by H. Y. Hanna
“In the media…? You don’t mean that ridiculous piece of tabloid nonsense in the Cotswolds Post this morning?” I demanded. “You can’t believe that! That was just a bunch of made-up rubbish! I didn’t say half of those things, and even the few things I did say were taken completely out of context. You can’t reject my application just because of some malicious rumours!”
“As I said, we have made a full assessment of your case and this is our decision. We are an old, reputable bank and we are very careful of the clients that we take on. I’m sure you understand the damage that could be done to the bank’s reputation if it was discovered that we had provided a loan to a potential criminal—”
“But I’m not a criminal!” I roared. “This is absolutely ridiculous! I refuse to accept this!”
“There is an official appeals process,” said the impersonal voice. “If you’d like to go through that, you can go to our website and click on the link—”
“Oh, stuff the appeals process!” I cried in frustration, slamming down the phone.
I sank down on my bed, despair washing over me. I couldn’t believe how suddenly everything had gone wrong. It had seemed like my dream was coming true: coming back to Oxford, seeing the tearoom in Meadowford, even meeting a possible baker… and now it was all being snatched away from me at the last moment. I bit down hard on my bottom lip as tears threatened.
Then I drew a long, shuddering breath and sat up straighter. No, I had given up too much and come too far to just let myself be beaten like this. I wasn’t going to just meekly accept things. And sitting in my bedroom feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I sprang up. I was going to fight this. I was going to make the bank change their minds and approve the loan. But how could I do that?
By convincing them that I had nothing to do with Jenn’s murder.
I thought about my original plan to hunt down the journalist and make him retract his statement. But that wasn’t enough, I decided. I needed someone with more authority than that—I needed the “official line”. Someone to confirm that I wasn’t a suspect.
The police.
Yes, I needed to speak to Inspector Glenn. He must have followed up on Andrew Manning by now—maybe they even had the young man in custody already. If I could speak to him and maybe get him to vouch for me, then I was sure the bank would reconsider.
Feeling suddenly much better, I finished dressing, then left the house, hopped on my bike, and cycled towards Oxfordshire Police Station.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I arrived at the police station flushed and panting but still fired up by the courage of indignation. I marched into the front reception and asked the constable on duty to see Inspector Glenn of the Oxfordshire CID.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I’m helping him with a murder enquiry,” I said boldly.
The constable gave me a suspicious look. “Have you come from a rave party or something?”
“No, why?”
“You’re sort of sparkling.”
I sighed. “I had an accident with some glitter at a dance studio.”
He gave me another suspicious look but put the call through. A few moments later, I was shown into an interview room where Inspector Glenn joined me.
“You saved me a trip, Miss Rose,” he said without preamble. “I was just about to head out to North Oxford to see you. I have some more questions for you.”
I decided to dispense with the niceties as well. “Have you seen the article in the Cotswolds Post?” I demanded. “It’s outrageous what they’re saying about me! How can they call me a murder suspect? It quoted ‘police sources’… did you speak to that journalist?”
“I merely spoke the truth,” said the old inspector, glowering at me. “As it happens, you are a suspect in this case. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you were the last person to see the victim alive. We have witnesses who confirm that you left the hotel lobby with Ms Murray under suspicious circumstances—”
“What do you mean ‘suspicious circumstances’?” I said.
“According to witness reports, the victim appeared confused and unsteady on her feet.”
“She was drunk! That’s why I was helping her to her room! My goodness, I was just trying to do a good turn—why do people have to give it a nasty interpretation?”
The inspector continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “And then, of course, there is the question of your relationship with Ms Murray.”
“There was no ‘relationship’,” I said angrily. “I think you’re just fishing for a motive because you want to pin the murder on me and anything will do.”
“How can you explain your quick intimacy with the victim, if you only just met on the plane?”
I gave him a withering look. “Have you never heard of friendship? People meet each other, find that they have something in common, that they enjoy chatting with each other, and lo and behold—they become friends. What’s so strange about that?” I shook my head in frustration. “You should be after the real murderer instead of wasting time questioning me. Andrew Manning—have you checked up on him? If you want suspicious behaviour, he’s got it in bucketloads! If you ask me, he had far more reason to harm her. It’s well known that some men can’t stand being rebuffed by a woman. His pride couldn’t take it. He came down fuming, filled himself up with Dutch courage, decided he was going to make Jenn pay for rejecting him, and went back up to her room. Maybe he didn’t intend to kill her but they had an argument and he lost his temper and hit her on the head.”
The inspector sat back and regarded me quietly for a moment. I had an impression that he was deciding what to say. Finally he said, “We have questioned Andrew Manning.”
“And?” I said eagerly.
“He admits that when you saw him, he had just been to Jenn Murray’s room.”
“Aha!” I said, leaning forwards. “You see? He must have—”
“He also said that he found her door slightly ajar and that when he pushed it open and went in, he found her already dead.”
I froze. “Already dead? But that’s… that’s impossible! She was alive and well when I returned with her handbag. Andrew Manning is lying!”
The inspector said nothing.
