by Charlot King
Susan, now irritated by Elizabeth, picks up a lighter.
“How the hell do I know, are you a bleeding detective or something?”
“No, I’m just trying to find out what happened.”
“You ask too many questions.”
Elizabeth shuffles, still standing. She knows it won’t be long before she’s asked to leave.
“But Mrs Wiley was quite vocal about an incident where she described seeing you outside their rooms at King’s, just watching their windows?”
Susan is growing more agitated, scowling at Elizabeth.
“I’m a Fellow at Kings for Christ’s sake. I stand all over the place in the grounds, talking to people. You think I’d waste my time staring up at her window? If anyone hangs about it’s that stick insect. She has no profession other than shopping and pure idleness. This conversation is irritating, especially under the circumstances.”
Elizabeth shuts her eyes for a moment and holds her breath from Susan’s smoke wafting over in her direction. Then continues.
“It’s the circumstances that made me inclined to pay you a visit.”
Susan fires off another insult at Rebecca Wiley.
“Anyway, that scrawny vulture. Got her talons into Ed. She wanted his money. He doesn’t love her.” Susan pauses and then corrects herself. “Didn’t.”
“He married her?” says Elizabeth. Susan starts to usher Elizabeth out.
“Before he knew what an intense suicidal vacuum she is. I think you should go.”
Elizabeth continues to press for as many answers as she can get.
“You weren’t jealous of them then?”
This rattles Susan hugely, her tone growing with impatience.
“Yeah, I think you’re going now.”
But Elizabeth turns her back to the door and faces Susan in the hall.
“Actually, Rebecca said you wouldn’t leave them alone.”
“Ha! I saw him last night.” She stops herself, realising she’s said something she shouldn’t, nervously loosening her scarf. Elizabeth can’t refrain from pushing further.
“You may have been the last person –”
Susan interrupts.
“He was fine. He was going to talk to Rebecca.”
“He lives with Rebecca.” Elizabeth replies.
“He was going to tell her that he was leaving her. For me. Now get out!”
Susan holds the front door open now, for Elizabeth to leave.
“Just one thing, Dr Bunt. If Edward was going to leave Rebecca when was he actually going to tell her? Was it definitely last night?”
Susan snarls “Yes. Maybe he told her and she got angry. I don’t know.”
Elizabeth is not sure she believes Susan is being honest.
“What if he changed his mind and told you over dinner that he wasn’t going to leave her after all. Maybe you got angry?”
Susan spits with anger.
“You have the gall to come in here and tell me Edward is dead and in the same breath accuse me of his murder? Just go, before I do something I regret!”
Elizabeth trips on a packed bag in the hallway by her feet, along with a big cloak. She looks at the bag and up at Susan, “Are you going somewhere?”
Susan forcibly pushes Elizabeth out the door. Elizabeth stumbles and falls backwards onto the garden path, her cycle helmet pinging off her jacket and rolling into a patch of garden border. As the door slams, Elizabeth lies for a moment looking back at the house, and can see Susan’s retreat through the frosted glass in the front door. She tries to remember everything Susan just said, but her heart is beating fast from the altercation. Elizabeth calms herself down with a few deep breaths and looks out at the cattle, who unsurprisingly haven’t been disturbed, and are still chewing. Elizabeth pulls herself up, brushes down her clothes and wanders over to her bicycle. She thinks on the mysteries of the human heart, which keep us in a quandary over the choices we make. If Susan really didn’t know Edward was dead, and she thought he was leaving Rebecca, then why was Susan packed? But if Susan did know he was dead then she was a very good actress and could even be the murderer. She certainly had a temper. Also, Susan was clearly planning to leave for a while, as Elizabeth had noticed plants in the kitchen sink, soaking in water. As Elizabeth pulls her bicycle to the path she observes Susan looking back at her, net curtains pulled up, the window open a crack to give the house a little respite from yet another cigarette. It makes Elizabeth cough, the smell of ash still lingering on her lovely linen coat. The little spider above the door in the ivy peeps at Elizabeth, warning her off. She mounts her bicycle and joins the gravelly path along the river, passing a dog walker with an Afghan hound, stopping to say hello. Back at the house Susan is now shaking with anxiety, watching Elizabeth stop to stroke the dog, talk to the woman and then cycle off into the distance and around the corner until she disappears. She tightens her scarf and flinches a little, then walks over to the packet of cigarettes. She has a great excuse for chain smoking today.
16. The Green Magician
A uniformed police officer, followed by Inspector Abley, walks down into the now fairly quiet Green Magician restaurant. The officer turns over the closed sign on the front door as he crosses the entrance. Someone takes out a mobile phone to take a picture of the policeman, making Abley both amused and concerned at what the young do with gadgets these days. Despite the day having brightened up, the gloom of the basement hits Abley like a wall. The smell of different foods mix in the air, of pasta, tomatoes, spinach, fried vegetables and the taint of red wine. He can see steam rising from the open hatch through to the kitchens, and hear pots clanging. Those sitting around him look a little like the undead, pale and stationary, their eyes wide staring at him in unison, aware of the blue stripes. Abley has been here before. Previous owners had been involved in money laundering. Then before that, about ten years ago, he remembers when a fight kicked off and someone was glassed. Now, he thinks it feels more touristy, less local somehow. More anodyne.
