by J G Alva
“Yes. Usually.”
Miss Tammers frowned, but seemed to accept him.
“Alright. But I can’t imagine that there’s anything I can do to help. It’s a hit and run. What possible use could you have in talking to me?”
She needed convincing, Sutton thought, if he was going to get the best out of her. Otherwise she would be obstinate.
He said, “what’s the first thing you do when you have an accident? In your car, I mean.”
She blinked.
“You slam on the brakes.”
“And yet, there were no skid marks on the road in front of Chris’s body.”
She continued to frown, turning it over in her mind.
“So…the driver didn’t know he had hit someone? Or…you think it was intentional?” She seemed alarmed by this prospect.
“There both possibilities. But it could just as well be someone who couldn’t stop. That was otherwise compromised. So to try and find out either way, I’ll be asking questions of a lot of people. It just so happens you are the first on my list.”
Miss Tammers nodded briskly.
“Alright. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“Okay. So the first question is about Chris himself: what was he like? Was he good at his job? Reliable? Hard working? Or was he distracted, unreliable, and truant?”
“Chris was a model employee.”
“How long had he been working here?”
“Three years.”
“No complaints in that time?”
“None.”
“Diane said he was shy?”
She nodded.
“He didn’t have much confidence.”
“Did he have any friends here?” Sutton made a sweeping gesture, to include the floor, and by inference the working staff of the university. “Someone he worked with, who he was closer to than most?”
“No. Not that I observed. Although I did catch him talking to one of our porters once or twice.”
“Porters?”
Miss Tammers smiled thinly.
“They’re maintenance men, basically. Some of which have been here since the university opened.”
“Could I talk to the one in question?”
Miss Tammers shook her head.
“Unfortunately, not at the moment. He’s on holiday. In Thailand.”
“When is he due back?”
“In a little over a week, I think. I can contact you when he returns, arrange a meeting.”
“That would be very helpful.”
While she made a note in her diary, she said, “his name is Wilkes. Terry Wilkes. But everyone calls him Teddy. I ought to warn you, he’s…something of a character. From a bygone age.”
He stared at her. You’re from a bygone age, he thought, but didn’t say anything.
“Meaning?”
She smiled again.
“You’ll understand when you meet him.”
“Okay. And was there anyone Chris didn’t get on with? Someone he might have had a disagreement with?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But, to be frank, I wouldn’t expect there to be, not with Chris. He was so shy, a confrontation would be against his nature. He was something of a mouse. At the first sign of trouble, he’d just roll over and show his belly.”
“Alright.”
“Can I ask a question?”
Sutton nodded.
“Of course.”
Miss Tammers hesitated, and then said, “it seems to me that, even if the driver didn’t have time to react before hitting Chris, that they would still slam on the brakes. I mean, afterward. Even if only to get out and see what they had done.”
Miss Tammers hesitated again.
“What’s your question?” Sutton asked, prompting her.
She stared at him, trying to read his eyes, and then said, “you think this is murder. Don’t you. Because there were no skid marks. Before or after he was hit.”
A sharp one, this stout lady.
Sutton debated on how to reply.
Finally, he decided to rise from his seat. He extended his hand toward her. Surprised, she rose and took it.
“That’s not a question,” he pointed out. “But I’ll answer it. The truth is, I hope not. Because if it is murder then, statistically speaking, it is more than likely that it was someone who knew him. And as he didn’t have many friends, the only people that knew him are his family…or the people he worked with. So you might be working with a murderer.” Her eyes got a little wide at this, and to calm her alarmed state, Sutton smiled, to show his obvious disbelief in such a state of affairs. “But I wouldn’t concern yourself. Goodbye, Miss Tammers. It would be very helpful if you could let me know when that porter returns.”
◆◆◆
In the lobby, on his way toward the front door, a voice called out his name.
“Sutton?”
He turned.
Standing in the middle of the main corridor beyond the reception area was Alastair Scott.
“Alastair,” Sutton said, turning back inside to meet him. They shook hands. “How are you?”
Alastair Scott was six feet seven inches tall, and as thin as a stick of bamboo. He was in his late forties, but had a shock of long dark hair that made him seem younger. His face was as thin and angular as the rest of him, with two protruding triangles of nose and chin. He wore glasses, and a long sleeved cotton canvas shirt over dark blue jeans. He was married with two kids, and taught Art History at a number of learning establishments in the Bristol area. Once upon a time he had helped Sutton out in a very difficult investigation with his knowledge of Art History. What exactly was a Triptych? Alastair knew. What term was given to the technique where paint was mixed and bound with egg yolk? Alastair knew that too. Which animals was George Stubbs best known for painting? Alastair had an answer for every question. He knew it all. An unlikely friendship had ensued, and they occasionally met to discuss Art. Or to argue about it. Alastair’s opinion was firmly Establishment, whereas Sutton’s came from a less formal place.
His heart maybe.
“I can’t complain. All things considered.”
