by H. Y. Hanna
A dark-haired girl with a Mediterranean look walked into the J.C.R. and my companion looked up with a smile, “Hey, Nicola! You’re back late.”
“Hi, Kate…” The dark-haired girl flopped onto the couch next to us and blew out a breath. She was not exactly pretty but there was something very attractive about her thin, clever face with her large brown eyes and olive complexion, set off beautifully by the orange sweater she wore. “I had to hang around after the lecture to ask the prof something.” She glanced at me curiously, obviously wondering who I was.
“We were talking about Charlie,” said Kate. “I just can’t believe that he was murdered—can you?”
I chipped in and said in a gossipy tone, “Yeah, it seems like he was such a nice guy—he wouldn’t have any enemies.”
The dark-haired girl gave a cynical smile. “Well, you know what they say: ‘with friends like these, who needs enemies?’ Or in this case, maybe it should be—with girlfriends like these, who needs enemies…”
I raised my eyebrows. “You think his girlfriend had something to do with it?”
Nicola gave a shrug. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Didn’t… didn’t they get along?” I asked.
Nicola gave me a sharp look. I shifted uncomfortably. This girl wasn’t as naïvely trusting as Kate with her cheerful chatter; I would have to be careful with her. I was just wondering how to answer if Nicola asked me why I was so interested when Kate rushed into the silence with:
“Oh, they used to fight all the time! I could hear it even two levels down from my room. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t really Charlie fighting—it was mostly just Tanya screaming at him. My goodness, she could really sound like a fishwife! They were having a flaming row only the day before he got killed. I was trying to do my essay and it was impossible with all the screaming.” Kate shook her head sadly. “I wonder if she’s feeling guilty about that now, having said all those nasty things to him—and now he’s dead.”
Nicola snorted.
“Well, she does seem very upset,” insisted Kate. “I’ve seen her a few times since May Day and she looks really miserable.”
“You mean more than usual?” scoffed Nicola. “I’ve never seen that girl look happy—and you’d think someone who has everything would be able to dredge up a smile sometimes.”
“Well, she hasn’t got everything now, has she?” said Kate softly. “She’s lost her boyfriend. And I know she used to be horrible to him at times but I think she really loved him. So she must be feeling terrible now about their fight just before he died.”
“What were they fighting about?” I asked.
Nicola rolled her eyes. “The usual, I’ll bet. Tanya accusing Charlie of cheating on her…” She glanced at her friend. “Am I right?”
Kate nodded. “Yes, Tanya kept screaming and saying that Charlie was seeing someone else behind her back and that she wouldn’t stand for it… or something like that.”
Nicola gave a humourless laugh. “You’d think someone who looks like Tanya Koskov wouldn’t be so bloody insecure! I mean come on, she could be a supermodel! But she was always watching Charlie all the time and getting worked up if he spoke to another girl and flying into a jealous rage… And my God, has she got an absolutely foul temper! I was at dinner in Hall once, sitting at the same table, and she got into an argument with one of the Freshers and she suddenly sprang up and slapped him across the face!”
“She did apologise afterwards,” said Kate. “And the college authorities did have words with her.”
“I’ll bet she didn’t get any disciplinary measures though—Daddy Koskov probably got on the phone from Russia and ‘exerted his influence’, as they say, to protect his little Tanya,” Nicola said. “In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t hopped on his private jet and come over immediately since Charlie’s murder, to protect his daughter from ‘police abuse’.”
“I heard Tanya say that her father’s in hospital, recovering from surgery,” said Kate.
“Well, then I’m surprised he hasn’t sent a bodyguard to watch over his precious princess,” said Nicola sarcastically.
“Had Tanya and Charlie been together for a long time?” I asked.
Nicola shrugged. “On and off. They seemed to have one of those weird relationships—you know, always fighting and breaking up, and then making up again. Still, I don’t know why Charlie didn’t just chuck her, the way she treated him sometimes.”