“It’s okay everyone. There is nothing to see here.”
But the few people eating brunch quietly disagree. Abley walks up to what looks like the man in charge, then leans over the counter.
“Hello. Are you the manager?”
“No.”
After some seconds of this impasse, Abley replies.
“Well, can you get them please?”
There is a lull in the room, while everyone waits for the manager to appear. A fork clanks on a plate as someone else tries to chew quietly. Finally, the manager comes out from the kitchens, eating a slice of ciabatta. Dressed in a dark, tightly fitting expensive suit, with a chiselled jaw under a closely shaved beard, he acknowledges Inspector Abley and notices the uniformed officer standing nearby.
“Hello, I’m the manager, is there a problem?”
Abley smiles.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to temporarily close this establishment, Mr er -”
“Stower.”
“It may have come to your attention, Mr Stower, that there has been a tragic death in Cambridge last night, of a Mr Edward Wiley. While investigations continue we need to search the premises as we understand he ate here prior to his death.” Abley hears a gasp from the restaurant as more knives and forks clank down. “I hope this isn’t going to cause you too much inconvenience. We will conduct the search as quickly as possible.”
“Do I have a choice?”
Abley shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. The manager nods, reluctantly, which gives Abley his cue to turn to those still eating inside.
“Shall I?” The manager nods again, this time rolling his eyes. Abley addresses the diners. “Sorry folks, we are going to have to ask you to leave, as we must temporarily close The Green Magician. Nothing to worry about, they are just helping us with routine enquiries.”
The unif
ormed police officer returns up the stairs to get his forensics team waiting outside in a van. One diner protests that he hasn’t finished his pizza and has just ordered a lemon mousse.
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” Abley replies, but in reality couldn’t give a hoot about the man’s pizza or lemon mousse, as he watches an overlarge belly wobble as the man stands up to leave. Clientele start to put on their jackets and pick up their bags, with half-eaten meals left on the tables. The manager placates them with offers of free food.
“No need to settle up. Come back when we’re open and you’ll get a complimentary meal as well, care of Cambridgeshire police.” He looks hopefully at Inspector Abley, knowing full well that the police don’t compensate. “Just give your name outside to the waiter.” The manager orders a waiter up to the top of the stairs by the door, to take names. The uniformed police officer is now joined by two SOCO officers wearing white suits, who have to push past people on the stairs leaving in the opposite direction, now gossiping to one another. The SOCOs walk into the kitchen and start opening fridges and cupboards, taking out all the ingredients, much to the chagrin of the chef who demonstratively waves his arms in the air until he is also ushered out up onto the pavement outside, still wearing hat and apron. The manager turns his attention back to Abley, who offers acknowledgement of the minor commotion.
“Please accept my apologies. Might I ask, were you working last night?”
Flatly and without hesitation the laconic manager replies.
“When am I not working?”
Abley pulls an envelope from his jacket and draws out a photograph.
“Do you recognise this man?” Abley holds up a photo of Edward Wiley.
The manager does, and nods sadly.
“Yes, I saw it on the news this morning. And you’re right, he was here last night. Dreadful business. Out of curiosity, how did you know he ate here?”
“A lady who was dining here alone called us this morning. He also had one of your paper napkins in his pocket.”
Abley pulls out the napkin in a police forensics bag. It is clearly broken up by the river, but the words The Green Magician are still visible.
“Ah, must be Mrs Humble. She sits alone, eats, does the crossword. Every night. I would’ve got round to telling you myself. Just been too knackered.”
Abley is not impressed, but can understand as this looks like one of those places likely to wear a man out.
“Is there a way of finding out what he ate?” Abley asks.
“We should be able to find out the orders from the bills and work backwards from what we used in the kitchen. Let me have a look. Ordinarily it would be a lengthy process, but Monday’s are always quiet. There weren’t too many in.”
“Were there any unusual dishes on that night. Specials?”
“No, the normal menu. As I say, Monday. It’s too quiet to do anything fancy.” Mr Stower lifts out a hand held gadget and scrolls down to Monday, clicks again on a table number.
“Here we are. Mr Wiley paid cash. I know it was him, as we number the tables. He was in for a long time. You can see that the first order put through the till was a 7.00pm and the last order was at 11.30pm. Everything’s electronic now, we keep a tab. Helps us know when people are not spending enough and when it’s time to go over and ask them if they want more. It flashes and everything. Though I would have remembered him. Well dressed, not our typical punter.”
Abley looks at the high-tech gadget which does indeed look very snazzy.
“He spent £128.45 and left a £24 tip. Mainly on alcohol. A couple of manhattan’s early on with some cashews, two whisky shots, then a gap before buying a bottle of the good Wolf Blass. One had the sea bass the other the mushroom risotto. A chocolate mouse and the cheese board. Then another glass of red.”
Abley is curious about the food.
“We’ll need more information on the sea bass and the mushrooms, and such like.”
