by Faith Martin
Hillary could understand why. ‘I understand this is all very distasteful and upsetting,’ she said gently. ‘I take it Michael fought him off?’
‘Yes,’ William said briskly.
‘And then reported Dr Durning to the head of the university?’
‘Yes. But not straight away,’ William said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Michael said he felt hideously embarrassed at first, and just wanted to forget about it. After all, this was the man he’d always admired, and who’d been his greatest champion. Then he began to wonder if, somehow, it was his own fault that it had happened. You know, had he somehow given his tutor reason to believe that there was something between them.’
‘Yes, that often happens with victims of sexual harassment,’ Hillary agreed quietly, with a quick glance at Claire. She, having dealt with abused women for most of her career, knew all about this sort of thing. She saw her companion grimace, but knew that Claire wouldn’t give a lecture on it right now. She wouldn’t want to interrupt the flow of the interview.
‘They start to second-guess themselves,’ Hillary explained matter-of-factly. ‘They start to look back on things and wonder if some innocent remark they’d made could have sounded like a come-on. Or whether a purely innocent gesture could have been interpreted as an invitation.’ Although, as both she and Claire well knew, it was far more often women who had this type of experience, she knew that men were not immune from this sort of false reasoning.
‘Exactly. It took him a while, I think, to come to terms with it all. To see that he’d actually done nothing wrong — nothing at all. And that his tutor had no right to put him in such an invidious position. That he’d used his position of power in order to try and, well, persuade him into doing something that he wasn’t comfortable with. And when he finally reasoned all that out,’ William shrugged, ‘he finally became angry.’
‘You say he finally became angry,’ Hillary slipped in smoothly. ‘Was Michael usually slow to anger, would you say?’
‘Oh yes,’ the boy’s mother said at once. ‘It sometimes worried me. He was such a placid child. And even when he grew older, he had such an even, amiable nature. It took a lot to make him angry, didn’t it, darling?’ She looked over at her husband.
‘Yes.’
Hillary nodded. So it was unlikely that their murder victim had been killed because his hot head had got the wrong person riled up. Unless . . .
‘But when he did lose his temper, did he lose it violently?’ Hillary asked. Some people who were slow to anger could really blow their top when they finally did. And if that was the case here, then it was possible that Michael, unused to being angry, had really lost it on the final day of his life, and whoever he’d taken his frustrations out on had returned the favour in kind and then some.
‘No, not really,’ Martina said thoughtfully, again looking at her husband.
‘When Michael was upset about something, he tended to become quieter if anything, and very stubborn,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s true. Normally he would just go along to please people, you know? But if he was seriously riled, he’d dig his heels in and be very mulish.’ Martina smiled. ‘I remember him once as a boy refusing to do something or other I’d asked of him, and nothing could move him.’
Keeping her voice carefully neutral, Hillary continued her questioning. ‘Do you think that’s what happened with his tutor? Was he just being stubborn in going through with the complaint?’ It was not that she didn’t applaud the dead man for the courage of his actions, but she needed to get a feel for the victim. Was he a vindictive sort? Was he quick to be offended? Did he always retaliate? It didn’t seem so, based on what she’d learned about him thus far, but if he was, it was far more likely that Michael had more enemies than his parents seemed to think. And that was something she needed to be aware of.
‘No, it wasn’t that so much,’ Martina explained wearily. ‘Michael never wanted Dr Durning to get the sack, for instance, did he?’ She turned to her husband, who was already shaking his head. ‘In fact, we had to stop him writing a letter to the university about it.’
‘He just didn’t want another student to go through the same thing, you see,’ William Beck said with a small, sad smile. ‘I think, in his own mind, he’d convinced himself that Dr Durning had been guilty of nothing more than a bad lapse of judgement. That he had misunderstood their relationship and Michael just wanted him to be more careful in the future. So that he didn’t do it again and upset another student, or be drummed out of teaching altogether. In spite of it all, I think he still credited the man with being a good teacher.’
