Table of Contents
Cover
By Judith Cutler
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By Judith Cutler
The Sophie Rivers Mysteries
DYING FALL
DYING TO WRITE
DYING ON PRINCIPLE
DYING FOR MILLIONS
DYING FOR POWER
DYING TO SCORE
DYING BY DEGREES
DYING BY THE BOOK
DYING IN DISCORD
DYING TO DECEIVE
DYING FALL
A Sophie Rivers Mystery
Judith Cutler
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which is was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicably copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain in 1995
by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd of
5 Windmill Street, London W1
This eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 1995 by Judith Cutler
The right of Judith Cutler to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0106-5 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank for their help and inspiration: the students and staff of Matthew Boulton College, Birmingham, especially the A level and Computing sections; the musicians of the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra; the staff of Symphony Hall, Birmingham; West Midlands Police, especially the men and women of Rose Road Police Station, Harborne. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.
The events of this novel are fiction: if there is a passing resemblance between some of the locations in it and similar ones in Birmingham, that is purely in the interests of verisimilitude.
To my family and friends – none of whom is picture within
‘If music be the food of love, play on:
And give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! It had a dying fall …
… Enough! No more:
‘Tis not so sweet now as it was before …’
From Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Act One, Scene i.
Chapter One
Seven-thirty on a Tuesday night. The wind’s slashing rain across the ill-fitting windows and rocking the whole tower block.
I have a rotten day at college. I stay late for my evening class and to finish a tedious batch of marking. And I get into a lift to escape and find I’m sharing it with a body.
I didn’t notice, of course, till I’d pressed the pad for down and was plunging fifteen floors.
The boy – he looked eighteen, maybe a young nineteen – was slumped in the corner furthest from the control panel, leaning against the lift wall. His face was half turned from me. His left hand rested loosely on a ring file marked WAJID AKHTAR: INORGANIC.
I thought he’d passed out: I’d better help.
I tipped him forward – to put his head between his knees. Then I saw five inches of polished wood sticking out from the back of his leather jacket.
Round the knife there was no blood to speak of.
But an ugly splattering told me there was blood elsewhere. It poured from his nose and mouth, flooding across the worn lino floor, lapping towards my shoes.
At last the lift doors opened. But when I opened my mouth to call for help, no sound emerged. Fortunately Winston, one of the college porters, happened to look up from his desk and see me. I pointed, trying to hold the doors open so that the lift wouldn’t carry us relentlessly up and down the building.
Winston reached behind his desk.
‘It’s OK, Sophie,’ he said, ‘I’ve immobilised the lift. What’s the trouble? Jesus!’ he said, as he looked.
I forced myself to touch Wajid’s neck. He was still warm but there was no pulse. Winston was stripping off his jacket, as if to wrap the boy in it.
‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s no point. Just call the police, Winston. I’ll stay here with him.’
At last the police came. Just a couple of kids in a panda at first: I’d taught them both, as it happens, but they were too busy trying to be professionally insouciant to notice me. Then more cars, with men and women in plain clothes.
A middle-aged man singled me out. Detective Sergeant Dale, his ID said. But he introduced himself as Ian, and mentioned other officers by their first names. The team was working like a machine, cordoning off the area and taking pictures of what lay within it. He left them to it, ushering me gently outside.
The night air smelt very good.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I can’t just walk away. Someone’s got to tell his parents. And I ought to tell my boss. And Winston’s only a kid. You can’t leave him in there.’
‘No one’s going to leave him in there. But if you could tell us who’s in charge it’d help.’
I shrugged helplessly. Who’d want that sort of responsibility?
‘Maybe you ought to contact the Principal,’ I said eventually. ‘But God knows how you’ll find him. He’s bound to be ex-directory.’
‘If you can give us his name –’
‘James Worral,’ I said. ‘And I think he lives somewhere in Four Oaks. But what about Wajid? Who’ll tell his parents?’
‘Our people are trained to do that,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get one of my colleagues to take care of the Principal, and then we’ll take you off to make a statement.’
When he got back I was being sick in the gutter. He didn’t say anything – just passed me a packet of extra strong mints after I’d finished.
‘D’you want one of my colleagues to take your car back to the station?’ he asked, opening his passenger door for me.
I shook my head.
‘No car? That’s unusual these days.’
‘Used to have. They worked their way through two sets of hubcaps, then started on the wheels. Came out at nine one night to find the poor thing sitting on four neat piles of bricks. So I cycle or catch the bus, depending on the weather. And t
oday,’ I added, raising my voice against the wind, ‘it was the bus.’
