A Matter of Trust

by Maxine Barry

  Lisle’s eyes narrowed.

  Lying. She was lying to him. But perhaps he was just so tired he was getting suspicious of everyone?

  ‘I see,’ he said flatly, and saw her pretty head rear up. She was still flushing.

  ‘I don’t normally . . . I mean, I’m not one of these people who like to stop at accidents and . . .’ her voice trailed off miserably. ‘I was just out for a walk . . .’

  Oh, shut up, Nesta, she told herself grimly. You’re making a complete fool of yourself.

  Lisle smiled. He couldn’t help it. She looked so woebegone.

  ‘So you didn’t know the man who lived there?’ he asked, nodding back at the house.

  Again Nesta opened her mouth, and again she closed it. She realised, a bit late in the day, that she shouldn’t have come here. She should have gone back to her bedsit and done some solid thinking, and then worked out a campaign of action. Now she was caught in the cleft of a dilemma, and had nobody to blame but herself. She didn’t want to be in the position of lying to the police, but on the other hand, she didn’t feel able to come out with the whole truth just yet.

  She shook her head, more at her own stupidity and rashness than anything else, but Lisle took it for a negative answer.

  ‘I see. Then in that case, I suggest you go home, and get out of this awful weather.’

  For one moment, Lisle wanted to ask her where she lived. He told himself it was merely a precaution. If, after all, it turned out that she was involved, he needed to know where to contact her. But a little voice was jeering away in the back of his head. Precaution hell! He just wanted to see her again.

  ‘Oh, er . . . right,’ Nesta said, backing away reluctantly. She couldn’t, for some reason, seem to tear her eyes away from his.

  Really, he was not her type. He was too old for her for a start—surely by more than a decade or maybe even a dozen years. And he was too rugged and tough. Too in charge and sure of himself. Whilst it made her feel challenged and protected and excited, all at the same time, she didn’t see herself playing a submissive role in any relationship with a man.

  She fumbled at the door of her VW Beetle, fumbled for her keys, got the car open and sat inside. What on earth was she thinking of? She’d met the man two minutes, and her mind was already thinking along the terms of a relationship?

  She turned on the ignition, and put on her seat belt. And still he was looking at her—she could feel his gaze through the glass of the windscreen.

  Lisle watched her drive away, holding up his hand as she gave him a timid wave through the steaming-up window.

  He memorised her car number plate, just in case. And, less than a minute later, was glad that he did.

  He was just climbing back into his own car, and had wearily told Jim that it was time they went home and got some sleep, when one of the constables, engaged on the door-to-door questioning of the victim’s neighbours, beckoned to him sharply. He came running down from the house next door to Sir Vivian’s, on the right hand side.

  Lisle sighed but waited patiently, winding down the window.

  ‘Sir, I thought you should hear this straight away,’ the constable, who looked about 15 to Lisle’s jaundiced eye, leaned in through the window, red of cheek and sparkling eyed, and earnestly began reading from his notebook.

  ‘Mrs Sayers, who lives next door, remembers Sir Vivian receiving a visitor last Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon, she’s not sure. She says a young woman called in, and stood talking to Sir Vivian for a few moments, out in the garden. They then went inside, and stayed inside for over an hour.’ The constable broke off with a grin. ‘Apparently, Mrs Sayers was much upset, because Sir Vivian’s wife is in the hospital, and since retiring as a Tutor, Sir Vivian hasn’t been teaching any undergraduates. Or taken on any private tuition, for that matter.’

  Lisle smiled wearily. ‘So a young lady, staying for over an hour when the lady of the house was away, ruffled Mrs Sayers’ feathers?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. So far, it’s the only lead we’ve been able to come up with.’

  Lisle rubbed his eyes. They felt like grit. It wasn’t much, but it was a starting point. ‘Does she know who the lady was?’

  ‘No, Sir. But she gave me a good description.’

  ‘I bet she did,’ Lisle laughed humourlessly. ‘Come on then, let’s have it.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. She was in her early twenties, medium height, curvaceous in build, with a distinctive red hair cut, shaped like a bell, and curving into her cheeks into a point either side of her mouth.’

