by H. Y. Hanna
“Surely the police must have a number one suspect? Who does Devlin fancy as the murderer?”
“He hasn’t said. I know Miriam Hopkins was originally top of the list, because the murder weapon belonged to her and she couldn’t account for her movements on May morning.”
“And she stands to gain a lot by the boy’s death,” Cassie reminded me.
“Yes, that’s right. But still, I just can’t believe… Oh, it’s crazy! It can’t be Miriam!”
“Well, who else do the police have as suspects?” asked Cassie reasonably. “The girlfriend?”
“Yes, she’s a definite possibility. She’s assaulted someone in the past with a knife… and she had a fight with Charlie the day before he was killed, where she threatened to make him sorry for cheating on her.”
“He was cheating on her?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt it, but it seems that Tanya Koskov is the jealous type—”
“Aw, come on!” said Cassie. “This is real life, not a TV soap opera! People don’t murder each other out of jealousy—that’s such a lame motive.”
“Not premeditated murder, perhaps,” I said. “But I can see someone losing their head in a jealous rage and lashing out. The French even have a phrase for it—crime passionnel—the crime of passion, right?”
“But this wasn’t that,” Cassie pointed out. “This had to be premeditated—unless you’re telling me that the murderer happened to walk around with a barbecue skewer in his pocket all the time, just in case he needed to stab someone in a jealous rage and wanted something sharp handy.”
I giggled at Cassie’s facetious tone. “No, you’re right—and that’s why I say it doesn’t fit. Tanya might have had the best opportunity of killing Charlie—she was standing right next to him—and I can imagine her being bold enough and clever enough to take the risk of murdering him in public like that, as a sort of double bluff, but the method of murder just doesn’t fit with her potential motive.”
“Okay, what about the roommate then? I thought the police had him in their sights too.”
“Damian Heath? Yes, he’s a strong possibility. He hasn’t got an alibi for the time of the murder either; he had easy access to the murder weapon since the skewer was just sitting in the boys’ living room, waiting to be returned to Miriam… and he had a motive.”
Cassie raised her eyebrows. “What motive?”
“He had a big fight with Charlie the day before the murder as well, and some witnesses overheard Charlie threatening to report Damian to the police.”
“Charlie was going to report Damian to the police? What for?”
“Well, the witnesses said it was to do with Damian taking advantage of Tanya in some way. Charlie was really angry about that. When Devlin questioned Damian about it, he said it was no big deal—that he was just offering Tanya a bit of marijuana and Charlie overreacted.”
Cassie looked at me curiously. “How do you know all this?”
I flushed slightly. I was too embarrassed to tell Cassie about my little stunt earlier today, following Devlin around Oxford and eavesdropping on his conversation with Damian. I squirmed at the memory. I was worse than those women who snooped in their boyfriends’ mobile phone text messages!
“I… um… just happened to come across Devlin questioning Damian outside the Bear Inn earlier today.”
Cassie eyed me suspiciously. “That was a bit of a lucky coincidence.”
I gave her a bright smile. “Yes, wasn’t it? Anyway, I didn’t want to disturb their interview so I just sort of… um… hovered in the background.”
“You mean you eavesdropped,” said Cassie with a grin. “Don’t worry, Gemma, you can just come out and say it. I’ve spent enough time with the Old Biddies and, you know, they consider eavesdropping a fine art.”
I laughed. “Yeah, all right, perhaps I did eavesdrop a bit.” I leaned forwards excitedly. “And I’ll tell you something else: I followed Damian after the interview and he did something weird. He went down to Christ Church Meadow, down to the path by the Cherwell, and started rooting around in the ditch on the meadow side.”
“In the ditch? What was he doing there?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t really see. It looked like he was searching for something… he seemed to be feeling around in the undergrowth. But then he saw me and got a fright and, of course, denied that he was doing anything specific.” I rolled my eyes. “He gave me some cock and bull story about seeing something shiny and thinking someone might have dropped something valuable by the side of the path.”
“Did you get a chance to look yourself?”
I nodded. “Yeah, after he went off, I had a good look around in the ditch but there was nothing. If there was something hidden there, I couldn’t see it.”
“Weird,” said Cassie, shaking her head.
“It’s been bugging me ever since. I feel like there was something I saw or heard, when I was with Damian, that’s important somehow… but I just can’t figure out what it is! Argh!” I pounded my fist on the table in frustration.
“Maybe you should stop trying so hard,” suggested Cassie. “You know what they say—if you let it go, then maybe your mind will just remember of its own accord. Anyway, all this seems to suggest that Damian is our man, don’t you think? He’s got a motive, he’s got means and opportunity—after all, we only have his word that he couldn’t find Charlie and Tanya in the crowd—and now he’s acting in a suspicious way and is obviously hiding something.”
“Yes, but his personality is all wrong!” I burst out.
“Personality?” Cassie looked at me quizzically.