Kate gave an exclamation as she looked down at her watch. “Oh, we’re going to be late for dinner! And it’s Formal Hall tonight. I have to dash back to my room to change and grab my gown.”
“I’d better go too,” I said quickly, getting up. I saw Nicola look at me searchingly again and wanted to get away before she started asking me what I was doing in the college. “Nice to chat with you. I’ll see you around!”
Giving them a cheery wave, I hurried from the J.C.R.
***
I thought I would have trouble finding the Old Biddies again but they were waiting for me just around the corner from the archway.
“Gemma! Over here!” Mabel hissed, beckoning to me from the shadows by the college chapel.
I went over to join them. Quickly, I told them what I had learned.
“Hmm… that’s all very interesting,” mused Mabel. “But I still think we need to examine the boy’s room.”
“The police would have done that,” I protested.
Mabel gave a sniff. “The police? What do they know?”
“They would have sent the SOCO team over and—”
“SOCO my foot! Those Scene Of Crime Officers are only interested in silly things like fingerprints and DNA… they don’t know how to look for real clues.”
I gave her an exasperated look. “If fingerprints and DNA aren’t real clues, then what are?”
“The boy’s belongings. The state of his room. His clothes. His diary—”
“I’m sure the police would have confiscated that,” I said.
Mabel waved a hand. “There will be other things they won’t have thought of. The point is, we need to find out more about the victim and his life, his relationships, his personality, to really understand why he was murdered. As Poirot says, the answer lies in the nature of the victim and in the psychology of the murder—all the stories that people around him tell, all the extra details which don’t seem important…”
I sighed. I should have known this was coming. The Old Biddies had an unhealthy devotion to Agatha Christie novels and seemed to spend half their time thinking they could enact the storylines in the books.
“That’s a detective story,” I said impatiently. “It’s all very well in a mystery novel but people don’t solve crimes in real life by relying on personality observations. Not when you’ve got advanced science and forensics! And besides, even if there are clues to be found… well, you can’t just go snooping around in student rooms—”
“Who said anything about snooping?” said Mabel indignantly. She pointed to their pinafore aprons. “We’re simply doing our job as scouts and making sure that the room is cleaned properly. After all, Miriam Hopkins hasn’t been able to come and fulfil her duties, has she, since she’s been suspended? I’m sure the boys’ room could do with a thorough clean and tidy-up.”
Before I could answer, Mabel turned and began marching towards the far corner of the Rear Quad, the other Old Biddies trotting behind her.
“Wait, wait…” I said, hurrying to catch up with her. “You don’t even know where Charlie’s room is—”
“Of course I do. It’s on the top level of Staircase 5—there, in that corner.” Mabel nodded in the direction she was heading.
Grrr. Why did Mabel always have an answer for everything?
I followed them and watched helplessly as they keyed in the combination for the staircase door (I didn’t even want to ask how they got that information!). With a stealthy look around, they darted inside one by one. I hesitated, then hurriedly followed. As they began creepi
ng up the staircase, I reflected with a sense of resignation that, somehow, I always seemed to end up skulking in Oxford college staircases with the Old Biddies.
It was slow going, with Mabel and her friends needing several rest stops at each landing, and I was terrified that a student might come out of their room at any minute and see us on the staircase. Then I remembered what Kate had said about being late for Formal Hall and I glanced at my watch. It was dinnertime and probably all the students would be in the dining hall. We couldn’t have timed it better, in fact. We’d have at least twenty minutes before even the fastest eaters would begin to return.
We reached the top landing at last and looked around. Most of the landings we’d passed on the way up had two doors, one on either side, but this one only had one, which no doubt led into the two-bedroom suite that Charlie and Damian had been sharing. In fact, I could see the name badges on the door, with “C. FOXTON” and “D. HEATH” side by side.