‘So he felt guilty when Dr Durning had to leave the university?’
‘Yes, in a way. I told him it was silly to feel that way,’ Martina said, anger creeping back into her voice now. ‘The man got exactly what he deserved.’
‘But Michael wanted to retract his accusation?’ Hillary persisted, still not sure that she fully understood the dynamics of what had happened between her murder victim and his tutor.
‘No!’
‘No!’
Both the Becks spoke forcefully and at the same time. After another quick, silent glance passed between them, it was Martina who carried on.
‘As we pointed out to him, after he spoke up and the university began an investigation, several other young men who’d been students of Dr Durning came forward and testified that similar things had happened to them,’ she said indignantly. ‘As I told Michael, it wasn’t as if the university had taken Michael’s word for it alone. Well, they wouldn’t, would they?’ she said bitterly. ‘If they’d been able to, they’d have swept it under the carpet and avoided a scandal at any cost.’
‘Now, I’m not sure that’s altogether true, Marty,’ her husband put in, but his wife, for once, ignored him.
‘But with others backing Michael up, they couldn’t,’ she added, with evident satisfaction.
Hillary nodded. ‘Did Dr Durning make any threats against Michael after he left the university? And would Michael have confided in you if he had?’
‘No, I’m sure he didn’t,’ Martina said, clearly confident of her answer. ‘Michael had proper support from the university when it became clear that Dr Durning was a serial offender, I’ll give them that, at least. He was appointed a proper counsellor that he could always talk to, as well as a member of the Student Union to keep an eye on him. I’m sure if anything more had happened, one or the other of them would have known about it. I felt so helpless being here while Michael was finishing his final term, but it did help to know that he had someone he could go to at Bristol.’
‘Would Michael have told them things, do you think?’ Hillary mused. ‘Would he have been happy to talk about such private matters with strangers?’ Again, she was not judging, only trying to understand Michael’s personality.
‘Yes, I think so,’ the dead boy’s mother said, beginning to sound tired now. ‘He was never a secretive sort of boy. Never the kind to keep things locked up. He was an only child, so we were always a bit worried that he might not be very sociable, but we needn’t have been concerned on that front,’ Martina smiled. ‘He made friends easily, and his best friend, Kevin, was almost like a brother to him. They’d known each other since they were eleven. He was always enthusiastic, and shared his toys, even as a toddler.’
Hillary nodded and decided that it was time to leave it there. Both of her witnesses were beginning to look as if they’d been put through the wringer, which was not surprising. She could always come back for a second interview once the case inevitably started throwing up more things that she’d need to ask.
‘All right, Mr Beck, Mrs Beck, I think that’s all we need for now,’ she said, beginning to gather her things around her and rising from her chair. ‘I might like to come back some other time to talk some more, if that’s all right with you?’
‘That’s more than all right with us,’ William said, also rising. His wife, still looking weary, stayed on the sofa.
Hillary swallowed back a hard lump that had risen in her throat, and promised simply, ‘I’ll do everything I can, Mr Beck.’
* * *
Six months ago
DI Robin Farrell peered through the back door of the dingy shop but made no move to step inside. The police photographer and the scene-of-crime people were still working around the pathetic figure of the dead shop owner, and he was not averse to waiting until they’d finished.
He glanced curiously around the neighbourhood, feeling a little depressed by the rows of tiny back gardens, most of them overrun with weeds, nettles and rusting objects, the run-down garages all but falling apart and used more for storage than shelters for cars, and the ubiquitous rain-soaked overflowing gutters.
‘At least finding a witness who saw our man come and go should be easy enough, guv,’ the young and green constable standing beside him said, looking hopefully at the many rows of windows in the surrounding drab council houses and the back ends of a few other shops. ‘Someone must have seen Mr Newley’s visitor.’
