Bronwyn had been out of the spot-light for too long. "We will, of course, do whatever we can to assist your inquiries."
"Thank you. First, we have to obtain written statements from all of the library staff on duty when the victim died."
"No problem, though Gary won't be back until tomorrow."
"I understand." The Detective Sergeant looked at Julia. "We might as well start with you. Will you come over to the Police Station and provide a statement?"
Though she didn't murder the old guy - unless she had a split personality she wasn't aware of - she desperately wanted to see a lawyer. The cop believed a woman could have strangled the old coot. They might falsely accuse her. She had seen that TV show, many times. "You mean now?"
"Yes."
She glanced at Bronwyn, who nodded and said: "That's fine. Mr Cheshire can handle the borrowing counter. I'll help him if necessary."
The Devil would hold the Winter Olympics in Hell before Bronwyn sat behind the borrowing counter. Julia rose shakily and decided that demanding a lawyer would be like writing a confession in blood. Toughen up, princess. "I still don't believe this."
"Join the club." Bronwyn looked at Detective Sergeant Cochrane. "Before you go, what about protection?"
"Protection?"
"A man was murdered in this library. What if the killer decides to strike again?"
The detectives glanced at each other, slightly bemused at her hysterical demand. However, Julia thought Bronwyn was, for once, being sensible.
Cochrane said: "Madam, we have absolutely no reason to think you or any of your staff are in danger. I bet the old guy annoyed some young thug who killed him in a rage. The killer is long gone."
"We don't get many young thugs in here."
A shrugged. "I'm sure you get some."
"You're just guessing."
"True, but we hold no fears for your safety. And don't forget, the Police Station is just around the corner. If you sense any danger, just pick up the phone and someone will come running."
"I can't pick up the phone if I'm being strangled."
The Detective Sergeant frowned. "That won't happen. But if you're concerned about your safety you should close this library."
"Close it because some homeless guy got killed? The Council won't let us do that."
A shrug. "Your choice."
Bronwyn frowned. "What about the press?"
"The press?"
"Yes. Will the murder be on TV and in the newspapers?"
"At the moment, we're not planning an announcement."
"Good."
"But we'll have to announce it at some stage. We'll do that when the time's right."
A frown. "If you do, I hope you won't mention this library."
A wan smile. "I'm afraid we'll have no choice." The Detective Sergeant stood, took a few steps towards the door, and halted. "Oh, yes, one last thing..."
"What?"
"The armchair."
Bronwyn looked like a fox hearing a hunting call. "The what?"
"The armchair: the one in which the victim died - we want to take it away for further testing."
Bronwyn threw off her mask and looked like a cornered rat. "Umm, you can't."
"Why not?"
She crossed her arms, defensively. "Because I - no, we - threw it out."
The detective's eyes narrowed. "You what?"
"We threw it out. A couple of maintenance guys took it away yesterday. It's probably at the tip."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Someone died in it and it was spooking me - us - out."
Cochrane slipped a knuckle-duster into his tone. "Well, I expect you to do everything possible to recover that armchair - everything."
Bronwyn looked terrified. "I'll make inquiries."
"Good." The detective looked at Julia. "Ready to go?"
"Yes." She looked at Bronwyn. "You'll tell Mr Cheshire what's going on?"
"Yes."
On the way out, they had to pass Mr Cheshire, sitting behind the borrowing counter. His eyes flitted between Julia and her two burly companions. "What's happening?"
The detective sergeant said: "Are you Arthur Cheshire?"
"Yes."
"I'm Detective Sergeant Cochrane from the Homicide Squad. We're going to have a chat with Ms Schmidt over at the police station. Please don't leave the library until we return."
Mr Cheshire's eyes seemed to retract and widen. "Why? What is this about? Homicide Squad?"
"Speak to your head librarian. She'll fill you in. I'll be back to see you shortly."
Mr Cheshire did not look mollified. "What's happening?"
The two detectives ignored him and led Julia outside, along the pavement, past the glass-and-metal municipal council building, to the Bradfield Police Station - a redbrick building sitting behind a line of poplars desperately trying to hide its ugliness.
As they entered the building, Detective Dryden asked how long she'd been a librarian.
"Two years."
"At this library?"
"Yes."
"You enjoy it?"
She didn't want to unburden herself to a cop, particularly one she'd just met. "It's OK, except when someone gets murdered."
"Hah. You know, I sometimes think about popping in to borrow a book, but never get the time."
Nothing annoyed her more than people who said they didn't have time to go to the library. "What would you do with it?"
"Do with what?"
"The book."
The Detective Sergeant laughed.
The young cop frowned. "Actually, I'm a bit of a reader, when I get a chance."
The two cops led her across a linoleum floor, past a long counter and up a flight of stairs to the first floor, which had a long corridor lined with bulletin boards and blow-up mug-shots of very ugly individuals. Half-way along the corridor, the Detective Sergeant opened a door and showed her into a small room with a computer and tape machine on a Formica table. He pointed to a plastic chair. "Take a pew. We won't tape this because we just want a statement. Detective Dryden will ask most of the questions and type your statement."