I looked at him in frustration. “Don’t you see he must be lying? He’s just saying that to cover his own back! If he says that she was already dead, then it gives him an alibi for later, when he actually did kill her. In fact, that probably explains why he went back down to have the drink at the bar—so that everyone could see him and confirm that he had come back downstairs. I left Jenn at eleven and you said she was dead by eleven-thirty so Andrew Manning must have gone back up again and killed her. But by saying he found her body earlier, it means that he couldn’t be accused of killing her later—because she was ‘already dead’.”
“Then why admit he went to her room at all?” asked the inspector.
“He probably wouldn’t have, except that he knew that I had seen him—so he had to come up with something and this fit his carefully prepared alibi. See, originally, he wouldn’t have known that I was going back to Jenn’s room—maybe he saw me leave and just assumed that I’d left for the night. He must have got a shock when I came back. That’s probably why he looked so pale and shaken when he saw me step out of the lift—he suddenly realised that I might be going back to Jenn’s room and then would be able to refute his carefully planned alibi.”
The inspector still said nothing. His silence was starting to make me nervous.
“Well?” I said. “Why won’t you say anything? Don’t you agree?”
He said coolly, “As it happens, Miss Rose, I’m inclined to believe Andrew Manning’s story.”
“What?” I said. “How can you possibly believe him? He was harassing Jenn earlier that evening, then I saw him practically coming from her room. And he has the room next to Jenn’s. How can you believe his word that he didn’t kill her?”
“I believe his
word,” said the inspector slowly, “because it’s backed up by evidence from the forensic pathologist.”
I looked at him blankly.
“The post-mortem results have come back and, according to the pathologist, the killing blow was struck by someone using the right hand.”
“So?”
“So… Andrew Manning’s right hand was in a sling. He couldn’t have used it. And don’t worry—we’ve confirmed that with the doctor. Therefore, he could only have used his left hand to deliver the blow—but that does not accord with the forensic evidence.” He leaned forwards and said, his voice silky, “May I ask, are you left or right-handed, Miss Rose?”
“Um… Right…right-handed,” I stammered, hating the way I suddenly felt on the defensive. “What… Did they find out what the weapon was?”
“Yes, the heavy brass doorstop by the bedroom door. The murderer must have picked it up and used it to strike Ms Murray on the head.”
“So were there fingerprints?” I asked eagerly.
“There were traces of skin and blood which matched Ms Murray’s type. But no fingerprints. Of course…” The inspector gave me a cool look. “Nowadays, anyone with an ounce of intelligence would know to wipe their fingerprints off the murder weapon. Especially someone intelligent enough to have graduated from Oxford University.”
I tried to ignore the pointed way he said that. Instead, I went back to my earlier point. “If Andrew Manning really found her dead, why didn’t he call the police? Why did he just leave and say nothing about it?”
“He said he was scared. He realised that he had been seen harassing Jenn earlier in the evening and he panicked. So he just backed away and rushed downstairs and tried to forget the whole thing.”
“Aww, come on—surely you don’t believe that? He finds a dead body and says nothing about it, does nothing all night, other than have a couple of stiff drinks?”
Inspector Glenn shrugged. “It happens. People have strange reactions sometimes when they come across a murder—some people simply shut down and try to pretend they never saw anything. Mr Manning knew that the body would be discovered by Housekeeping in the morning so it wasn’t as if it would lie there undiscovered forever. He just didn’t want to be the one to find it.”
I shook my head. “It… it still doesn’t make sense… I know Jenn was alive when I went back with her handbag, which was after Andrew Manning had left her room. So he can’t have seen her dead. Why would he lie? There must be a reason!”
“There is a reason…” said Inspector Glenn, his eyes boring into mine. “I think the reason is that you are lying, Miss Rose.”
I gasped.
The inspector continued relentlessly. “You say that we only have Andrew Manning’s word that Ms Murray was already dead. By the same token, we only have your word that she wasn’t. You’ve been very quick to tell everyone that Jenn was still alive when you left her room. But if we accept that Andrew Manning’s statement is true, then that changes everything. Now I ask myself why you’re so keen for everyone to think that Jenn Murray was still alive when you left her at 11 p.m. and the only reason I can think of is to establish an alibi for yourself.”
I drew back sharply in my chair. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it?” said the inspector. “Not to my mind. You see, we have always thought it very suspicious from the beginning that you took so long to come down to the lobby to search for the handbag.”
“But I told you! That lift took ages to come and then there was a couple in it and—”
“Yes, we’ve questioned that couple and they don’t remember the lift stopping on the third floor or seeing you waiting for it.”
“Well, I’m not surprised,” I said wryly. “They were so wrapped up in each other, I doubt they would have noticed if the whole hotel had fallen down around them.”