Robin gave a brief grunt of laughter, which held nothing of amusement in it. ‘I doubt it, Constable,’ he predicted tiredly. ‘Most of the homeowners will prove to have been out at work or spending their universal credit at the pub, and even those who were home won’t have been looking this way, mark my words. And as for the commercial premises,’ he glanced at the grubby rear windows of the betting shop next door, which had its blinds firmly drawn, ‘I think you’ll find that they were all too busy with their own customers to take notice of Mr Newley’s business.’
It never ceased to amaze the DI how good people were at managing not to see things going on right under their noses — especially in districts like this.
The constable glanced again at the houses, hoping that the senior investigating officer was just being pessimistic. After all, it would be he, along with some other constables, who would be spending the rest of their day talking to the neighbours, and the prospect of meeting with a belligerent wall of silence, or wide-eyed fake innocence, was depressing.
‘It’s not a nice area, is it, sir?’ he finally muttered in forlorn agreement — and massive understatement.
Robin Farrell didn’t bother to answer, but moved back out of the way as one of the white-suited lab technicians stepped past him with a box of bagged evidence. His absence from the narrow rear passageway revealed the doctor who was kneeling beside the fallen body and examining it closely. Once the medical man had finished and was packing up his case, Robin sent the constable about his unenviable task, and prepared to have a brief word with the expert.
The doctor wasn’t someone Robin knew, but he greeted the SIO with a smile and a brief handshake. ‘Dr Coltrane. And don’t ask for miracles,’ were his opening, rather discouraging words. ‘But I’m prepared to say that he’s probably been dead not more than two hours. And it looks, from just my preliminary inspection, as if cause of death is likely to be the blow to the head, made by an oddly shaped weapon, probably made of some kind of metal. But don’t hold me to it until after a full autopsy.’
Robin glanced at the form of the dead man lying in the hallway, and sighed.
‘Right,’ he said heavily.
When he’d been given the assignment and learned that the victim was a man killed in his shop, he’d immediately assumed the chances were high that he would be dealing with a more or less straightforward robbery gone wrong. Now, he was beginning to wonder. Most thieves who killed did so because their victims confronted them in the shop in the act of actually stealing, or in the office, caught trying to steal the petty cash.
But the old man here had been killed at the back door, and according to those who were first on the scene, the cash box had been found intact further inside.
‘One thing of interest,’ the doctor said, making the inspector’s ears prick up, ‘I found two unusual marks on his chest. I was first alerted to them by a slight brownish stain on the front of his shirt.’
‘Knife wounds?’ Robin asked.
The medical man looked at the SIO with interest, seeing a man somewhere in his mid-to-late forties, not quite six feet tall, with thinning fair hair and wide grey eyes.
‘No. I think it far more likely that they were made by two points of electricity coming into contact with his skin, having penetrated the thin material of his clothing.’
It took the inspector only a moment of quick thought to come up with the answer. ‘You think he was hit by a taser first?’
‘I think that’s the most likely explanation,’ the doctor confirmed cautiously. ‘I’ll be able to say for sure once I’ve got him on the table.’
Robin frowned. This was looking less and less like an opportunist robbery the more he learned about it. ‘I see. Anything else you think I should know about?’
‘Not at this stage, Inspector,’ the doctor said with a wry smile. ‘I think I’ve stuck my neck out far enough as it is.’ He cast the dead man a brief look and sighed. ‘Good luck. I’ll be off now.’
The inspector nodded and thanked him, then set off around the side of the building to the front of the shop, where the first officer on the scene — an old hand from the local station — was guarding the front door. Not that it needed much guarding, as the street was conspicuously empty. It wouldn’t have taken long for word to get around that the police were out in force, and not even nosy kids had been allowed out to see what it was all about.
‘Constable Wrighton, isn’t it?’ he said briefly to the man standing stolidly in front of the door.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Know the victim, do you?’
‘Yes, sir, he’s pretty well known to us. Simon Newley. He’s had these premises for going on thirty years now.’
