by Sharon Jones
His heart hammered in his throat as he grabbed his keys and dived back out of the set, down the corridor and through the main door. His feet clattered on the stone staircase as he dodged the people drawn out of their rooms by the commotion.
He ran out onto the icy pavement and the cool winter air hit him like a slap with a wet flannel. He sprinted towards the chapel. A porter in an overcoat and bowler hat stepped out in front of him, holding out his hands, barring the way.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go that way.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing for you to be concerned about. We’re asking everyone to go back to their rooms.’
‘My girlfriend went in there. Is she OK?’
‘Miss Sinclair?’
Michael nodded.
‘She’s in the lodge. She’s being well looked after.’
‘Looked after? Why does she need looking after? What happened?’
‘Afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss the situation at the moment, but if you go along to the lodge, I’m sure she’d be happy to see you.’
Michael jogged back the way he had come, his new shoes pinching his bare toes and sliding on the odd patches of ice the grit had failed to melt. He followed the path around the building, towards the door they’d entered through last night. She was OK, he told himself over and over again, but he couldn’t stop the creeping feeling that he was losing control and that the cold Cambridge air was so frozen that his lungs couldn’t take it in.
When he reached the porter’s lodge a uniformed policeman stopped him.
‘We’re asking everyone to go back to their rooms,’ the officer said, before he could get a word out.
‘My girlfriend’s in there. One of the porters said I could see her.’
The policeman, who wore an expression that he clearly reserved for pain-in-the-arse students, folded his arms. ‘Well he told you wrong. Now please, go back to your room.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until I know that she’s all right! Poppy!’ he shouted over the guy’s shoulder. ‘Poppy!’
The policeman’s hand gripped his arm.
‘Sir…’
Poppy appeared in the doorway. She looked around until her eyes met his, except she didn’t seem quite there. She looked spaced out.
Michael yanked his arm out of the copper’s grasp and dodged past him. ‘Are you all right? What’s going on?’ He took hold of her icy-cold hand and had to stop himself from wrapping his arms around her and never letting go ever again.
She looked past him, towards the chapel, her face expressionless. ‘Someone died.’
‘What?’
‘Can’t you smell it?’ she whispered.
‘Smell what?’
‘The blood. I can still smell the blood.’ She buckled forward.
He slid one hand around her waist to stop her from falling, and with the other he held back her hair as she began to retch.
CHAPTER FIVE
The back office of the porter’s lodge was no quieter, and no warmer, than where the crowd were gathering in Great Court. Poppy couldn’t seem to fight the shivers that shook her over and over again. The constant ringing of the phone hurt her ears, but everyone was too busy to answer. And when the phone wasn’t ringing there was the relentless chatter of porters talking to one another through the control deck for the walkie-talkies; instructions being barked and calls for assistance going unheeded.
She hadn’t seen Dad since she’d left him in the chapel. The porters had said that he was busy. They’d told her and Michael to wait there until he’d finished with the police.
Poppy shivered again. She felt frozen, despite having on the warmest coat she owned. And she couldn’t get the image of her dad’s red-stained hands out of her mind.
‘There was blood all over him.’
Michael leaned closer and cupped her hands within his. Even though he didn’t have a coat on, his hands were warm. The feel of his skin should have been comforting, so why did it make her shivering worse?
Michael shrugged. ‘He probably tried CPR.’
‘There was too much blood for him to have survived. Dad must have known he was dead. Why did he go anywhere near him?’
‘Because you Sinclairs can’t help yourselves from getting involved.’ Michael gave her a small smile. He was trying to be calm for her.
‘I suppose so.’
She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye for the first time since being ushered into the office. But the eyes she saw were the dead guy’s as he’d stretched out his hand to her. He’d looked so frightened. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the image. No. It hadn’t been real. She was in shock, that’s all.
‘Hey.’ Michael squeezed her hands. ‘Try not to think about it.’
When she opened her eyes he held her gaze for a moment before looking down and smiling. ‘So…when did the blue happen?’
‘Huh?’ She followed his gaze to her fingernails that she’d painted in alternate blue and green. ‘Oh. Yesterday morning.’
‘Couldn’t decide on a colour?’
Poppy shrugged. ‘You know me, I’m always changing my mind.’
Michael took a breath as if about to say something, but before he could speak the door creaked open. The woman who entered looked like a lawyer. Her blonde hair was pulled into a smart chignon, and she wore a black skirt suit over a crisp, white, high-collared blouse. Despite being a head shorter than the guy who followed her in, she exuded a don’t mess with me air. Police. They always seemed to travel in twos.
‘Are you Poppy?’ the woman asked, her eyes examining Poppy from behind the square black frames of her glasses.
Poppy nodded.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Dalca and this is Sergeant Lachlan.’ The tall guy nodded a hello, his shaven head and single hooped earring offset by a friendly enough smile.
‘How are you feeling?’ the inspector asked in an accent that sounded kind of Russian.
‘I’m fine.’ Poppy straightened her spine and tried to pull her hands out of Michael’s but he grabbed onto one and held on tight. ‘When can I see my dad?’