“Most of what was left in the fridges chef’s already thrown out. Should be in the bins though, out the back. Everything’s fresh, but we can trace back to our suppliers and see if anyone else has had problems. We have a local chap who brings fish in from the Norfolk coast. Fresh caught. We use him a lot and freeze a bit. It lasts us the week and then he comes again. He’s got extremely good produce, that’s why we use him.”
Abley digs to find out more, glad that he’s got this far with the manager, but curious for that clue to help him solve this so he can maybe squeeze in nine holes this afternoon.
“That would be very helpful. Very helpful indeed. We can talk to your suppliers if you just give us the details. You said ‘they’ ate and drank. Do you happen to remember who Mr Wiley was dining with? Man, woman, young, old?”
“I wasn’t out here all the time, but I saw a woman, about his age. Such an odd pair. She didn’t look like his type.”
Abley looks at the manager a little quizzically, not entirely sure how helpful that is.
“All right, bluntly he was immaculately dressed, looked a class apart and she, well, she didn’t.”
Abley shakes his head a little, indicating that’s still not much help.
“It’s all I remember. They were sitting in the corner, and it is quite dark in here at night.”
“Right. Thank you. If you remember anything else, would you get in touch?”
The Inspector hands the manager a card, who takes it and nods.
“Do I get any compensation for this?” The Manager watches the final straggler client leaving his near empty restaurant.
“Helping to solve a case of a suspicious death in Cambridge? We shouldn’t need to close you for more than twenty-four hours. I’ll give you a photo of me if you like for your wall?” Abley smiles up at the celebrity photos in the alcove.
“Great.” The Manager realises there is nothing he can do.
Abley nods and smiles and then walks up the stairs. As he leaves he passes a police officer carrying out food.
“Would you take statements off any staff working here last night please?”
The officer nods and holds the door for Abley. Abley stands outside for a moment. Not sure of his next move. Just a few yards away he can see King’s College and the sky above. A man with a camera stops to take a picture, probably just of the Chapel, like hundreds that day. Abley sees the man drop a chocolate bar wrapper from his pocket into the alley. This infuriates him, but he can’t be side tracked now. He needs to focus on the case. He wants to solve this. He thinks about what the manager said. A women who doesn’t fit with Wiley, an odd pair. Well, that wasn’t Rebecca, was it. She looked like just the type of young lady a Fellow might have on his arm. The police tape over the entrance of the restaurant at street level. Abley walks back up the alley, picking up the chocolate wrapper and depositing it in a bin, then clicks open the locks of his BMW 4-series coupe, double parked on King’s Parade. As he gets in he looks at the increasingly busy pavements, people perched like pigeons along King’s College wall, drinking their coffees, licking ice creams, fiddling with cameras or just looking about. Earlier clouds have passed and it is beginning to look like a great day to play golf. Much to his annoyance he knows that this case is nowhere near finished. He starts the engine and heads back to the station.
17. Parker’s Piece
‘Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people will find a way around the laws.’
Plato
Elizabeth makes her way to the Cambridge Police HQ across the green expanse of Parker’s Piece, as she does walking past the tall central lamp-post, known to locals as ‘Reality Checkpoint’, so called because it is where you leave the bubble of the university for the real world where locals live down the Mill Road. The police station is directly next to Cambridge Fire Station, the two buildings imposing themselves upon the lower corner of this 25 acre square of mown grass common,
cut by two diagonal paths; less visible are its cricket field and white racing track markings for the local school to use. Not ten minutes from most of the colleges in the centre, and equidistant to the railway station, it often has people playing frisbee, football or generally chatting and watching the world go by with picnics. But Elizabeth has no time for this today as she marches on, determined to discuss this case. She finds Inspector Abley in the police canteen, finishing a very late breakfast. Police officers crowd the hall, grabbing snacks after a night shift or early lunches before the start of their beat. It has the air of a school canteen, with wafts of bacon mixed with pizza and sticky toffee pudding, chairs scratching across hard floors, tables creaking under the weight of elbows and some rather large officers devouring apple crumble puddings. Most have noticed Elizabeth, aware of her reputation for helping the force solve cases, though few have ever spoken to her. Some show surprise to see her after such a long absence. She receives smiles, and a nod in acknowledgement as she walks to the far table and comes to a standstill over Inspector Abley’s chair. Abley shovels food as Elizabeth raises her eyebrows and coughs. Finally aware, he continues to do the crossword in his ‘red top’ paper, which also covers the death on the front cover with the word ‘suspicious’. Stabbing at a few chips he dips them in egg. Elizabeth breaks the silence.
“Haven’t you solved it yet?” This falls on deaf ears, so she continues “All right, what leads do you have? Maybe we should swap information?”
“Hello to you too.”
Elizabeth finds this blanking of her request nauseating.
“Look, wasting time, stuffing your face, reading rot isn’t going to help.”
The Inspector doesn’t rise to Elizabeth’s rudeness. He knows her too well.
“My mother always said you can’t do a days work on an empty tum. Who am I to argue with a good woman?” Abley nods at his paper “I’m doing the crossword while I eat, that’s all. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Elizabeth picks up the paper and reads out one of the clues.
“A sport with time for tea. Hmm. You’ll be here all day with these.”