“And how’s Mary? And the kids?”
“They’re good. They’re all good. Have you got time for a coffee?”
Sutton shrugged.
“Sure.”
“We can go into the cafeteria. The coffee’s bad, but it’s a nice space.”
They walked down the central corridor together. A steady traffic of students surrounded them. Like the rest of the building, the walls were glass; on the left, Sutton could see meeting rooms and what looked like a recreational area for students; on the right, there was a gym, with both students and lecturers working out in it.
Alastair caught Sutton looking and said, “you haven’t been here before, have you?”
“No.”
“What do you think?”
“It’s very…modern.”
Alastair grinned.
“It tries to be,” he said, and was about to continue when they came to the cafeteria.
It was a large area, fully dominating the back of the building. The whole back wall was glass, and set just slightly above the staff car park; instead of cars – the tops of which Sutton could just about see – the view was directed toward Cotham Park. This grassy mound was surrounded by a ring of very old, very lush trees. A polite smattering of students could be observed amongst them, couples and threes and fours here and there, clutching backpacks over their shoulders and reading from textbooks. It was a perfect advertisement for the prospectus, but in real life.
The interior was a cacophonous bustle of a multitude of voices engaged in a multitude of conversations: students mostly, animated and alive in the way only the young can be. There was a long self-service counter down one side, with catering staff in hairnets and aprons scooping large portions of edibles into trays. The middle of the room was filled with large circular tables, half of them playing host to students. On the other side of the room was a re
freshment bar, with several machines and all manner of drinks on displays in racks. Alastair headed toward it, and Sutton followed.
“This is all new,” Alastair said, pulling a lanyard from around his neck. There was a card on the end of it. He scanned it against a reader on the side of a large coffee machine. It beeped, and he put a paper cup in the designated holder. Coffee started squirting out. “All subsidised. Up to a certain amount. And all part of the fee. Every student who enters the scheme gets a card like this, and they can help themselves to as much as they want. A similar privilege is also afforded the staff.”
Alastair wiggled his eyebrows.
“Like an all-inclusive holiday,” Sutton said.
Alastair made a face, but nodded.
He took the full cup out and passed it to Sutton. He put another cup in, and scanned his card once again.
“You make it sound so attractive.”
“You already told me the coffee was bad,” Sutton pointed out.
“Ah.” Alastair held up a finger. “But it’s free.”
Sutton sipped it, grimaced.
“Doesn’t make it taste any better. I’m more of a tea man anyway.”
“Doesn’t it? I disagree. Let’s grab a seat.” He pointed. “I’ve got twenty minutes before I’ve got to give a talk on Neoclassical and Romantic Art to a bunch of unruly ingrates, so we’ll have to dispense with the witty repartee, and get straight down to the nitty-gritty.”
Alastair led them to a table near the windows, but far enough away from the students so that they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Nitty-gritty?” Sutton said.
Alastair rolled his eyes.
“Don’t play dumb. I told you, I’ve got twenty minutes. There must be some nefarious reason why you’re here. Is it because of all the student deaths?”
Deaths?
“I’ve never been called nefarious before. So thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Miss Tammers called me a rogue. I think I prefer that.”
“Miss Tammers? What are you talking to that old battle axe for?”
“What deaths, Alastair? I haven’t heard anything about any deaths.”
Alastair looked as if he regretted bringing it up. He stared morosely into his cup.
“We’ve had a spate of accidental deaths,” he said eventually. “Way above the statistical average. Simple things: one fell down the stairs and broke his neck; one died in a car crash; one died from alcohol poisoning; one had an allergic reaction and choked to death. Actually, I’m not surprised that you haven’t heard about it. The university has done an excellent job of sweeping it all under the rug. But still…it leaves a sour taste in the mouth. Although that might be the coffee.” He tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it. His eyes looked haunted. “These are our charges. They’re our responsibility.” He shook his head. “It feels like we’ve failed them.”
“Are they all accidental?” Sutton asked, his suspicious mind at work.
“The only one I know about in any great detail is Tobias Bloch, but that’s only because he was in two of my classes. And that seemed genuine.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went into the river, down near Temple Meads. There was no sign of foul play. Except perhaps that the play went foul. He was drunk. Or that’s what we were told. There’s steps down to the river. Maybe it was closer than the toilet. Maybe he just leaned too far over.”
“He drowned?”
Alastair nodded, his eyes sad.
They both contemplated that a moment in silence.
Alastair said, “so if you’re not here for that, then why are you here?”
“Do you know a Chris Masters? He worked as part of the admin team in the main building.”
Alastair shook his head.
“A month ago, he was killed. Hit and run. The police haven’t been able to find out who did it. So I’m taking a look.”
Alastair seemed interested.
“Found anything yet?”
“Only a few things. He was the most uninteresting man in Bristol, apparently. Shy. Quiet. Easy to get along with.”
“Not possible. Such a person does not exist. As well you know. What else?”
