Deadly Stuff

by Joyce Cato

  Debbie took a deep breath, and then blushed again. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to hear this. But it does explain why I was hoovering the carpets on the main staircase when I saw him.’

  Both policemen sat up a little straighter at this. ‘Wait a minute. Let me get the geography right in my mind,’ Trevor said. ‘You were on the main staircase, leading up to the first floor, where hall is situated?’

  ‘Right,’ Debbie confirmed, with an encouraging smile. ‘It’s not easy to get your bearings in a maze like this, is it? It took me ages to work out where all the nooks and crannies were when I first started work here, I can tell you.’

  Trevor smiled a brief acknowledgement. ‘And you were hoovering. What time was this?’

  ‘Ah, now there you have me,’ Debbie said uncertainly. ‘It was getting on late, like, because I only had the staircase to do, and then I knew I could get off. So it must have been somewhere between a quarter to twelve and five to. I know, because when I went out through the car park, I glanced at my watch, and it was just going on for ten past twelve, and I’d had to take the hoover back and change out of the old pinny and brush my hair and whatnot.’

  Trevor nodded, well pleased with the answer. The time frame was looking good.

  ‘All right, and what did you see? Be careful now, take your time.’ He leaned forward a little on his seat, his tone becoming avuncular. ‘You were hoovering. And then…?’

  ‘Something made me look up,’ Debbie said, a shade nervously, now that she was getting to the meat of it. ‘I was not quite at the top of the stairs, so I was sort of peering over the top, at floor level. I think it must have been a shadow moving that caught my eye. You know how when, something just out of sight moves unexpectedly, it gives you a little bit of a start? My husband says that’s something to do with animal instincts, you know, from when we lived in caves, and were hunted by sabre tooth tigers and things.’

  Trevor nodded impatiently. ‘And what did you see?’ he demanded.

  ‘A man come out of hall,’ Debbie said promptly, and, for once, succinctly.

  Peter Trent’s pencil, which had been scribbling over his notebook, now paused expectantly.

  ‘Who was it?’ Trevor asked calmly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Debbie said at once.

  Trevor nodded patiently. ‘Not someone who worked in the college then?’

  ‘Oh no. I know all of them by sight if nothing else,’ Debbie confirmed.

  ‘Was it one of the conference people, do you think?’ Trevor asked cautiously, well aware that the college was open to the public, and therefore, conceivably, could have been anyone as yet unidentified.

  ‘Could have been,’ Debbie said cautiously.

  ‘But you didn’t recognize him as someone you’d seen before?’

  ‘No. But then, well, they’ve only just come, haven’t they? This latest lot, I mean, they’ve only been here a day. Usually you get to know them after a few days, maybe even learn a few names and find out some stuff – which ones like their bacon crispy, and which ones are on the pull, and the nice ones, and some who give a tip. Then, more often than not, just when you’ve got used to them, they’re gone and the next lot come in. This current lot have only been here a day, like I said, so I haven’t really started recognizing who’s who yet. Maybe this bloke I saw is at the conference, but I just haven’t come across him yet.’ Debbie paused, seeming to give a mental check over what she’d said, then nodded. ‘See?’

  Trevor did, and sighed. He’d have to arrange it so that she got a good look at all the male conference-goers and see if she could pick him out. But for some reason, he didn’t hold out much hope that she would.

  ‘OK. What can you tell me about this man. Was he tall?’

  ‘Ish,’ Debbie said, unhelpfully. ‘I mean, he’s not as short as Art, say, but not quite as tall as me husband, who’s about six feet.’

  Peter Trent wrote five feet seven to five feet ten in his notebook and waited.

  ‘What colour was his hair?’ Trevor asked. ‘You’re doing really well,’ he added, encouragingly.

  ‘Dark, not black, but really dark brown. I think his eyes were dark brown too, although he was coming out of hall, as I said, and was a fair bit away. But I could see his eyes, like, I mean, people with pale eyes, they sort of fade into the face in the distance, don’t they? So I think the fact that I could see his eyes, meant they’d be darker, rather than paler. See?’