  * * *

  The pathologist looked across his office at Lisle standing in the open doorway and smiled knowingly. ‘That’s bad timing, Lisle, I’ve just finished the autopsy on your man Dalrymple,’ he said cheerfully.

  A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a wide smile, the medical man had known and worked with Lisle for many years now. And certainly long enough to know now that he’d reached the lofty heights of Inspector, he always delegated the chore of actually attending an autopsy to someone else.

  Although he’d never yet actually passed out during the procedure, it was no secret that it was one aspect of police work that he’d always hated, and had been glad to avoid.

  ‘I see no point when I know you’ll always be able to tell me what I want to know, Jack, without having to watch the gory details myself,’ Lisle said with a weary grin. ‘And right now I’m hoping you’ll tell me that the old man died of natural causes, like a nice simple heart attack.’

  Dr Jack Underwood laughed. ‘Not unless you call an arrow through the chest a heart attack,’ he said, then laughed again. ‘Although, in a way, I suppose you could say it was exactly that. His heart had a very neat hole in it, so you could say it got attacked all right.’

  Lisle blinked. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘He was killed with a bow and arrow? Like cock robin, for pete’s sake?’ Lisle heard his voice rise in disbelief.

  ‘Well, not exactly a bow and arrow like you’re probably thinking. Not Robin Hood, longbow stuff and all that. It was more of a crossbow bolt that did for him, probably from a small, modern, compact but powerful bow.’

  Jack Underwood reached for a small plastic evidence bag and tossed it across to him. Lisle neatly caught it, and found himself looking at a thin, barbed piece of what looked like steel. It was barely four inches long. ‘A crossbow bolt, I take it?’ he said flatly.

  ‘Yes. I removed it from the body of Sir Vivian not an hour ago. It was without doubt the cause of death,’ he said wryly. ‘And before you ask, I put time of death at any time between ten p.m. and midnight.’

  Lisle smiled grimly. ‘Let me guess. He was last seen talking to someone alive and well at ten, and the porter found him at not long after midnight?’

  Jack Underwood laughed. ‘That’s it. You know it’s always notoriously difficult to accurately gauge the time of death on the physical evidence alone. Body temperatures, ambient temperatures, the quirks and vagaries of rigor—they can all trip you up. You’re far better off having eyewitness accounts to place time of death any day.’

  Lisle sighed glumly. ‘Any defence wounds?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘The arrow went in from behind, I’d say. Death would have been pretty instantaneous. That’s why there wasn’t much blood at the scene. And, of course,’ he pointed at the small, lethal piece of metal in Lisle’s hands, ‘the whole thing was buried in the body, so there was no feather-lined arrow sticking out of his back to make you suspicious at first sight. It wasn’t until I got him undressed and on the table that the wound became obvious. A very neat job.’

  ‘And the arrow . . .’

  ‘Bolt,’ the pathologist corrected pedantically.

  ‘Fine, bolt, whatever—it went straight through the heart? A good shot, do you think, or just lucky?’

  Jack Underwood laughed. ‘Do I look like an archery expert to you, Lisle? I can tel
l you which rib the bolt nicked, and exactly where, if it helps you any.’

  Lisle sighed heavily. ‘Hardly.’

  * * *

  Back at the incident room, Lisle sat at his desk and read the pathologist’s report in detail. Then he reached for the phone and dialled his sergeant’s mobile.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Still going through the party guests’ witness statements, Sir. Sir Vivian did attend the party, but not the actual Dinner, for some reason. He was seen both before and after the meal, though. So far we’ve got him leaving the party somewhere around ten forty-five. He was staying the night in his room, Sir, rather than return home at that late hour.’

  Lisle grunted. ‘That accounts for his body being found where it was then. He was probably on his way to his bed, when someone shot him.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Briefly, Lisle filled him in on Dr Underwood’s findings. ‘All right, carry on with what you’re doing. Meet me back here when you’ve finished. If you want me, I’ll be at the college.’

  ‘Sir.’

