achieved more than they had. They both had plenty of cash, too, so neither of them ever had to turn down a night out ’cause they couldn’t afford it.

  Maybe that was why he and Ben had become such firm friends so quickly—they recognised the similarities in each other, maybe just in the brand of their clothing or their short sides, long-on-top hairstyles, or simply the way they carried themselves—knowing the world owed them everything.

  “Hey, Jasmine,” Ben greeted Jas as he approached. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, stinking hangover from last night, but it was worth it.” She grinned and slipped her arm around Lucas’s waist. “Right, Lucas?”

  “Fuck, yeah,” he agreed.

  “Wasn’t worth it for Humphries, though, was it?” Ben cocked an eyebrow.

  “Getting pissed didn’t kill him, though, did it?” Lucas said. “Someone else did.”

  Ben smirked. “Yeah, Professor Young, from what I heard.”

  Jas rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a dick, Ben. Why would Professor Young kill Humphries?”

  “I heard that he gets pretty friendly in classes with the boys, if you know what I mean.”

  Jasmine flapped her hand, smacking Ben on the shoulder. “You can’t go around saying things like that!”

  He shrugged. “Why not, if it’s true?”