  Trevor did. ‘You say he came out of hall. Which way did he go? Did he come past you, down the main staircase for instance?’

  ‘Oh no. I’d have got a good look at him if he had, wouldn’t I? No, he went off the other way.’

  Trevor nodded gloomily. He would. The policeman had been trying to work out for himself the layout of the college, but as Debbie herself had said, it wasn’t easy. Bits of building seemed to have been added on here and there, higgledy-piggledy, for over 500 years, which led to some very confusing layouts.

  ‘There’s a narrower staircase at the other end of the corridor,’ Debbie obliged blithely. ‘It leads down to a side entrance that lets you out just opposite the Fellows’ garden. From there, you can cut straight across the lawns to the library, although the groundsmen don’t half tell you off if they catch you at it, since you’re supposed to use the gravel paths, or down to the bottom, and out into Walton Street. There’s a gate in the wall that lets you out without having to go all the way out the front and past the lodge.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ Trevor said flatly. Which meant that the porters who manned the main lodge might never have seen this mystery man either coming or going.

  ‘What was he wearing, miss,’ Peter Trent put in gently. ‘Was he in a suit, like, all nice and formal, or something tatty?’

  ‘Oh no. Not a suit. But not tatty, either. I think he was wearing dark jeans and a white T-shirt. Bare arms; it was hot yesterday, like today. He had quite hairy arms, I think.’

  Trevor Golder suddenly tensed. ‘A white T-shirt? Was it a plain one, or did it have a pattern on it, could you tell? Something in red, perhaps?’

  Jenny Starling looked up quickly. Thinking back to all the blood that had been shed in hall, she’d already long-since realized that the killer must have been considerably bloodstained after killing Maurice, and she appreciated the clever way the inspector had phrased the question. He didn’t want to upset the witness by explaining about the gore and asking her if she’s seen bloodstains on the man she’d seen, and he’d also avoided the trap of leading her in her answers. No doubt, it would be something the lawyers would appreciate too, once it came to trial.

  ‘Oh no, it was pure white,’ Debbie said with confidence, unaware that it was not the answer the policeman had been hoping for. ‘He walked past one of the windows on the way out, see, and it was bright white in the sunlight.’

  Trevor sighed. Still, the man had been wearing dark jeans. Perhaps those had caught the worst of the blood spatter? And the witness had admitted that the man was quite a distance away.

  ‘How old would you say he was?’ he asked next.

  ‘Oh, not old. In his mid-thirties I’d say. And quite buff. I mean, he was fit, like. I got the impression he was good-looking,’ Debbie added helplessly, again with another blush.

  ‘Clean-shaven, could you tell?’ Trevor asked next.

  ‘Oh yes. No beard, not even stubble, and no ‘tache, either. I don’t like men with face fuzz,’ Debbie admitted, then blushed again. ‘Not that that matters, naturally. I was just saying,’ she mumbled, suddenly studying her kneecaps.

  ‘Did he say anything?’ Trevor asked without much hope.

  ‘What, to me, you mean?’ Debbie asked, looking up again and clearly startled. ‘Course he didn’t, he didn’t even see me, did he? I would have been just a head peeking up above the stairs to him, anyway, even if he’d looked my way. Besides, he went in the opposite direction, didn’t he? I told you.’

  Trevor held up a placatory hand. ‘Yes, I know. I’m not acc
using you of lying, Mrs Dawkins, or trying to trip you up. But I was just thinking that nowadays, we all seem to have a mobile phone attached to one ear, and I thought he might have been using it, and talking to someone on that. Or maybe he’d met someone in the corridor going away from you and said “good morning” or something like that.’

  ‘Oh no. None of that,’ Debbie said. ‘He just went off, quickly like.’

  ‘Quickly?’ Trevor pounced. That was new.

  ‘Yeah. Walking fast, but not actually running.’