  * * *

  In his own office, Sin Jun paled slightly when Lisle told him the news, about fifteen minutes later. ‘But that’s appalling,’ Sin Jun said. ‘Who’d want to do something like that to that dear old man?’

  Lisle nodded. ‘That’s what I’ve come to ask you, Sir. Did Sir Vivian have any enemies?’

  ‘What? No, good grief, no. He was liked by everyone. Yes, I know, Inspector, that sounds like an old chestnut, but in Vivian’s case it was true. Sometimes academics can be bitchy, I’ll give you that,’ Sin Jun went on, with a small smile. ‘The amount of cat fights that I’ve had to break up you wouldn’t believe. Glad that I made my fortune in the business world, I can tell you. But Vivian wasn’t like that. He didn’t do petty bickering or back-stabbing.’

  Lisle sighed. ‘Money troubles?’

  Sin Jun blinked. ‘I seriously doubt it.’

  ‘Womaniser?’

  Sin Jun barked a laugh, and Lisle sighed, then noticed a stack of that year’s newly produced College Prospectuses on the desk. He reached for one, and leafed through it absently. It was a glossy, high-end piece of literature, with photographs of the picturesque college grounds and members of staff, with blurb designed to attract the next batch of students and their grant money.

  Then Lisle turned a page, and froze. It was a section dedicated to sport—as well as the famous Boat Race, Oxford was known for inspiring sporting greats from the field of athletics to boxing.

  And, in St Bede’s case, archery.

  ‘You have archery facilities here,’ Lisle said flatly.

  ‘What? Oh yes, we’ve had one or two successes over the years. One of our Fellows, Callum Fielding, is almost good enough to compete at National level. And in the past we’ve had . . . .’ Sin Jun’s voice suddenly trailed off, and he shot an appalled glance at the policeman.

  ‘Oh surely you don’t think . . .’

  ‘I’d like you to show me your sports hall, Sir,’ Lisle said flatly.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, he reached for his mobile and called out a SOCO team. St Bede’s boasted a fully-equipped sports hall, complete with archery targets, crossbows of all sorts of descriptions, as well as bows and arrows that Robin Hood himself would very much have appreciated. And every one of them would need to be checked.

  ‘I take it this hall was closed and locked last night?’ Lisle asked, folding away the phone and glancing around.

  ‘I imagine so, Inspector,’ Sin Jun said miserably. ‘I’ll check with the porter.’

  ‘But a lot of people will have keys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But only those from this college,’ Lisle pressed. ‘Most of the party guests were from other colleges within the university I take it. There’d be no reason for them to have keys?’

  ‘Er, no,’ Sin Jun agreed reluctantly.

  Lisle nodded. Perhaps this was a lucky break after all. If the bolt recovered from Sir Vivian’s body could be matched to one of those from the St Bede’s archery club, he might just have shortened his suspect list considerably.

  Because there was no way now that this could be a casual, random killing. Nobody wandered around at night with a bow and arrow looking to mug someone. This had to be premeditated.

  ‘I think you were saying that one of your Fellows was a good shot, Sir. Dr Fielding, was it? What can you tell me about him?’

  Sin Jun shot him an appalled look. ‘Now look here, Inspector, Sir Vivian was one of Callum’s tutors when he was an undergraduate here. They got on like a house on fire. Callum respected Sir Vivian enormously, and for his part, Vivian regarded Callum as one of his star pupils. Not only did he go on to produce a blindingly good D.Phil thesis of his own and become a member of this college, but he’s just been awarded the Kendall Prize as well.’

  ‘This would be at the Prize Dinner that was just held here?’ Lisle asked sharply. ‘Worth a lot is it? This prize?’

  ‘It fully funds a Fellow’s research for five years, Inspector. Believe me, that’s like the holy grail to an academic!’ Sin Jun said with pride.

  ‘And Dr Fielding won it,’ Lisle said sharply ‘Was Sir Vivian in the running to win it too?’

  ‘What? Good grief, I have no idea. I’m not sure who was on the short list. You’d have to ask the Kendall family that. But Vivian is all but retired now, and besides, he had won it before anyway.’

