Peter Hamilton - Manhattan in Reverse

‘Of course. Now what about Justin? You were closest to him, did you know if he was embroiled in any kind of antagonism with someone? Some wild incident? A grudge that wouldn’t go away?’

‘If you’d ever met Justin you wouldn’t have to ask that. But no… he hadn’t annoyed anyone. He wasn’t the type; he was quiet and loved his subject. Not that we were hermits. We went out to parties, and he played a few games for the college, but not at any level which counted. But we were going to make up for all that time apart after…’ She tugged a handkerchief out of her sleeve and pressed it against her face. Tears leaked out of tightly closed eyes.

‘I believe that’s sufficient information for now,’ Neill Heller Caesar said, fixing the detective with a pointed gaze.

Gareth Alan Pitchford nodded his acceptance, clearly glad of the excuse to end the questioning. Neill Heller Caesar put his arm round Bethany’s trembling shoulders, and helped guide her from the interview room.

‘Not much to go on,’ the detective muttered gloomily once she was outside. ‘I’d welcome any suggestions.’ He looked straight at Francis, who was staring at the closed door.

‘Have patience. We simply don’t have enough information yet. Though I admit to being mystified as to any possible motive there could be for ending this young man’s life in such a terrifying way. We do so desperately need to uncover what it was that Justin encountered which led to this.’

‘I have a good team,’ the detective said, suddenly bullish. ‘You can depend on our investigation to uncover the truth.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Francis said with a conciliatory smile. ‘I think my colleague and I have seen enough for tonight. Why don’t we reconvene tomorrow — or, rather, later this morning, to review the case so far. The remaining interviews should be over by then, and forensic ought have finished with Justin’s room.’

‘As you wish,’ the detective said.

Francis said nothing further until we were safely strapped up in his car and driving away from the station. ‘So, my boy, first impressions? I often find them strangely accurate. Human instinct is a powerful tool.’

‘The obvious one is Alexander,’ I said. ‘Which in itself would tend to exclude him. It’s too obvious. Other than that, I’m not sure. None of them has any apparent motive.’

‘An interesting comment in itself.’

‘How so?’

‘You — or your subconscious — hasn’t included anyone else on your suspect list.’

‘It must be someone he knows,’ I said, a shade defensively. ‘If not his immediate coterie, then someone else who was close. We can start to expand the list tomorrow.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Francis said.

It seemed to me that his mind was away on some other great project or problem. He sounded so disinterested.

MURDER. It was the banner scored big and bold across all the street corner newspaper placards, most often garnished with adjectives such as foul, brutal , and insane . The vendors shouted the word in endless repetition, their scarves hanging loosely from their necks as if to give their throats the freedom necessary for such intemperate volume. They waved their lurid journals in the air like some flag of disaster to catch the attention of the hapless pedestrians.

Francis scowled at them all as we drove back to the police station just before lunchtime. The road seemed busier than usual, with horse-drawn carriages and carts jostling for space with cars. Since the law banning combustion engines, electric vehicles were growing larger with each new model; the newest ones were easily recognizable, with six wheels supporting long bonnets that contained ranks of heavy batteries.

‘Those newspapers are utter beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Did you hear, we’ve had to move Justin’s parents from their home so they might grieve in peace? Some reporter tried to pretend he was a relative so he could get inside for an interview. Must be a Short. What is the world degenerating into?’

When we arrived at the station it was besieged with reporters. Flashbulbs hissed and fizzled at everyone who hurried in or out of the building. Somehow Francis’s angry dignity managed to clear a path through the rabble. Not that we escaped unphotographed, or unquestioned. The impertinence of some was disgraceful, shouting questions and comments at me as if I were some circus animal fit only to be provoked. I wished we could have taken our own photographs in turn, collecting their names to have them hauled before their senior editors for censure.

It was only after I got inside that I realized our family must have interests in several of the news agencies involved. Commerce had become the driving force here, overriding simple manners and decency.

We were shown directly to Gareth Alan Pitchford’s office. He had the venetian blinds drawn, restricting the sunlight and, more importantly, the reporters’ view inside. Neill Heller Caesar was already there. He wore the same smart suit and shirt that he’d had on for the interviews. I wondered if he’d been here the whole time, and if we’d made a tactical error by allowing him such freedom. I judged Francis was making the same calculation.

The detective bade us sit, and had one of his secretaries bring round a tray with fresh coffee.

‘You saw the press pack outside,’ he said glumly. ‘I’ve had to assign officers to escort Justin’s friends.’

‘I think we had better have a word,’ Francis said to Neill Heller Caesar. ‘The editors can be relied upon to exert some restraint.’

Neill Heller Caesar’s smile lacked optimism. ‘Let us hope so.’

‘What progress?’ I enquired of the detective.

His mood sank further. ‘A long list of negatives, I’m afraid. I believe it’s called the elimination process. Unfortunately, we’re eliminating down to just about nothing. My team is currently piecing together the movements of all the students at Dunbar preceding the murder, but it’s not a promising avenue of approach. There always seem to have been several people in the corridor outside Mr Raleigh’s room. If anyone had come out, they would have been seen. The murderer most likely did use the window as an exit. Forensic is going over the wisteria creeper outside, but they don’t believe it to be very promising.’

‘What about footprints in the snow directly underneath the window?’

‘The students have been larking about in the quad for days. They even had a small football game during that afternoon, until the lodgekeepers broke it up. The whole area has been well trampled down.’

‘What about someone going in to the room?’ Francis asked. ‘Did the students see that?’

‘Even more peculiar,’ the detective admitted. ‘We have no witness of anyone other than Mr Raleigh going in.’

‘He was definitely seen going in, then?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes. He chatted to a few people in the college on his way up to his room. As far as we can determine, he went inside at about ten past ten. That was the last anyone saw him alive.’

‘Did he say anything significant to any of those people he talked to? Was he expecting a guest?’

‘No. It was just a few simple greetings to his college mates, nothing more. Presumably the murderer was waiting for him.’

‘Justin would have kept those windows closed yesterday,’ I said. ‘It was freezing all day. And if the latch was down, they’d be very difficult to open from the outside, especially by anyone clinging to the creeper. I’m sure a professional criminal could have done it, but not many others.’

‘I concur,’ Francis said. ‘It all points to someone he knew. And knew well enough to open a window for them to get in.’