  ‘How did he seem to you?’ Trevor asked, more cautiously now. ‘Did he look like he was in shock, or panicking maybe?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Debbie said, frowning and clearly thinking about it. ‘I got the impression he looked pale, and maybe a bit shaky. He walked quick, like I said, but sort of jerky too. Like he wasn’t sure his legs were gonna hold him up. A bit like my husband after one pint too many, know what I mean?’

  Trevor did.

  Jenny coughed gently.

  Everyone looked at her, and Jenny cast Trevor Golder an apologetic smile, and said softly, ‘You said he had a short-sleeved T-shirt on, Debbie, did you notice anything on his arms?’

  The little round scout blinked. ‘His arms. Like what? A tattoo, do you mean? Nah, I wouldn’t have seen anything like that, he was too far away. And his skin didn’t look bruised or nothing, you know, like tattoos can look from far away. I mean, they mainly look blue or black, don’t they, from a distance, even if they ain’t. But both his forearms just looked normal. Pale.’

  Jenny nodded, and caught Trevor’s eye. In other words, they probably weren’t covered in blood either. But whoever had stabbed Maurice Raines in the neck must have been holding the fleshing tool in their hand, and it was impossible that he or she hadn’t got at the very least their hand and forearm stained with blood. Since there weren’t any washing facilities in hall, if the man Debbie saw had been the killer, then he must have had some means of wiping his arms down, or else….

  Trevor, who hadn’t missed the significance of the witness’s answer either, sighed gently.

  ‘Do you think you’d recognize the man if you saw him again, Mrs Dawkins?’ Trevor asked. ‘Think carefully now,’ he cautioned.

  Debbie sighed and frowned and then shrugged. ‘I dunno, do I? I mean, how can I say? I was down close to the ground, being three or four stairs down, like I was, so I was sort of looking along the floor at him at a funny angle. And he was a fair bit away, but on the other hand, I got a good look at him in the sunlight. I might,’ she said cautiously, ‘but unless I do see him again, how can I tell?’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘Look, I’ve got to get off to work now. My manager won’t like me being late, even if it is to help out you lot. Can I go now?’

  Trevor smiled charmingly. ‘If, after work, you were to sit down with a police sketch artist, do you think you could come up with a likeness of this man that you saw?’

  Debbie Dawkins looked doubtful. ‘Well, I could give it a go,’ she said at last.

  Trevor told Peter Trent to make sure that all the conferencegoers who fitted her description were dining in hall that night, and then to pick up the witness from her home and make sure she got a good look at them all. If that produced no joy, than he was to baby-sit her through the e-fit process.

  Jenny, her job done, managed to murmur something and slip away from their makeshift office before the inspector could remember that he had a bone to pick with her about her role as intermediary for the college staff.

  She’d just stepped outside, intent on finding out where James Raye was, and asking him to join her later on for lunch, when she heard her name being called.

  She looked along the side of the pleasant, rose-brick building that she’d just exited, and saw a young man hurrying towards her. His mop of red-hair and excited, freckled face, were instantly recognizable.

  ‘Hello Charlie.’ She greeted the young reporter with a careful but polite smile. She was not happy talking to members of the Press, even if they were as young and inexperienced as this one: she was savvy enough to know that the fact that he was barely a stringer for the local papers meant nothing. Just because he was small fry, didn’t mean that he didn’t have big ambitions, and he would be less than human if he didn’t see being in on a story as big as this as his shot at career advancement. He’d be desperate to make his mark, and Jenny Starling had no intention of becoming anybody’s ‘source in the know’.

  ‘I was hoping to catch you again,’ Charlie Foster said with a grin. ‘The plods won’t let me in to the buildings. They’ve even stopped the rest of the media mob from coming into the grounds by closing the place to the public. They only let me in because I’ve got the paperwork from the taxidermy society inviting me to do the article on them.’

  And how long would it be before Inspector Glover insisted that Vicki Voight rescind her permission for that, Jenny wondered, and smiled to herself? ‘And, of course, you’re going to restrict your interviews solely to the topic of how best to set about stuffing a peacock, right?’

  The youngster grinned. ‘Right! So, word has it that you found the body. Care to comment?’ he asked eagerly, trying to check surreptitiously that the small tape recorder he had running in his top shirt pocket was working.