“How are you going to get in?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve managed to get the key—”
Mabel reached out and turned the doorknob, and, as if by magic, the door swung open.
I gaped at her. She smiled complacently.
“Did you think we’d been twiddling our thumbs while you were in the J.C.R.?” she said. “We found out that the boys were known for never locking their doors—Charlie, especially, was very gregarious and always happy for people to drop in any time and help themselves to things, even if he wasn’t around. Apparently, there were often impromptu parties in their room.”
She slipped inside the room and we followed, shutting the door quietly behind us. I relaxed slightly. We were safe, for now.
“Hurry—we don’t have much time,” Mabel urged the others.
The Old Biddies began bustling around the main sitting room, opening drawers, looking under rugs, examining the motley assortment of food and drink in the fridge, flipping through stacks of books… I stood in the centre of the room and looked around slowly. It was a spacious living area, with dark panelled walls, high ceilings, and wide sash windows overlooking the quad below. There was a three-seater sofa upholstered in a faded chevron fabric and two non-matching armchairs. There was also a modern-looking beanbag (probably the boys’ own addition), a wooden sideboard resting along one wall, littered with empty bottles, glasses, paper plates, and other party paraphernalia, and an old-fashioned desk on the opposite side, covered with piles of books, papers, stationery, computer cables, and an open laptop. Two doors faced each other on opposite sides of the sitting room, obviously leading to the boys’ individual bedrooms.
Nothing jumped out at me. It looked like numerous other Oxford student rooms that I’d been in. Turning, I headed towards the door on the right wall, which I guessed to be Charlie’s bedroom from the crime-scene tape stretched across the doorway. I hesitated a moment, then gingerly turned the doorknob and eased the door open. I knew that the police forensic team would have already done a sweep and taken anything that looked suspicious. Anyway, I wasn’t planning to go in—I just wanted to have a look from the doorway. Perhaps Mabel was right—perhaps getting a better sense of who Charlie Foxton was would help to solve his murder.
I ducked my head under the crime-scene tape, leaned into the room, and flicked on the light. It was disappointingly normal. In fact, there was something very sad about how “everyday” it looked—almost as if its owner had just stepped out and would return any moment. I scanned the room, trying to see if there was something that could explain the mystery of the boy’s murder, but if the clues were there, I couldn’t see them. It looked just like a typical boy’s room: there were shoes kicked off on the floor, posters of football players on the wall, rumpled clothes piled in an untidy heap at the foot of his bed, various game consoles and some expensive Bose speakers on the bedside shelf, a dark grey hoodie with the letters “OKMC” slung over the chair by the desk, which held a pile of books and what looked like a half-finished essay. There were also a couple of stained mugs and a plate with some congealed food on the windowsill.
A sound behind me made me jerk my head around. My eyes widened as I heard steps outside on the landing and saw the doorknob in the main room turning.
Blast! Someone’s coming in!
I yanked the door to Charlie’s bedroom shut and ran into the centre of the sitting room, looking desperately around for a hiding place. But it was too late. The door swung open and I froze in horror as I saw Damian Heath standing in the doorway.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Instantly, the Old Biddies went into an orgy of dusting and spraying and wiping and cleaning. Damian stared at them in astonishment.
“What…? You…? Uh…?” he stammered.
Mabel turned around and gave him a casual look. “Ah, Mr Heath! We’re just finishing up here,” she said, flicking her cloth with a flourish across the side of the coffee table. “There. That should do it. So dreadfully dusty, this place! We’ll be back to empty the bin tomorrow morning. In the meantime, try not to get any biscuit crumbs on the floor.”
“But… you…” Damian spluttered, looking completely befuddled as Mabel marched past him, clutching her cloth and spray bottle, followed by Ethel, Glenda, and Florence. The last couldn’t resist giving the bookshelf another flick with her rainbow feather duster before she went out the door. It shut behind them with a resolute click.
