by H. Y. Hanna
“You think he killed Charlie in revenge?” said Devlin sceptically.
“Well, he was angry enough to go after Charlie again after the match was over. They had to pull them apart.”
“That still doesn’t connect him to May morning.”
“No… but somebody from the Krav Maga Club was there on the bridge when Charlie was killed and Pete Morrow seems the most likely candidate! I haven’t told you all my news yet,” I said as I saw his puzzled look. “There was someone wearing a hoodie, with the Oxford Krav Maga Club logo on the back, running away from the scene just after Charlie went over the bridge.”
I recounted my meeting with Captain Thomas at the nursing home and what he told me he had seen through his binoculars.
Devlin whistled. “It’s all highly circumstantial, of course, but it does seem very suggestive. Certainly enough for us to bring Pete Morrow in for questioning. It’s a shame I didn’t manage to speak to you yesterday—aside from the fact that I wanted to know how you were, it would have been good if I had known this because I could have got my sergeant to look into this today while I was tied up in the conference.”
“Yeah, I probably should have texted you when I got to the hospital. I got side-tracked by my mother and Lincoln… although if I’d known that you were just around the corner—”
Devlin looked startled. “Me?”
“Yes, Lincoln saw you at the hospital… with a blonde woman,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Oh… oh, yes… right…” Devlin looked down and made a great show of cutting up a piece of cheese and laying it on a cracker. He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly, looking away before he answered. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was playing for time.
He swallowed and said casually, “Yeah, that’s right—I had to meet someone there.”
“In relation to the case?”
“No, not this case,” he prevaricated.
“You mean, one of your other cases?”
“Yes… you could say that.”
I looked at him searchingly but he was busy fiddling with the bottle of champagne, not meeting my eyes.
“Would you like a top up?” he asked.
“Uh… No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”
“In that case…” Devlin looked around us. “Maybe we’d better get going. The light’s fading and it might start to get cold. Your mother would never forgive me if you caught a chill.”
I glanced around. He was right. Twilight was falling and the garden was empty. I helped to gather the remainder of the food and place it back in the hamper. Devlin started speaking rapidly, telling me about a colleague who was thinking of leaving London and transferring to the Cotswolds area. I listened half-heartedly and made suitable replies, but my mind wasn’t really on what he was saying.
Suddenly my happy contentment evaporated and all my doubts came flooding back. I wasn’t imagining it. Devlin was being evasive—I was certain of it. Why hadn’t he mentioned being at the hospital last night? Who was the blonde woman he had been with and why wouldn’t he talk about it?
I followed him silently as we walked back to the car. We didn’t speak as we loaded the picnic paraphernalia into the back seat, then got into the front. Devlin seemed lost in his own thoughts and I was brooding with mine. However, as the car turned out of the lane and back onto the High Street, I was suddenly jarred out of my preoccupation by the sight of a figure on the other side of the road.
It was Damien Heath, I realised, standing on the corner of Haverton College. He was deep in conversation with someone—a short, stocky figure who stood with hands shoved into his pockets, his head bowed and shoulders hunched beneath the dark hoodie he wore.
As the car turned onto the High Street and started gliding smoothly away, I looked back and craned my neck to keep them in sight. The stocky man shifted slightly and light from a streetlamp fell on his dark, swarthy face. For a moment, I thought I recognised him.
“What is it, Gemma?” asked Devlin, flicking his eyes to the rear-view mirror.
I turned around in the seat even more, straining to see, but we were moving too fast and the curve of the High Street obscured the view.
I turned back to face forwards. “I… It’s probably nothing,” I said. “I thought I saw… but I’m probably wrong.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
My ankle felt a lot better the next morning—so much so that I decided I would go in to work after all. My mother, however, wouldn’t hear of it and, when I tried to argue, she called Cassie at the tearoom and I got a smart telling-off from my best friend.
“Don’t be silly, Gemma! One more day won’t make a difference and we’re managing fine without you. Honestly, you’re not as indispensable as you think,” she said teasingly.
“Well, if you’re sure…” I said. “I feel bad that you’re all working so hard and I’m just lounging around at home.”
Cassie laughed. “Working so hard? I’ve barely been allowed to do anything. The Old Biddies have taken over the tearoom! Mabel is running the place like a military drill sergeant—I think the customers are practically eating and drinking on command.”
“Oh no, you’re not serious? What if she upsets the customers—”
“Relax, Gemma, the tourists are loving it! It seems to fit perfectly with their idea of a traditional English tearoom—having these little white-haired old ladies going around serving tea, being bossy and asking nosy questions about their private lives. So stop worrying and get it into your head that you’re not needed here! In fact, I don’t want to see your face until you’re walking normally on that ankle again.”
I hung up feeling a lot better. Cassie always cheered me up with her blunt, earthy attitude and irreverent take on things—courtesy of her liberal upbringing in a rowdy, chaotic household with artist parents who prized creativity and free expression. It was so different to my own repressed upbringing in a stereotypical British upper-middle-class household with its focus on correct etiquette and “proper” behaviour. Despite eight years in the more relaxed culture of Australia, I probably still took life a bit too seriously and Cassie’s teasing was good for me.