I gave her a rueful smile. “I hate to say it but I think the Old Biddies are right in this case. You know how they’re always going on about the Agatha Christie methods of psychology and personality being as useful to solving a murder as stuff like forensic evidence? Well, I think I have to agree with them this time. I just don’t feel that Damian has the right personality to have committed this murder. I’ve met him a few times now and I can tell you—he’s a weaselly sort of chap. You know, shifty and dishonest and a selfish coward. I can imagine him as a small-time crook—like a thief or a blackmailer—but as a murderer? And especially this kind of murder? I just can’t see him having the strength of character and the nerve to plan and execute this whole thing—and then to actually stab someone in cold blood… in public…”
“I don’t think you can make judgements based on the few times you met the boy,” argued Cassie. “It’s not like you’ve known him for years. Maybe he’s only shown one side to you. People are good at presenting different images of themselves.”
“I guess… But I still think he’s the wrong type.”
“Okay, so if it’s not Damian, who else could it be?” Cassie lowered her voice slightly. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance it could be Miriam Hopkins after all?”
I looked at Cassie in surprise. “You’re not serious?”
Cassie shrugged. “We can’t accept Miriam’s innocence just because Dora says so—you know people are biased about their friends.”
“Yes, but Miriam… Oh, there’s another thing!”
“About Miriam?”
“No, something else. Actually, it might be totally irrelevant to the murder case, but during Muesli’s therapy cat visit at the nursing home this morning, we met an old naval captain whose room overlooks the river and Magdalen Bridge and part of the High Street. He’s also a bit of a nosy old fellow and he likes watching what goes on below with a pair of binoculars. Anyway, he told me that he was watching the bridge on May morning and saw Charlie going off the side of the bridge. But what was really interesting was that he also noticed someone rushing off in the opposite direction.”
“What do you mean, the opposite direction?”
“As in, after Charlie went over, everybody in the crowd rushed to the side of the bridge to look at the river, but this person was pushing his way through the crowd in the opposite direction. Like he wa
s rushing away from the scene, rather than towards it like everyone else.”
“You think that was Charlie’s killer?”
I shrugged. “Well, it definitely seemed like he was trying to remove himself from the scene as quickly as possible.”
“Did your naval captain see what he looked like?”
I shook my head in frustration. “No. He said it was a back view—somebody wearing a dark grey hoodie—and he couldn’t even tell if it was male or female, although he thinks it looked like a man.” I sighed. “I’m not even sure if I should mention it to Devlin. I was really excited at first but, now that I think about it, it all seems a bit vague and stupid—I don’t know how they’re going to find this person based on such meagre clues. Still, I suppose I ought to report it to the police and let them follow it up.”
Cassie glanced at her watch, then started shuffling the papers on the table together. “I’ve got to go. I’m teaching a class at the dance studio this evening.”
I sprang up and helped her. “Sorry, Cass—we didn’t really get to discuss the website. Do you want to bring the stuff into the tearoom tomorrow and we can go over it when we have a free moment?”
“Yeah, all right.” Cassie gathered her things and headed for the door of the café.
I started to follow her, then froze as my gaze alighted on a girl sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the café. It was Tanya Koskov.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tanya was sitting at a small table tucked into the front corner of the café, against the windows. She was gazing moodily out through the glass, her fingers fiddling with an espresso cup on the table in front of her.
“What is it?” asked Cassie as she turned and came back to where I was standing.
“That’s Tanya Koskov,” I said in an undertone, nodding my head in the girl’s direction.
Cassie eyed the girl thoughtfully. “I saw her picture in the papers… Funny, now that I’m seeing her in the flesh, she’s not quite how I imagined her to be.”
“How do you mean?” I looked at her in surprise.
“I don’t know—from the way you were talking and all the press reports about her, I sort of expected someone harder and more glamorous and arrogant.” She looked again at the girl across the room. “She looks a lot younger and almost a bit… well… lonely.”
I looked back at Tanya. Cassie was right. Perhaps it was because the girl didn’t have her guard up. It was as if I was seeing a different side to her. She looked a bit lost and vulnerable, and, although the corners of her mouth were turned down, she didn’t look sulky and spoilt—just sad and lonely.
On an impulse, I gave Cassie a nudge. “You go on—I’m going to speak to her.”
I made my way slowly across the café and stopped by Tanya’s table.
“Hi, Tanya…” I said softly.
She looked up, startled, and I caught the glitter of tears on her eyelashes. Quickly, she dashed a hand across her eyes and the familiar mask of cynical indifference came down over her face.
“Yes?” she said, her tone hostile.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
She looked for a moment as if she would refuse, then she gave a shrug and indicated the empty chair opposite her.
I sat down and said, “I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you and Damian—”
She gave a contemptuous laugh. “The trouble is there already. Damian, he never liked me. And now he is telling police that I killed Charlie—because we fight.” She tossed her head impatiently. “Yes, we fight; I was angry—I was very angry. I think Charlie is lying to me—but kill him? No, of course I don’t kill him! I just dump him… like that!” She snapped her fingers. “He is not worth me to do murder. There are many boys; Charlie was not my first. He is just one of many. I would not waste my time and energy to kill him. I do not even mourn him!”