  ‘So it might have caused bad feeling, if he’d been counting on winning it again?’ Lisle pressed.

  Sin Jun shook his head helplessly. ‘Inspector, I can assure you, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Sir Vivian was murdered in your college, with a crossbow bolt. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Sir, to keep that information to yourself. At the moment, the press is under the impression that this was a random, common-or-garden mugging. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if the real cause of death is leaked to them.’

  Sin Jun paled visibly. ‘Nobody will hear it from me, Inspector, I assure you.’

  Lisle nodded. Good. The longer they could keep it under wraps, the more complacent and safe the killer would feel. Which was just how Lisle wanted it.

  For now.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lisle parked the car in front of a slightly inauspicious-looking building, and climbed out. He hadn’t brought Jim with him, telling his sergeant instead to report in later. There was no reason why they should both lose out on their sleep.

  He wondered, as he locked the car and went in search of the building’s landlady, if he was doing the right thing. Normal procedure called for two police personnel to be present at any interview. But in reality, budget cuts being what they were, they were so short-staffed that single-personnel interviews were actually the norm. Jim was dead on his feet and . . .

  Lisle smiled to himself grimly. If he was going to be totally honest, he’d simply wanted to talk to the redhead alone.

  Strictly in the interests of his investigation, of course. The fact that she’d been on his mind all morning, the memory of her green eyes intruding into his consciousness about every five minutes or so, had absolutely nothing to do with it.

  The landlady, a fifty three year old bleached blonde, with expert make-up and a warm heart, was aghast to be called on, in the middle of the day, by a policeman. Appalled that one of her ‘people’ should need to be interviewed by the police. Totally innocent of any knowledge of wrong doing, and, of course, she personally really admired the police, and thought they did a good job. And told him so. At length. All the time, her pale blue eyes running over the impressive length and look of him.

  As Lisle followed her upstairs, parrying her curious questions and none-too-subtle hints for information, he began to feel more and more weary. He’d got past that dog-tired state, where he could have slept for twelve solid hours had he gone home, like he’d meant to. He was now in that restless-but-listless stage, where he felt wide awa
ke, but like something the cat had dragged in.

  As soon as he’d heard the description of Sir Vivian’s mysterious female caller, he’d spent the last few hours tracking her down. And the thought of seeing her again was not a displeasing one.

  For a woman he’d only talked to for a few minutes, she’d certainly made her presence felt.

  The landlady finally paused for breath, and hesitated outside a slightly warped door before tapping timidly. A moment later, Nesta Aldernay opened it and looked in blank surprise at her landlady, who was never usually a lunch time caller. Then her green eyes slid past her to the tall, menacing figure standing behind her.

  She became suddenly still. Then she smiled. ‘Hello again,’ she said quietly. She knew her landlady’s eyes were avidly watching her every expression, her big ears straining for the slightest hint of scandal or intrigue, and she was damned if she was going to give the old girl any more ammunition.

  Lisle understood her predicament at once. He smiled back. ‘Miss Aldernay,’ he said crisply, but pleasantly. ‘There are just one or two questions that need clearing up.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Nesta said, her heart suddenly thumping against her ribs. How did he know her name? She hadn’t told him this morning, of that she was certain. But then, he was a policeman. Her name must be on many databases available to the police.

  She opened the door a little wider. ‘Please, do come in. Would you like some tea?’ Then, turning to her landlady, she smiled at her sweetly, and gently shut the door in her face.

  Alone in the room, the two of them stood in silence, warily looking at one another as they patiently waited until they could hear the heavy tread of the landlady going back down the stairs.

  Nesta swallowed a strange lump in her throat, wondering why her feet were so reluctant to move. She felt, ridiculously, rooted to the spot. Then she firmly took herself in hand, and forced herself to start towards the small sink and the waiting kettle. ‘Sugar? Milk?’

  ‘Please. One sugar.’

  He watched her cross the room, rather like a cat watches an unfamiliar mouse. Curious. Wary. Purring just a little . . .