Robin nodded, not surprised by the news that his victim had come to the attention of the locals. It had taken him but one glance at the premises to guess that the owner of such a place was hardly likely to be a paragon of virtue. Shops such as this one were shops in name only.
He glanced through the almost impenetrable grime and peered into the interior. ‘What a load of tat,’ he commented. ‘He never earned his daily crust from selling that lot,’ he nodded his head to include the items within.
The constable’s lips twisted. ‘That he didn’t, sir.’ He regarded the SIO with the calm patience that a lot of long-serving, lower-rank officers usually reserved for the high-flyers. He knew, vaguely, of DI Robin Farrell’s reputation. Decent enough bloke, recently divorced (who wasn’t?), with grown kids. Too good-looking for his own good, so the rumour mill had it, and his missus had found him playing away. Worked out of Thames Valley HQ in Kidlington. Played golf, hoping to catch some bigwig’s eye, no doubt. Had ambitions, so it was said.
Well, the constable had no problem with that. Although he doubted he himself would ever even make sergeant he was happy to have a steady job and a steady wage.
‘Receiver of stolen goods, our Mr Newley,’ he said helpfully. ‘Fence. Unofficial pawnbroker. Did a bit of smuggling of ciggies and booze too, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he added.
‘Bit of an all-rounder then,’ Robin said with another mirthless smile. ‘Sounds like the old-fashioned sort.’
The constable grinned. ‘That about sums him up, sir. Made a living, kept to himself.’
‘Form?’
‘No, sir,’ the constable surprised him by admitting. ‘Our Simon was too canny and too timid to really stick his neck out. We nearly had him a couple of times over the years, but nothing stuck. You know how it is. Nobody around here would grass him up — they needed his services too often. And he was a known quantity too. You could trust him — well, within limits, like — and he’d been here so long he was almost an institution. A local mascot, so to speak.’
Robin nodded and sighed. ‘I get the picture.’
The constable regarded the SIO
for a moment, then sniffed. ‘Funny thing, this,’ he jerked his head back towards the shop. ‘Can’t really understand it. Old Simon never struck me as the sort to go and get his head bashed in.’
‘Oh? I’d have thought a man in his line would have made plenty of enemies?’ Robin countered mildly. ‘Some junkie who didn’t think he gave him enough for his mother’s best wristwatch or wedding ring maybe?’
‘Nah, I can’t see it myself,’ the constable said helpfully. ‘Like I said, he was careful. He knew who to do with business with, and who to avoid. He knew every petty villain and third-rate crook for miles. As I said, he just wasn’t the sort to stick his neck out.’
‘Could be straightforward robbery?’ Robin floated the idea without much hope.
‘Never kept that much cash here, he didn’t, and everyone knew it. And as for finding something worth lifting in there . . .’ He eyed the interior of the shop and laughed out loud.
‘A stranger to the area?’ Robin Farrell hazarded next.
The constable shrugged without enthusiasm. ‘Possible, I suppose,’ he said doubtfully, looking around the narrow backwater ostentatiously. And Robin took his point — the place was hardly on a main thoroughfare. You’d have to know it was here to find it.
‘Personal woes?’ he asked next.
‘Nah — married for over thirty years to the same long-suffering woman,’ the constable said. ‘Lives in a nice little place in your neck of the woods in Kidlington. Sensible woman, had a brood of kids by him and was fond of him in her own way, so rumour has it. I can’t see her bashing him over the head with a rolling pin. But you never know. And he wasn’t what you’d exactly call a ladies’ man, our Simon.’ He grinned openly at the thought. ‘No jealous husbands had it in for him, I reckon. No, it won’t have been personal,’ he predicted confidently.
Robin nodded. That all rang true enough.
Besides, the inspector believed that he already had a pretty good idea who was behind all this, and why, and he suspected the helpful local did too. But whether or not Robin and his subsequent investigation would be able to prove it remained to be seen.