I stared at the closed door in dismay. Aaaarrgghh! I couldn’t believe it—they were doing it again! Leaving me to face the music alone! I gritted my teeth. I was going to kill the Old Biddies when I next saw them!
Damian’s expression was changing from bewildered to suspicious. He was no fool and he must have begun to realise that there was something very odd going on. Scouts normally came in the mornings, not at dinnertime.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, turning to me.
“Oh, I… uh…” I floundered, groping for something to say. Then I remembered that sometimes the best form of defence was attack. I lifted my chin.
“I came to see you, actually, Damian. I wanted to talk to you—about your friend’s murder.”
His eyes widened and I saw him turn pale.
“I didn’t do it!” he blurted out. He licked his lips nervously and said, “I told you! I wasn’t even near the bridge when it happened. I answered all those questions at the police station—what else do you need to ask me?”
I realised suddenly that he thought I was a member of the CID, perhaps one of Devlin’s sergeants. After all, all the detectives wore plainclothes. My bold manner must have fooled him. I decided to press my advantage.
“I’d like to go over a few details. I understand that you were supposed to meet Charlie and his girlfriend on May morning to watch the celebrations together. Why weren’t you with them?”
“I told you—they’d gone ahead without me and I couldn’t find them. And it was too close to 6 a.m. by then; everything stopped when the choir began to sing.” He swallowed. “And then the next thing I knew, there was all this screaming and when I finally pushed my way through to the bridge, there… there was Charlie’s body in the water.”
“Had you arranged to meet at a certain time?”
“Yes, and I was there at exactly the time that bloody Tanya Koskov told me, but they weren’t there!” said Damian. “She told me 5:30 a.m. I’m sure of it. But now she’s telling the police that she told me 5:20 a.m. I think she gave me the wrong time on purpose, so that she could get Charlie alone.”
“Why would she do that?”
His face turned ugly. “Because she was the one who wanted to kill Charlie, not me!”
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s a serious accusation. Tanya was Charlie’s girlfriend. She loved him. Why would she want to kill him?”
Damian gave a sarcastic laugh. “Loved him? That bloody witch just wanted to control him and have him around her like a little pet. And if she thought he wasn’t giving her enough attention, she’d throw a tantrum.”
“It st
ill doesn’t seem like she would have a motive to murder him.”
“She would if she thought he was cheating on her!” Damian retorted. “They had a huge fight the day before May Day. I was in my bedroom and I heard everything. She stormed in here on Thursday morning and accused Charlie of seeing another girl behind her back. Charlie tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t listen—kept screaming about how she would get revenge for his treachery, that she would kill him for betraying her. Talk about drama queen! If you ask me, she could have murdered him simply out of spite—”
“You are telling stories about me, Damian?” came a silky voice.
We spun around to see Tanya Koskov standing in the open doorway. She had her arms up, hands braced on either side of the doorjamb, and her hip tilted to one side, like the model poses often seen in magazines. A mocking smile played on the corners of her lips. I had to admit, it was a pretty dramatic entrance.
Damian gave her a dirty look. “I’m not saying anything that isn’t true. I heard you threaten Charlie that day—the day before he was murdered! You said you’d kill him for cheating on you and got all jealous and hysterical over nothing—”
“It was not nothing! I know Charlie was cheating on me!” Tanya hissed. “There are signs. When a man is with you but always, his mind is somewhere else. He will not answer properly when you ask him what he is thinking or where he has been, and he finds reasons for why he cannot see you… I know these signs, I am not wrong. I know Charlie was doing things behind my back. And I will not allow anyone to make a fool of me! Not I, Tanya Vladimirovna Koskov—I will not accept it.” She tossed her head back, her nostrils flaring and her eyes flashing.
I had to admit, she looked pretty magnificent and I was impressed, in spite of myself, by her sheer ego and arrogance.
“Yeah, well, Charlie’s dead now,” said Damian bluntly. “And you’re not welcome here anymore.”