Settling myself in my parents’ sitting room again, I resolved to enjoy my second day of enforced holiday. Perhaps I’d tackle one of those books I’d been meaning to read for months. But as I picked up a thriller novel and began turning the pages, I found my mind wandering—in particular, wandering back to the murder of Charlie Foxton.
I wondered again about what I had seen last night just as we were turning into the High Street. Had that been Pete Morrow standing on that street corner talking to Damian Heath? Why? As far as I knew, Damian wasn’t a member of the Krav Maga Club, so what had he been speaking to Pete Morrow so earnestly about?
My mother came into the sitting room, dressed to go out. “I’m just popping into town, darling—would you like me to pick up anything for you?”
“Where are you going, Mother?”
“Just to the High Street. There’s a lovely new women’s clothing store that I want to have a look at. Eliza Whitfield told me that they’ve got wonderful Liberty print blouses. She bought two last week and they seem to be running a special sale at the moment.”
“Do you mind if I come with you?” I asked impulsively. “There’s something I’d like to check out at Haverton College—that’s near the bottom of the High Street. Maybe you could drop me there and I can meet you somewhere later?”
“Well, of course, darling, but are you sure you should be walking on that ankle?”
I extended my left leg and rotated my foot. “It’s a lot better, Mother. Honestly. And I’ve got my crutches…”
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself being deposited outside Haverton College. I waved my mother off, then hobbled through the main gate into the Front Quad. I’d half-expected one of the college porters to stop me and ask my business but the only porter I saw was busy talking to a group of students and barely gave me a passing glance. I s
uppose someone hobbling on crutches didn’t look like much of a security risk!
I made my way across the Front Quad, through the archway, and then across the Rear Quad until I reached Staircase 5, where Damian and Charlie’s room was. When I got there, I suddenly remembered the four flights of stairs up to the top level and my heart sank. Maybe I should abandon the idea… Then I straightened my shoulders. No. I’d come all the way into town—I didn’t want to give up now.
I took a deep breath and began to climb. It was pretty hard work, especially manoeuvring the crutches, and I had to stop frequently to rest. Once I thought of giving up, but by then I was already halfway up and it would have been just as much effort to go back down as it was to continue. When I finally reached the top landing, I was breathing hard and sweating profusely, and my ankle had started to throb again.
As I hobbled towards the boys’ door, I suddenly thought of something else. What an idiot I was! I didn’t even know if Damian was in his room—it was the middle of the morning and chances were that he was at a lecture or something. I might have climbed four flights of stairs for nothing!
Annoyed with myself, I leaned forwards to knock on the door. That’s when I noticed that it was slightly ajar. Frowning, I pushed it gently. It creaked as it swung open and I stared in shock. The place was in a shambles! Someone had gone around and emptied every drawer, pulled all the books off the shelves, opened all the cupboards. Even the contents of the fridge were tossed on the floor. The place had been completely ransacked. I took a few steps in—then I saw something which made my heart kick in my chest.
There was someone sprawled on the floor in the centre of the room. I couldn’t see his face from where I was standing—the couch was in the way—but his legs were sticking out. I recognised those drainpipe jeans. My heart pounding uncomfortably, I hobbled forwards and peered over the back of the couch.
It was Damian Heath.
I didn’t need to go any closer to see that he was dead. His face was a hideous purple colour, blotchy and swollen, and his tongue was hanging slightly out of his mouth.
I gulped and looked quickly away, taking a few hasty steps backwards. This wasn’t the first time I had seen a dead body, but it always came as a horrible shock. Besides, I had never seen anyone killed this way before.
Damian Heath had been strangled to death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was also not the first time I’d called the police after discovering a murder, but things still felt very surreal as I sat on a stone ledge outside the staircase and watched the police photographer and members of the SOCO team hurrying to and fro. The CID had arrived too—not Devlin, but his detective sergeant. I noticed that the young man lost a bit of his usual cocky swagger after he’d been up to the room and seen the body; in fact, he looked slightly green. He had a quick chat with one of the crime scene investigators, then came over to question me.
“The inspector’s held up—he’s down in Blackbird Leys working that other homicide, but he’s on his way.” The young sergeant made a face. “It’s a pretty vicious murder. And the killer was obviously searching for something too. The whole place’s been turned upside down.” He hesitated, looking at me. “I… I guess I should really let the guv’nor question you—you being his girlfriend an’ all,” he said, embarrassed.
“Actually, that’s probably exactly why Devlin shouldn’t question me,” I said cynically. “Go ahead, just interview me like a normal witness—forget that I have any special connection to the Force.”
He nodded and started taking me through the questions. When we’d finished going through how I’d discovered Damian, he asked why I had come to see the boy in the first place.