  Jenny, who had really good hearing, could tell from the minute whirling sound it was making, that it was.

  ‘On how to stuff a peacock?’ she asked guilelessly. ‘I haven’t a clue. But if you want to see a really good example of the taxidermy art for your readers’ delectation, there’s a stuffed bear still in hall that’s a prime example. Oh sorry, you can’t go inside, can you?’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Oh come on, give us a break,’ Charlie whined. ‘If you tell me something, I’ll tell you something. Something interesting,’ he wheedled.

  ‘About the murder?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Even better – about your boss. I’ve been talking to the cleaners here, and I’ve come across a nice little bit of gossip. Come on, doesn’t everyone need a little bit of dirt on their boss?’ he winked.

  Jenny sighed. ‘I can’t imagine Glover-Smythe having a speck of dirt on him,’ Jenny said flatly.

  Charlie Foster blinked. ‘What? Who? I’m talking about your boss, you know, the little nervous guy. Fat, bald.’

  ‘Art McIntyre?’ Jenny said. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, according to the cleaners here, he’s a bit of an office joke. They all run rings round him. And they say that this Maurice Raines guy was having a right go at him about something the night the Yorkshire lot arrived. Called him incompetent, and all sorts. He wasn’t happy about the way he’d allocated the rooms for a start, and that he’d ignored something really serious and important about the ventilation needed in one of the lecture rooms, or something along those lines.’

  Jenny, who didn’t want to start wondering about why an exhibition of taxidermy might need a specific amount of ventilation, said quickly ‘I hardly think that constitutes gossip, Charlie. You run a big place like this, you’re bound to get customers with a gripe about something. So what?’

  ‘Ah, but it’s not just that, is it?’ Charlie said, looking around and then leaning closer to her and lowering his voice dramatically. ‘According to the cleaners, Raines threatened to take his complaints to the bloke’s boss – the bursar himself. Again, according to the cleaners, it’s common knowledge that the bursar is just itching to come up with a good reason to sack him.’

  ‘They’re called scouts, not cleaners,’ Jenny said absently. And wondered. Was Art McIntyre’s job as vulnerable as Charlie’s ‘sources’ were making out? Or were they just indulging in some malicious gossip? Or even stringing the youngster along? She could imagine some of the middle-aged, world-weary comedians around here spinning the eager young pup a line, just for the entertainment value alone.

  On the other hand, there might be something in it. As a motive for murder it was weak, but then, as she well knew, worse crimes had been committed f
or less.

  Jenny sighed. ‘You’d better come with me,’ she said.

  ‘What? Where?’ Charlie asked, as she turned and headed back to the door.

  ‘To see Inspector Glover. What, don’t you want the opportunity to speak to the officer in charge?’ Jenny smiled, as the young man suddenly paled.

  Instantly, he straightened his shoulders and the glint of battle came into his eyes.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Well, come on then.’

  Jenny led the way back to the incident room. As she pushed open the door and held it open for the youngster to precede her, she saw Peter Trent look up and, from the way his eyes narrowed warningly, she knew that the sergeant was well aware of Charlie’s profession.

  As she walked towards their desk at the back, she saw Trent lean down and say something urgently to his boss, who reared up and shot them a blistering look. Consequently, even before she’d reached his desk, she got her two-pennies-worth in first.

  ‘Inspector Glover, this is Charlie Foster, a reporter for the local papers. He has information that might help your investigation,’ she added firmly. Then as she reached the inspector, whispered a warning about the tape recorder in the young man’s pocket.

  ‘Is that right now?’ Glover said, both in response to her warning, and to her news. ‘So, what can you tell us, Mr Foster?’ he asked blithely.

  It was then that Charlie showed his youth and inexperience, by telling the inspector what he’d heard without first trying to use it to barter for a few usable quotes. It was, in fact, a testimony to Glover’s tact and skill that when Foster left, he was feeling as if he’d done rather well out of it, although the inspector had, in fact, let slip not a single thing that the rest of the media pack didn’t already know.