The college is on Birmingham’s inner ring road, five minutes away from Ladywood police station. But Dale turned the car through Edgbaston and followed my daily route towards Harborne.
‘I thought you said something about a statement?’
‘That’s right. At Rose Road nick. We’ve got all the facilities there. You can have a bit of a wash and brush-up, and maybe a cup of tea, and then we’ll sort out your statement.’
I sat back and let myself be taken. Suddenly I couldn’t stop shaking, and every time I let myself think about Wajid I wanted to vomit again.
The room they showed me into was functional but clean and not unpleasant. Ian Dale organised some coffee for me, and spooned extra sugar into it. He might have been a favourite uncle, in his worn sports jacket with archetypal leather patches. Then another man appeared, younger and altogether brisker.
‘DCI Chris Groom,’ he said, shaking hands with me. ‘And you must be Sophie Rivers.’
Nothing seemed to be as I’d expected it. The relaxed atmosphere, for example, informal but courteous; all these first names, not an old-fashioned ‘Miss’ in earshot. Perhaps I’d been reading too much pulp detective fiction. At least they left some mistakes on my statement for me to correct; I certainly wasn’t going to put my name to a document which accused a lift of being stationery. But they’d got everything else right: I’d been working on my own in a big, communal office. I’d heard nothing unusual – there’d been the noise of the lifts at the far end of the corridor, but that had mostly been drowned by the wind and the rain. Colleagues had popped in briefly to collect their belongings at the end of their classes or to make coffee. No one had reported seeing anything unusual. They’d all looked tired and strained, as you’d expect halfway through the winter term when flu was decimating the staff and we were all having to take on extra work. No one looked as if they’d just committed a murder. ‘Most of us would like to from time to time,’ I said, looking up. Everyone grinned politely.
No, I’d never taught Wajid.
‘I know him by reputation, that’s all,’ I said. ‘Knew.’
‘What sort of reputation?’ asked the DCI, delicately.
‘It’s only hearsay. And I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.’
‘If speaking ill will help us find his killer –?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not that easy, is it? You know what the college is like – ten thousand students use it, all from different backgrounds. Class, culture, race – I don’t want to say anything that’ll spark off friction.’
Perhaps I was being disingenuous. There had been an ugly incident only this afternoon, when a gang of white lads from Meat Three – trainee butchers – had hurled plates from the canteen windows at a group of Asian girls. I’d had the job of sorting out the ringleaders.
‘There’ll be more friction if we don’t find the killer,’ Dale added.
I nodded.
‘Could you talk to us off the record, as it were?’ asked the DCI.
‘OK. But I’d like to use the loo first. All this coffee …’
The interview became a conversation. We moved to Groom’s office, an unnaturally tidy room with a Monet print on the wall. What kind of policeman has a Monet, for goodness’ sake? The sort that has hand-sewn Barker shoes, no doubt, and whose books include the Shorter Oxford Dictionary.
There was more coffee, in cups with a back-up supply in a Thermos jug, on his desk, and some film-wrapped sandwiches.
‘Nice to see you’re looking a bit better,’ said Dale, passing me a plate.
‘Thanks,’ I said to both. I was beginning to feel myself again.
Groom smiled. ‘I can have my colleagues swarm all over William Murdock College for the rest of the week and they’ll pick up nothing. Oh, lots of facts, I don’t doubt that, but I want nuances. Like the rumours you hinted at about Wajid.’
Ian Dale nodded agreement, and flicked open his notebook.
I looked at it. So did Groom. Dale flicked it shut again.
‘Look, a lot of our kids are deprived. They come from rough backgrounds. Inner-city estates, inner-city schools. A lot are poor. They can’t get grants, and there’s no point saying they should go and get a decent job because there aren’t any decent jobs. So some dabble where they shouldn’t.’
Groom and Dale nodded, though not necessarily in sympathy.
‘There was a rumour that Wajid had –’ I stopped. ‘He never did anything they’d throw him out of college for. There are kids who wreck the loos or the drinks machines. Wajid wasn’t one of those. Not a ringleader. When you reach the scene of crime.’
‘Macavity’s not there!’ said Groom, straight-faced.
‘Why couldn’t you throw him out?’ asked Dale, unmoved.
‘Because, apart from anything else, he wasn’t “a monster of depravity”.’ I flicked an eye at Groom, whose eyes flickered back. ‘He was actually a very good student. Look, we keep files on all our students – I could show you where we keep them tomorrow.’
‘So I seem to have become a copper’s nark,’ I told George’s answering machine half an hour later.