“Well, I was following a sort of hunch, really,” I said. “I thought I saw Damian last night talking to a man I’d seen at the Oxford Krav Maga Club—”
The sergeant’s head jerked up. “Pete Morrow?”
I stared at him. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“I was just checking up on him. That’s why I got here so quickly—I was already in town. I was on my way to the Club, actually. The inspector told me about your experience there…” He started grinning, then quickly schooled his features into a more sombre expression. “And he told me to check out this Pete Morrow character. Well, I ran a couple of background checks on him this morning and found that Morrow’s got a record. A couple of assault incidents—drunken brawls—and he’s done a bit of time for petty theft. Nothing too serious, but he’s in the system.”
“Oh.” I digested this. I wasn’t that surprised. I know they say you shouldn’t judge someone on appearances, but Pete Morrow looked like he would have a record. Still, could someone who had been involved in petty crime plan an elaborate stunt like the murder on May morning? Somehow, I felt like Pete Morrow would be more likely to attack you with a knife in a dark alley.
“Morrow isn’t his real name, you know,” the sergeant added.
I looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s actually not English—he’s a Russian immigrant. Came to this country in his late teens. His real name is Morozov but he decided to call himself Morrow when he started work. He works as a butcher in one of the shops in the Covered Market.”
“He’s Russian?” My mind was whirling. Was this just a strange coincidence? Or was there some connection between Pete Morrow—Morozov—and Tanya Koskov?
“You’d better find Pete immediately and see if he had an alibi for Damian’s murder,” I said.
“Oh, don’t worry—he’s top of the list,” said the sergeant. “But first we need an accurate time of death from the forensic pathologist… Ah! Here she is…”
The sergeant’s face lit up and I saw a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. I glanced across the quad and saw a slim Asian girl coming towards us. Although she was dressed in the unflattering white bodysuit and hood of the forensic team, she still radiated beauty and charm. Dr Jo Ling, the new forensic pathologist on the CID team. I’d met her recently and I had to admit, although she was the kind of girl you’d love to hate, you couldn’t help but warm to her. She caught my eye as she crossed the quad and gave me a cheery wave, then continued on her way to the staircase.
“And here’s the guv’nor now,” said the sergeant, making an unconscious effort to stand up straighter.
I turned and saw Devlin stride into the quad, dark and handsome in his tailored charcoal-grey suit, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he scanned the area and sized up the situation. But what really caught my eye was the woman at his side. She was slim, blonde, and, despite being slightly older, was still very attractive, with a thin, heart-shaped face that reminded me slightly of a fox. She was dressed in a simple Lycra top and black leggings, which nevertheless showed off her great figure. My heart gave an unsteady lurch.
“Who’s… who’s that?” I asked the sergeant.
“That?” He grinned lasciviously. “That’s Mel. Mel Buckley.” He dropped his voice. “She’s one of our singing canaries. The prettiest one, I reckon.”
I stared at the sergeant. “Canary? You mean she’s an informant?”
“Shh!” He glanced quickly around. “Yeah, Mel’s been helping the inspector on the Blackbird Leys homicide. Lucky sod—what I wouldn’t give to work with her,” he added with another grin.
“So… where would you normally meet up with an informant like her?”
He shrugged. “Depends. They usually pick and choose, tell us a time and place, and we meet ’em there. Usually somewhere very public, where lots of people go regularly and where they can have a good excuse for being there.”
“Like a hospital?”
He looked puzzled. “Dunno if I’ve ever met anyone at the hospital. But yeah, I suppose.”
I felt a rush of relief. So that was the explanation. It was as simple as that. Devlin had been meeting Mel—his informant—at the hospital. I felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Again, I felt ashamed at having doubted him.
I have to stop giving in to these ridiculous suspicions! I told myself. It was all Tanya Koskov’s fault—all the silly stuff she had said about the signs of Charlie cheating had corrupted my mind and put ideas into my head.
As if conjured up by my thoughts, the beautiful Russian girl walked into the quad at that moment, followed as usual by the faithful Mikhail. She stopped short when she saw the police activity around Staircase 5. They were just bringing the stretcher out of the staircase with the body covered by a sheet.
“What has happened?” asked Tanya harshly, going towards the stretcher.
Devlin had been talking with Jo Ling but now he moved quickly to intercept her. “Miss Koskov—I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions?”
Tanya turned to him and I thought she was going to tell Devlin that she wouldn’t speak to him without a lawyer, but, to my surprise, she gave a curt nod.
Devlin flicked his eyes towards Mikhail, then back to Tanya. “Have you just come back to the college? Where have you been?”
“Lectures,” she said. “What has happened?”
“Damian Heath has been murdered.”
Her eyes widened. “Murdered?”
“Can I ask you where you were between the hours of ten and twelve last night?”
“I… I was here in college—in J.C.R.,” said Tanya.
“Are you sure?”
Tanya furrowed her brow. “Yes, after dinner, I went to my room to work on essay. And then I decided to go to J.C.R. to sit and read magazines.”