The detectives sat facing her across the table.
Detective Dryden turned on the computer, got her to recite her personal details and typed them up. "Now, tell us everything you can remember about the day the old guy died, from the time you arrived at work."
While the detective pecked away, she spent about thirty minutes recounting everything she could recall, including the appearance of the little boy and discovery of the body. Sometimes, she had to pause because one of the detectives asked her a question or Dryden needed time to finish typing a passage.
When she'd finished, Cochrane said: "So, the other three librarians on duty were Bronwyn Baker, Mr Cheshire and Gary Clarke?"
"Yes."
"Why do you call him Mr Cheshire? His first name's Arthur, right?"
"Yes, but using his first name doesn't feel natural. He's not very, well ..."
"... friendly?"
"Yes. I think he prefers being called Mr Cheshire, anyway; he's never objected."
"How long's he worked at the library?"
"About a year."
"Where did he work before that?"
"Not sure. He doesn't talk much about himself - or anything, really - though he's got an English accent."
"Where was he when you discovered the body?"
"In the workroom. He came out to see what was happening."
"OK, and what about Gary? He was out when you discovered the body?"
"Yes."
"Did he tell anyone he was going out?"
"No, but that's no surprise."
"Why not?"
"It's a library, not a prison, and Gary does whatever he likes."
"Like call in sick when he isn't really sick?"
"Yes." She hoped she wasn't getting Gary into trouble.
"And you're sure your boss, Bronwyn, was in her office when you discovered the body?"
"She came out after
I screamed."
"Do you know how long she was in the office?"
"I wasn't paying attention, but she spends most of the day in there."
"Working?"
Julia saw no reason to defend Bronwyn. "You'll have to ask her."
"Ouch. OK. What about the patrons, do you remember who was around at that time?"
"I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention. People drift in and out. It's hard to keep track. Then the little boy said he'd found the body and everything whizzed out of my head."
The detective sergeant crossed his arms. "OK. Did you see anyone acting suspiciously that day?"
"You've already asked that."
A surprisingly boyish grin. "I know, but I didn't ask you privately."
Christ, did they expect her to say she caught a co-worker with his/her hands around the old guy's neck? She exhaled. "I didn't see anyone acting suspiciously - honestly."
"OK. Thanks for your help. This interview was just a formality, you understand? We don't suspect you of anything."
If they didn't, why mention it? "Thanks - I think."
The Detective Sergeant got to his feet, looked out the window at the upper branches of a gaunt poplar tree and frowned. "You know, whoever murdered the old guy had to look him right in the eye and squeeze the life out of him. Not many people can do that. I've investigated more than a hundred murders, and this is only the second that involved strangulation. The murderer is quite impressive, in a way. I'd like to meet him." He shrugged. "Alright, I'll leave you with Detective Dryden. He'll tidy up your statement and get your signature."
The senior cop left and she sat for about twenty minutes while Dryden, humming away, editing her statement. He printed off a copy, gave it to her and asked if she wanted to make any corrections.
Despite his poor grammar, the statement accurately recounted her version of events. She got him to correct several spelling errors, which he did with good grace, and said she was ready to sign. After printing off a fresh copy and getting her to sign each page, he stapled them together and said: "Thank you, I'll show you out."
He escorted her back to the front entrance, where he stopped, and shuffled slightly. "Thanks for that. I'm sorry if the Detective Sergeant got a bit grumpy. He's often like that. But he's a very good cop. He's been doing this for twenty years and knowns everything worth knowing about murder. I'm learning a lot from him."
"If he's so good, why's he still a sergeant?"
"Because he's grumpy."
"Hah, I get it. You're not in the Homicide Squad?"
"No, I'm just his local liaison. But I definitely want to get into the squad. For a detective, they're the A-team."
She looked at him a little more closely. He was in his early thirties - which seemed young for a detective - and kind of cute. It was too bad that a murder threw them together and he wore a gold wedding ring.
"Fine, I'd better get back to work."
"OK. Will you ask Mr Cheshire to come around and see us as soon as possible?"
"Will do."
Back at the library, she popped her head into Bronwyn's office and found her boss typing on her computer. "I've finished with the detectives."
Bronwyn spun around. "Already? Good." She sighed deeply. "This is bloody traumatic. How the hell did someone get murdered in my library? As if I don't have enough shit to deal with. I just phoned the General Manager of the Council and told him about the murder. Christ, was he unhappy. After he recovered from his heart attack, he acted as if it was my fault - as if I should have stopped it. Now he's scared shitless the press will get hold of it."
Julia said: "Did you say the cops are holding off on that?"
"Yes, but he says that won't last. This has to come out. Anyway, he's going to tell the Mayor and wants to know if we need counselling."
"Counselling?"
"Yes, trauma counselling."
"Why do we need that?"
"Because we just found out that an old guy was murdered in our library. You having any nightmares? Flashbacks? Depression? Bed-wetting?"
"No - not yet, anyway."
"Well, if you start having problems, come and tell me. I'll get you some counselling."
"Will do. At least the GM is concerned about us."
"No, he's not. He's afraid the Council will get sued for not looking after its staff."