George was my friend. I was fond of him. Fond fond, not sexy fond. He played the bassoon in the Midshires Symphony Orchestra, and was the person I needed to confide in. George was much older than I was – fifty-six to my thirty-four. We got to know each other because in my spare time I sing in the Midlands Choral Society, which works with the MSO whenever a choir is needed. I suppose we hadn’t all that much in common – but we loved and trusted each other implicitly. He and the orchestra had been in Lichfield that evening. They’d probably be back already, but George hadn’t been sleeping well recently and the last thing I wanted to do was ruin a night’s rest for him by asking him to come over and comfort me. Wednesday would be Derby, then on Thursday it’d be Sheffield. They wouldn’t be back till early Friday morning. We’d meet after Friday’s concert – hence the phone message. If he woke late he’d leave one on my machine in reply. It was nearly as good as being properly in touch. But I rather hoped he’d get up early and phone me before I went into work.
Chapter Two
It was only drizzling when I set out for work the following morning, but by the time I’d got through Harborne into Edgbaston it was raining properly. Rain’s bad news if you cycle. Apart from getting you thoroughly wet, it enhances your chance of being mown down by a motorist who is apparently too busy counting raindrops on his precious polished paintwork to notice other people on the road. But it was too late to go back, and no one’s yet devised a way of folding a cycle small enough to take on a bus, so I toiled on.
The college buildings are dismal examples of cheap sixties architecture. There is a persistent rumour that they were intended as factories, another that they should have become low-cost flats. Perhaps both are correct: we have, after all, a low, dumpy building and a fifteen-storey tower block, neither of which is appetising. Naturally the staff based in either prefer the ambience of the other. Those who were in the tower block the day of the Birmingham earth tremor, which left cracks horribly visible in the south-facing wall, know they are right.
The buildings stand side by side but have separate entrances, and open on to a big but inadequate car park. This morning the car park was full of wet students, in large queues meandering from both entrances. As I chained the parts of my cycle I leave outside, a police car joined the others near the tower-block entrance. Ian Dale emerged and joined me. We walked towards the head of the queue, which magically parted. It must have been for him, not me.
Then I saw what was causing the delays. They were checking students’ IDs. Some egalitarian soul had pointed out that the staff should have IDs too, and that they should be subjected to the same scrutiny as everyone else. Quite right, except that the card tended to drift inexorably towards the bottom of my marking. I retrieved it eventually from a set of notes I thought I’d lost – an idiot’s guide to the ap
ostrophe.
There was no sign of Winston in the group of porters checking IDs; I’d ask his mother how he was when I saw her. I left a wheel and my handlebars in the caretaker’s cubbyhole and rejoined the maelstrom in the foyer.
One of the lifts – the lift – was still taped off, and a chalk message on one of the classroom doors declared it was for the use of POLICE PERSONAL only. The handiwork of another of my ex-students, no doubt.
The grumbling which had been simmering outside was bubbling over in the foyer. None of the other lifts was working properly. I grinned at Ian and headed straight for the stairs.
‘We’re not going all the way up there – not fifteen floors!’
‘How about stopping off at the canteen for a coffee?’ asked another voice. Groom’s. I hadn’t noticed him before. Presumably he’d been lurking as invisibly as six foot something of policeman can hope to lurk. ‘I must say I was surprised to see you here so bright and early,’ he continued, falling into step with me and leaving Ian a pace behind.
‘You are,’ I said. ‘And I do have classes to teach. If the students ever get to them.’
‘How much further?’ came Ian’s voice from behind.
‘Only another couple of floors. Canteen’s on the fifth.’
‘Is that for everyone or just teachers?’
‘Lecturers,’ I said.
I pressed on up the stairs.
The high-rise part of the college is built around a core of lifts and stairs, with a band of corridors separating them from the classrooms on the outside of the building. The stairs have, of course, no natural light, and are further isolated by fire doors, which cut off both smoke and noise. The students, especially the women, dislike them intensely, preferring to wait hours for the overcrowded lifts to risking the endless series of ninety-degree bends.
Ian Dale would obviously have preferred a lift, but Groom kept pace with irritating ease. But he didn’t seem inclined to talk. It is one of my foibles that I eschew the lifts in order to keep fit – the fact that I had used one last night was attributable to a sudden realisation that I had buses to catch. Perhaps I should have engaged him in conversation to prove that I at least had enough breath to talk, but I couldn’t think of anything I particularly wanted to say. And what I ought to be doing was running a mental review of the day’s classes and what I should need for them. If indeed there were to be classes. A murder on the premises might well disturb the daily pattern.
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