Her voice broke suddenly and she turned sharply away, staring blindly out of the window and blinking rapidly. I looked down and busied myself straightening a couple of coasters on the table, feeling uncomfortable. I was also surprised. Could it be that underneath that haughty exterior, Tanya was grieving for her boyfriend? Did she really care for Charlie? It was hard to imagine the spoilt Russian girl caring for anyone except herself… And yet…
Tanya turned back to me, her face wiped clean of all emotion, and said coolly, “Anyway, Damian will be sorry for what he has tried to do to me. I will make him pay.”
“Do you think Damian might have killed Charlie?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I say this to the handsome inspector also. Damian is a snake. He would think nothing of betraying his best friend.” Then she sat back, her expression becoming bored. “But I am tired of this business. Already the police ask me questions, questions, and more questions! Now, they cannot speak to me without lawyer—so they speak to everybody else. All the time, in the college—they never stop! Even Mikhail, he has to speak to them—”
“Ah yes, Mikhail…” I suddenly remembered the grumpy Russian scholar. “Is he a good friend of yours?”
She shrugged. “He is fellow countryman. We are both from Russia. In the college, there are no others like us. He is true patriot and he loves my country.”
“He’s also very protective of you. He seems to spend a lot of time hanging around and trying to take care of you. Every time I’ve seen you, he’s hovering behind somewhere. In fact, I am surprised he’s not here today.” I glanced around.
Tanya looked amused. “He is not my guard dog, if that is what you think. Mikhail is old-fashioned and he has old-style ideas about girls, how they need protection. It amuses me to let him look after me.”
“Yes, but perhaps…” I paused as a new idea struck me. “Perhaps Mikhail began taking the role too seriously! If he had feelings for you and was very protective of you… and he thought that Charlie was treating you badly… maybe he murdered Charlie as a… well, like an old-fashioned, chivalrous sort of thing… or maybe because he was jealous and wanted you for himself!”
“You think Mikhail killed Charlie because of love for me?” She tossed her head back and roared with laughter.
“What’s so funny about that?” I asked, irritated.
She struggled to stop laughing. “I am sorry—it is just you do not know how ridiculous your words are. You see…” She leaned forwards and gave me a meaningful look. “Mikhail does not like women. He is—how you English say—he bats for the other team.”
I stared at her, confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. “Oh! You mean he’s…”
Tanya nodded, a mocking smile on her lips. “So I can assure you Mikhail did not murder Charlie because he was jealous of my love.” She chuckled softly.
Feeling slightly embarrassed, I sat back. “Oh, well… It was just an idea—”
“Do not waste time on these little ideas.” She smiled without humour. “I am telling you that Damian is the one who betrayed Charlie.”
***
Instead of going straight back to my cottage, I decided to pop in to see my parents. I arrived at their North Oxford townhouse to find that my mother had company: the Old Biddies were sitting having tea with her in the living room.
“Gemma, dear!” cried Mabel in delight. “Just the person we were hoping to see! We went to your cottage first but you weren’t there. I was just about to ask your mother to give you a ring…”
Uh oh. I eyed Mabel warily, wondering what crazy scheme she wanted to drag me into now.
“I’m not doing anything that involves disguises,” I said quickly.
“Oh, you don’t need a disguise for this, dear,” said Glenda. “Although I suppose one ought to take some bandages just in case.”
“And ice packs,” said Florence with a nod.
This was beginning to sound ominous. I sat down on the sofa next to them, accepted a cup of tea from my mother, and asked nervously, “What’s this about?”
“Look!” Mabel thrust
a piece of paper at me excitedly. It was a small poster which looked like it had been torn off a bulletin board. It seemed to be an invitation to some kind of martial arts workshop.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Look!” said Mabel again, this time pointing a stubby finger at a logo in the top right-hand corner of the poster. It showed a circle with a stylised fist inside it, and arched over the top of the fist were four letters: OKMC.
I frowned. The letters were vaguely familiar…
“They’re the same letters that were on that jumper in Charlie Foxton’s room!” Ethel piped up excitedly.
Of course. She was right. How could I have forgotten? That hoodie slung across the back of Charlie’s chair, with these same letters: OKMC. I looked further down the page and discovered that the letters stood for Oxford Krav Mag Club. Then I remembered something else: Captain Thomas at the nursing home talking about seeing the person running away from the bridge on May morning. The figure had been wearing a grey hoodie, he said, with letters across the back. Starting with an O, ending with a C, and possibly EM or KM in the middle. Well, I was pretty sure now that the letters on that hoodie were OKMC. Which meant that someone who could have been the murderer was also a member of the Oxford Krav Maga Club.
“Charlie must have been part of this club,” said Florence eagerly. “If we can speak to some of the other members, we might be able to pick up some clues to his murder.”
“And it couldn’t be better timing!” added Glenda. She pointed to the poster. “There is an Introductory Workshop on Krav Maga for Ladies tonight, you see. It’s a wonderful opportunity to get into the club and chat to the members. It doesn’t start until 8 p.m. so we could get an early supper first and—”
“Whoa, whoa…” I looked at the Old Biddies incredulously. “You’re not actually thinking of going to join the class?”