"What about you? Will you get counselling?"
A furtive expression. "I'm thinking about it. This has really stressed me out. And, if I get counselling, that will make it easier to make a claim later."
Bronwyn was always sniffing around for a big legal action that would put her on Easy Street for the rest of her life. Now she could almost taste it.
Julia said: "Have you got the chair back?"
That jogged Bronwyn out of her calculations. Lines snaked across her forehead and intertwined. "No, the maintenance guys have already taken it to the tip."
"Damn. Can't they get it back?"
"No, the idiots reckon it's already been compacted. Jesus, you ask the bastards to do something and it takes forever. Then you want them to stuff around and they move like greased lightning. I'm surrounded by incompetents - except you, of course." She trembled. "The cops can't charge me, can they, for throwing away important evidence? That's not a crime, is it?"
It should be. "I don't think so."
"You sure?"
She wasn't. "I'm sure."
"Good. Did the police say who they want to talk to next?"
"Yes, Mr Cheshire."
"When?"
"As soon as possible. You told him what happened to the old guy?"
"Of course. He went white as a sheet and actually listened to me for once. You tell him the cops want to chat."
"Will do."
"And ask him if he wants counselling."
Julia giggled at the thought of Mr Cheshire open himself up to anyone. "OK."
Bronwyn twirled around and stared at the Amazon website on her computer screen. "Good, because I've got to keep buying stuff until I calm down."
Julia wandered out and found Mr Cheshire sitting on a stool behind the borrowing counter, talking to an old gent called Oscar Tennyson. A book sat between them on the counter.
Tennyson, the owner of a bold but poorly arranged comb-over, was the patron she most wanted to see beaten up in a dark alley. He treated the librarians like slaves and, despite always having books overdue and fines unpaid, vehemently insisted on being allowed to borrow more books. Julia usually buckled to his demands, just to get rid of him, but knew Mr Cheshire would not be so amenable.
Mr Cheshire frowned. "You can't borrow any more books."
Mr Tennyson used his tongue to gently shift his dentures, as if preparing to bite the librarian. "Why not?"
"You have a fine."
"It's only $40."
"Then you should pay it now."
"I'll pay it next time."
"You've owed the money for two months."
"If I give you the money, I can't pay my rent."
Mr Cheshire shrugged. "Not my problem. You also have 10 books overdue. You must bring them back first."
The dentures clacked. "This is outrageous. I have been coming to this library for 20 years. Where is the head librarian? I want to complain. Where is she?"
Normally, Julia would have enjoyed watching Mr Cheshire take a hard line. However, the recent murder of a patron made it idiotic to argue about unpaid fines. She stepped forward and picked up the book. "I'll check it out for you, though you've got to pay next time, OK?"
A clack of approval. "Thank God someone here has some common sense."
Mr Cheshire scowled. "He should pay."
Julia said: "I'll handle this."
She checked out the book and handed it to Mr Tennyson. "Have a good day, sir."
Without a word of thanks, the patron shuffled off.
Mr Cheshire frowned. "You shouldn't have done that."
"We've got bigger things to worry about. You've heard why the det
ectives were here, haven't you?"
Mr Cheshire let go of his anger and looked worried. "Yes, the old man was strangled, here, in this library. Unbelievable. Who would murder an old man in this place?"
She studied his hard piercing eyes and wondered if the old guy stared into them as his last drops of life were squeezed out of him. Oh, stop being ridiculous. Mr Cheshire had absolutely no reason to kill the old guy and she had no evidence he did. She only suspected him because he was rather spooky. Soon after she started working at the library, the Council made her attend a two-day course on discrimination against the disabled. Well, Mr Cheshire had a disability - spookiness - and she shouldn't be prejudiced against him because of that.
She had been staring at Mr Cheshire too long and glanced away. "I don't know who'd kill him."
"We live in an evil world. You spoke to the police about what happened?"
"Yes, I gave them a written statement."
"Do they know who did it?"
"No. They want to speak to you. You've got to go over there and ask for Detective Dryden."
"Dryden?"
"Yes."
"Why me?"
"They're speaking to all of us."
A long pause and shrug. "OK, I need a walk. You'll be OK here?"
The library was fairly empty. "I'll be fine."
"If you need help, ask Bronwyn."
As he strolled away, she realised that, for the first time she could remember, he had tried to make a joke.
She sat behind the counter, still having trouble accepting that someone was murdered in the library and not sure if it was tragic or ridiculous. An hour later, she was still there when Mr Cheshire reappeared, looking even more annoyed than usual.
She said: "How did it go?"
He grunted. "Lots of silly questions, like where I come from, and how long I've worked at this library and stuff like that. They also said a little boy found the dead man. Did you know that?"
"Yes, a little boy came and told me about the body. I mentioned that to the police."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Because we're not exactly best buddies. "I didn't get a chance."
"The police think the little boy saw the old guy get killed."
"They do? Did they say why?"
"No." He specialised in hard stares. "When we looked at the dead body, there was little boy standing with you. That was him, wasn't it?"
She didn't want to tell him anything, but didn't want to look evasive. "Y-y-yes."
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