“He was friends with a couple in a Social Sciences class. He was actually going to visit them on the night he was killed. Do you know a Victoria Clapham and a Steven Cook?”
Alastair shook his head again.
“Sorry. No.”
“A lot of good you are.”
“Hey. It’s a big university. Eighteen thousand students. At the last count. And they’re expanding in the new year. By then, it’ll be as big as the UWE. A real force to be reckoned with.” He took another sip of his coffee, pulling a face once more. “Do you think these two students are somehow involved with the death of this Masters?”
Sutton shook his head. He didn’t know.
“I already spoke to the girl, and something wasn’t right.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But she was hiding something.”
“Sounds like what a Social Sciences student would do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, from my experience, students study Social Sciences for two reasons: one, because they have nothing better to study, and two, because they think there’s something wrong with society, and they want to find out what it is.”
“Okay.”
“If you don’t understand what I’m saying, just tell me that you don’t understand what I’m saying.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Alastair grinned.
“What I mean is, half of them take Social Sciences to goof off, and the other half take it because they have a chip on their shoulders. That’s probably what you got when you spoke to this girl: the chip.”
“I don’t know. It seemed like more than that.”
“Do you want to find out what she’s really like?” Alastair asked, with a sudden light in his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“The head of Social Sciences is just over there. I’ll call him over. Hey! Hey, Bill! Have you got a minute?”
The man Alastair was gesticulating to was in the middle of a discussion with some students, three tables from where they sat. He turned when Alastair called, spoke some more to the students, and then excused himself to join them. He was a short man, with thinning brown hair. He had a mild forgettable face. In fact, Sutton thought that there wasn’t one thing about him that was distinguishable. He wore a corduroy jacket with suede patches on the elbows, jeans, and Clarks’ Desert Boots. He had a brown canvas satchel over one shoulder. He carried a tray, and on it was a carton of milk, a fruit smoothie, and what looked like a bowl of muesli.
Sutton whispered to Alastair, “just tell him I’m interested in studying Social Sciences. Nothing else.”
Alastair turned.
“What?”
“He’ll get suspicious otherwise.”
Alastair looked confused.
“Just trust me,” Sutton reassured him.
“Alastair, how are you?” Bill asked, as he reached their table.
“I’m good, Bill. And you?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“Care to join us?”
Bill took a frank appraisal of Sutton and then smiled at Alastair.
“Of course. But I can’t stay for long. I’m running late this morning.”
“That’s fine,” Alastair said. “I only really called you over to talk to my friend Sutton here. Sutton, this is William T. Mackenzie, head of Social Sciences here at the illustrious Busbar. Bill, this is Sutton Mills, a good friend of mine from many years ago.”
“Call me Bill,” the head of Social Sciences said warmly, shaking his hand.
“Sutton is looking to return to higher education,” Alastair said, playing along nicely.
Bill looked sceptical.
“As a student?”
; “And he’s looking at Social Sciences.”
“Really.” Bill seemed even more sceptical.
“See,” Sutton said to Alastair, playing it up. “This is my concern. That I’ll be out of place. That I’m too old.”
“Well,” Bill said carefully, taking a seat at the table. “It’s true that Social Sciences does usually appeal to the idealism of youth, but I see no issue with bucking that trend. I’d welcome a responsible – and responsive – student in my classes.”
“Are they that bad, Bill?” Alastair asked.
Bill waved the comment away.
“Not at all. They’re just young. They’re a great bunch really. Very enthusiastic. Full of energy. It helps me. I feed off of it.”
“Sounds like you’ve got some troublemakers,” Alastair said. “Don’t worry. In every class, there’s always one or two that you’d like to have thrown out. I heard Gillie talking about a Vicky Clapham. She sounds like a rabble-rouser.”
Bill frowned.
“Why would Gillie be talking about her?”
Sensing that Bill’s suspicions were aroused by Alastair’s less than subtle gambit for information, Sutton said quickly, “I wouldn’t have to attend any demonstrations, would I?”
Bill pretended to be offended.
“What do you think Social Sciences is? A beginner’s guide to being a Revolutionary? No. Social Sciences is about the world, your world, but beyond your immediate experience of it. We look at everything from the causes of unemployment to how and why people vote. And what makes them happy. It’s about people, basically, and how they act and behave within a group.” Bill cleared his throat. “My apologies, but I’m going to have to leave you. I’ve got a lot to catch up on. It was nice to meet you, Sutton. I hope you consider joining us here at Busbar – you won’t regret it, if you do. Alastair, I’ll catch you later.”
He got up and left, and in a moment had been swallowed up by groups of milling students.
Alastair hesitated.
“Did I mess up?”
“No,” Sutton said, “it’s fine.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Espionage was never my strong suit.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Let me get you another coffee. By way of apology.”
Sutton looked at his cup with distaste.
“Respectfully, no fucking way,” he said. “The fact that it’s free doesn’t make it taste any better. Free shit is still shit. So no. But thanks.”