Inspector Glenn leaned back in his chair and regarded me coldly. “What it amounts to, Miss Rose, is that, in reality, the last time any witness can confirm that Ms Murray was seen alive was when you were escorting her back to her room. After that, we only have your word—and Andrew Manning’s word—as to when she was still alive. You both give differing accounts. Now given that Mr Manning has been cleared by forensic evidence as being unlikely to be the murderer, I am inclined to believe his account… which means that you are the one who’s lying.” He paused, then added, “It is interesting to note that there were no signs of forced entry, which means that Jenn must have known and trusted her attacker in order to let them into the room. Or… her murderer was someone who had gone into the room with her—perhaps a ‘friend’ who was helping her back from the bar after she had one too many drinks…?”
I felt the colour draining from my face.
“Are you arresting me?” I whispered.
The inspector gave me a predatory smile. “Oh no… not yet, anyway,” he said. “I like to have things all tied up before I go in for the kill. But don’t worry—I won’t be long. Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Miss Rose.”
I stood up shakily, nearly knocking my chair over. “I… I’d like to leave now.”
“Of course.” The inspector stood up as well and escorted me from the room with false courtesy.
I stumbled out of the police station and walked aimlessly down the street, my mind spinning frantically. My phone rang and I answered it mechanically. I was surprised to recognise the voice of the present owner of the tearoom.
“Gemma—I know we’re not really supposed to communicate with each other, that we should leave things to the solicitors, but I wanted to speak to you directly.” He paused, then said apologetically, “I know we’d already agreed on a price and we are still keen to sell to you, but you see… the Chinese have come in with a very generous offer.”
My heart sank. “Yes, I… I’d heard from my friend.”
“As I said, we would still like to sell to you, Gemma,” the owner assured me. “It would be our first choice, in spite of the greater sum that the Chinese are offering.”
“Thank you,” I said earnestly. “I know everyone in the village really appreciates your efforts to preserve the integrity of the institution.”
“Yes, well, of course. But the thing is… you see, I thought you had said previously that we would be finalising things today? But when I checked with my solicitor just now, he made some enquiries and it seems that the bank hasn’t approved your loan?”
“Uh… it’s just a temporary delay,” I said quickly. “There’s… there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, but I’m sorting it out now. Don’t you worry—the money will be sorted and we’ll be exchanging contracts soon.”
He gave an embarrassed cough. “Well, I don’t like to pressure you, Gemma, but we really do need to have things settled. The Chinese are becoming very insistent and they have said that if we don’t accept their offer by tomorrow, they will be retracting it. I’m sure you can understand my position. If you’re having trouble and unable to come up with the money, we can’t afford to lose their offer.”
I could feel myself sweating. “I just need a little more time… please,” I said desperately.
He sighed. “Well, I suppose I could put them off one more day. As I said, we would really prefer to sell to you, Gemma. But I can’t wait any longer than that—if I haven’t heard from you by the day after tomorrow, I’m going to have the accept the Chinese company’s offer.”
I swallowed past the tightness in my throat. “Yes, I completely understand. And thank you—thank you for your understanding. I… I promise that I’ll work something out.”
I hung up and continued slowly down the street. My hands were trembling and I could feel my chest tightening, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, everything was receding around me, and there was a roaring in my ears. I’m having a panic attack, I thought dimly. I staggered over to a nearby bench and sat down, putting my head between my knees. Slowly, my head cleared and my breathing steadied. I was about to sit up again when I heard a concerned voice.
>
“Gemma! Whatever is the matter, dear?”
I sat up to find myself surrounded by four little old ladies looking at me with concern. It was the Old Biddies. I realised that what I had thought was a bench was actually a bus stop and there was a group of people nearby, obviously waiting for the next bus, all eyeing me curiously.
Mabel, Glenda, Florence, and Ethel fussed around me.
“What is the matter, Gemma?”
“Aren’t you feeling well, dear?”
“Did you have an accident?”
“Perhaps you need a nice cup of tea?”
The last comment brought a reluctant smile to my lips. Trust the English to always think that a cup of tea would fix everything.
I drew a shuddering breath. “I… I’m all right,” I said with a weak smile. “Nothing’s the matter.”
“Nonsense! There’s no fooling these old eyes. We can see that something is terribly wrong,” said Mabel briskly.
Without waiting for me to answer, she grabbed my elbow, hoisted me up, and bundled me down the street, followed by Glenda, Florence, and Ethel. Before I realised what was happening, I found myself sitting in a little café in Oxford’s Covered Market, with a steaming cup of tea in front of me.
“Here—have some sugar,” said Glenda, heaping several teaspoonfuls into the cup.
“And some biscuits,” said Florence kindly, placing a plate of shortbread biscuits next to the cup, while Ethel gently patted my back.
I wanted to protest but instead found myself obediently gulping the sweet hot tea and nibbling a crunchy biscuit. There was something strangely soothing about these mundane activities and, when I’d finished, I found to my surprise that I was feeling better.
“There now,” said Mabel, eyeing me speculatively. “Nice to see a bit of colour back in your cheeks, dear.” She paused and peered closer, then licked a finger and reached out towards me. “Is that glitter on your eyebrow? Here, let me—”
“No! No, thank you. I’m fine,” I yelped.
She gave me a disgruntled look, then said, “Anyone can see that you’re not fine, dear. Come now—tell us all about it. What’s wrong?”