The inspector wheeled a swivel chair away from the desk opposite and sat down. ‘Your dad’s very concerned about you but I’m afraid we’re going to need to talk to him for a bit longer yet. I hoped that if you felt up to a few questions you could help by telling us about what happened this morning.’
Poppy glanced at Michael. He stared back at her, unblinking, and squeezed her hand.
She turned back at the inspector and nodded.
‘Thank you. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. Your father tells me that you live with your mother in Windermere. Why are you in Cambridge?’
It was a simple enough question, but all the words had disappeared from her brain.
Michael seemed to realise. ‘I’ve got an interview this morning,’ he said. ‘Poppy came along to support me. And to see her dad.’
‘I see. And you are?’
‘Michael Quinn. I’m Poppy’s friend. Boyfriend.’
‘And when did you both arrive?’
‘Last night. It was late.’ Michael looked to Poppy for confirmation. ‘About eleven?’
She nodded.
‘You went straight to your rooms?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you go out at all?’
Michael shook his head.
‘What happened this morning?’ The inspector turned her gaze on Poppy, making it clear that she’d heard enough from Michael and it was her turn to step up to the plate.
‘When I got up Dad was already in the study of the rooms we’re staying in. We talked for a bit – arranged to meet in the chapel after his service to go for breakfast. Then I got dressed and went over to the chapel.’
‘You arranged to meet after the service?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why did you go over earlier?’
‘Umm…’ Bugger! She was already tripping herself up. Now she was
going to have to explain to a complete stranger how Dad caught her not at it with Michael. ‘We kind of had an argument. I didn’t want to wait to sort it out.’
‘So your dad wasn’t expecting to see you until after the service?’
‘I suppose.’
The detective smiled, kindly. She was didn’t look old enough to be in charge of the bouncer dude standing in the doorway. ‘What did you argue about?’
The heat rose in Poppy’s cheeks. Her gaze sank to the floor.
‘Poppy?’
‘Jim caught Poppy coming out of my room and he didn’t approve,’ Michael said, plainly, like there was no problem.
Poppy glanced up to gauge the woman’s reaction. For a moment, the policewoman stared steadily back, and Poppy couldn’t work out what she was thinking.
‘I see,’ she said, eventually.
‘I’m sixteen, nearly seventeen. It’s legal,’ Poppy blurted, and then immediately felt like an idiot.
Inspector Dalca smiled, unable to keep the amusement out of her eyes. ‘You’re not in trouble. Not with me, anyway. I’m only interested in the facts in so far as they help me make sense of what happened.’
‘Yeah. Sorry,’ Poppy murmured, feeling like a complete idiot. Again.
‘So, how long did you wait after your father left before you followed him over to the chapel?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe ten minutes. I had to get dressed.’
Poppy stared at the detective. Why was she so interested in timings? Surely between Dad and the porters they could nail down when everything happened.
Then it struck her. The questions she was asking…the detective was trying to work out whether Dad had had enough time to kill the guy before she got there. That was crazy! Dad couldn’t hurt a fly. ‘He didn’t do it,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even, and failing.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘My dad, he couldn’t have killed that guy! Michael will tell you: there is no way that my dad could kill anyone. He’s a pacifist. He’d rather die himself.’
The inspector exchanged a glance with her sergeant.
‘No one’s accusing your dad, Poppy,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’re just trying to work out what happened so we can find who did this. You’re not in any trouble and neither is your dad.’
‘You wouldn’t be asking these questions if you hadn’t thought about it.’
‘Poppy, we’ll be interviewing everyone who has access to the chapel. Your father happens to be the first person we’re talking to. At this point we’re not making any judgements, we’re just trying to establish the facts. OK?’
Did this woman think she’d come down in the last shower? They’d jumped to the simplest and most obvious assumption – that she had walked in before her dad had had time to dispose of the body.
‘Tell me about when you entered the chapel.’
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut as memories invaded her mind. Wings drawn in blood. The gaping wound that looked like something from a butcher’s window. The guy’s staring eyes, as unseeing as the milky-white eyes of the marble statues. Poppy swallowed and forced her eyes open. She didn’t want to see that scene ever again. She could still smell the blood like it had coated her nostrils. Metallic, clawing. Like raw steak…
‘Take your time,’ the inspector said, softly.
‘I went into the part with all the statues but the doors to the chapel were shut. I wasn’t going to go in. I thought the service might have started. But then I saw something on the floor. Blood.’
The policewoman reached up and touched the arm of the sergeant. ‘Make sure they’ve got that.’
He nodded and stepped out of the room.
‘Sorry, go on, Poppy. You say the doors were shut?’
Poppy nodded. ‘I thought Dad might have hurt himself…or someone was ill…and I couldn’t hear anything, so I went into the chapel. Dad was kneeling over the guy. At first I thought there’d been an accident. Then I saw all the blood. Dad said to go to the porter’s lodge to ask for them to call for the police and an ambulance.’
Detective Inspector Dalca nodded. ‘That’s just what your dad said happened.’
‘That’s because it’s the truth.’
The policewoman seemed oblivious to the bite in Poppy’s tone. ‘If you can, Poppy, can you describe to me what you saw?’
‘What?’
A uniformed copper stuck his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but you’re wanted on the phone.’
She dismissed him with the wave of a hand. ‘I’ll call them back.’
‘But—’
‘—I’ll call them back.’
‘But it’s the Chief Constable, ma’am.’
‘What?’
The uniformed officer held out a phone. ‘He needs to talk to you. Now.’
Detective Inspector Dalca frowned. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she said, getting up and taking the phone. ‘Sir? Yes, sir – I understand that – but, sir – yes – yes – we’ll be as discreet as we possibly can, sir, but there’s no doubt this is a murder inquiry – of course – thank you, sir.’ She ended the call, took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Then she handed back the phone to the constable and sighed.
‘Sorry for the interruption, Poppy. Go on. It helps for me to have all the details.’ She sat back down.
Poppy glanced at Michael. The corner of his mouth twitched in an almost encouraging smile.
He squeezed her hand. ‘Go on.’
Poppy turned back to the inspector. ‘The guy was lying on the floor, with his head towards the door. I think he’d been stabbed in the chest. That’s the only wound I could see. And it looked like he’d…almost like he’d…’
‘What?’
‘Like he’d drawn wings in the blood.’
The policewoman nodded. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’
Poppy shrugged. ‘What do you mean?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Forget I asked. Can you remember anything else? Small details could turn out to be very important.’
Poppy closed her eyes again and forced herself to look at the memory. ‘There was spear or something a few feet away, but I didn’t really get a good look at it.’
‘And the dead man. Did you know him?’
She saw his face – his mouth open in a silent scream. Had he been calling for help? ‘No.’ She opened her eyes.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yeah. I’d have remembered seeing him.’
‘Thanks for going through that. I know it’s not easy. Just one last thing. We’d like to take away the clothes you’re wearing.’
Poppy’s head snapped up. ‘What? But I didn’t touch him. I didn’t get that close.’
The inspector’s expression remained neutral. ‘It’s just routine.’
‘You’re looking for blood, aren’t you? You want to know if I was there when it happened. You do think it was Dad.’
‘You must be Poppy,’ a voice said from the door.
The woman standing in the doorway had thick silver hair that curled at her shoulders, and tanned skin. She had on a thick purple wool coat and a long black scarf, and a pair of glasses was hanging around her neck by a gold chain, above which was the collar of a priest.
‘I’m Beatrice Barclay-Tillman, the Dean of Trinity College,’ she said in an accent that made Poppy think of country music and cowboy boots. Holding her hand out to the inspector, she forced the younger woman to stand. ‘Call me Bea.’
The inspector got to her feet and shook the Dean’s hand.
‘I’m sure any questions you have for Poppy can wait until I’ve at least given her and her friend a cup of tea.’
‘Actually, I’ve just about finished with Poppy. I was just explaining to her that we need the clothes she’s wearing so they can be taken away by our forensics team.’ The detective turned back to Poppy and raised her eyebrows. ‘It’ll help us rule out any fibres that may have contaminated the scene.’
Poppy pulled h
er hand out of Michael’s and pushed herself to her feet. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’
‘Actually, I’d rather you stayed here. Perhaps Michael could run back to your rooms and get you a change of clothes?’
Amidst the fuzziness that had filled her head, a small voice screamed noooo! They wanted Michael to go through her bag? That was the last thing she wanted. There was stuff in there that she did not want him to see.
‘No problem. Anything you want in particular?’ Michael asked, turning to her.
‘Umm – err – whatever you come across first. Whatever’s on top.’
Michael nodded. ‘OK, I won’t be long.’ He kissed her cheek before manoeuvring around the Dean and the detective.
‘Your dad’s going down to the station to help the police,’ the Dean said. ‘I’ll look after you while he’s gone.’
‘The station? Why does he need to go there?’ Poppy glared at the policewoman.
How could she really expect her to believe that her dad wasn’t a suspect?
CHAPTER SIX
Michael fished the keys out of his pocket as he waded through the crowd that had gathered in the quad. He’d almost made it to the staircase when Ria, still wearing nothing but the black silk gown, ran out of the entrance, heading straight for the chapel.
Conal appeared behind her, calling her name. Spotting Michael, he shouted, ‘For God’s sake, stop her!’
Michael stepped in front of the girl.
Ria’s face was marked by black tearstains. She tried to push him away.
‘Is it Danny?’ she asked, her eyes pleading with him. ‘Is it?’
Conal and then Devon appeared at their side, both gasping.
Conal swore under his breath. ‘You have to come inside.’
Ria glared at him. ‘You told them, didn’t you? After we agreed not to, you told them.’
Conal shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t.’
The sound of Ria’s hand slapping Conal’s face cracked through the murmurs of the crowd, drawing the attention of nearby students.
Ria pressed the hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, as if she’d just witnessed someone else’s violence.
Conal turned his gaze to the ground. He bit his lip and looked like he was mentally counting to ten. When he turned back to Ria, his expression was neutral but there was no masking the anger in his eyes. ‘You have to come inside. Now,’ he said, his voice quietly menacing. ‘You’re making a scene.’