Lomax managed a grim smile. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You have your job to do. And if I can be any help at all. Poor Gavin.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘I wouldn’t say “well”, but I did consider him a close acquaintance, if not exactly a friend. There was always something a bit distant, a bit private, about Gavin. As if he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, let you get really close to him. We invited him to dinner once or twice — Sally, that’s my wife, and I — but he said he felt a bit awkward not having anyone to bring. We even fixed him up with one of Sally’s work colleagues once. She’s a physiotherapist.’
‘What happened?’
‘They went out together for a while, I believe, then it fizzled out. I told you he wasn’t very good with women. I should imagine he went on about the Grateful Dead, Fellini or existentialism a bit too much for her liking.’
‘Existentialism?’
‘You know, Sartre, Camus? The idea that the universe is arbitrary, meaningless, absurd.’
‘I know what existentialism is. I’m just surprised to hear that it’s a belief anyone subscribes to these days.’
‘Well, it wasn’t so much of a belief. I’d say when it came to that, Gavin was probably an atheist. But it was a philosophy that appealed to him.’
‘Can you give me the girlfriend’s name?’
‘Really, it was nothing.’
‘I’d still like to talk to her.’
‘Very well. Her name’s Dayle Snider. She works at the health centre in town.’
‘I know it.’ Annie had been there on several occasions for physio, but she didn’t know Dayle Snider. She made a note of the name. ‘Did Gavin have any other friends or acquaintances around here?’
‘I suppose Jim Cooper was a mate of his. He’s in Media Studies. He teaches some general courses and specialises in music, as Gavin did in literature and film. I have my doubts about someone who professes to like the Cure teaching music, but it’s not my decision. Give me a bit of Beethoven any day.’
‘I’m rather partial to One Direction, myself. Did you ever visit Gavin at his home?’
‘Where? You mean the Eastvale flat?’
‘No, sorry. The signalman’s cottage in Coverton.’
‘After he left? Yes. I dropped by now and then to make sure he was all right. Damn awkward place to get to.’
‘How did you get there?’
‘There is a sort of road that runs up to the front, but you have to go miles out of your way to get there by a very circuitous route. To tell you the truth, I found it easier to park in the village, walk up the old railway line and climb the embankment path, if the weather was at all decent.’
‘And was he all right on those occasions you visited him?’
‘Not really. I don’t think he ever recovered from the shock of what happened. Sometimes he got depressed. I don’t think it was clinical or chronic or anything, just sort of depressed, the way we all get sometimes. He was always short of money, too. I’m afraid the college didn’t come up with much of anything in the way of a settlement or pension. He’d only been with us three years, for a start, and then there were the circumstances of his dismissal. I’d give him a tenner every now and then, but it was just a stopgap, really. Beer and ciggies money. It wouldn’t pay his mortgage. I’m afraid, on my salary, I couldn’t run to that.’
‘How did he feel about what was done to him?’
‘How do you think he felt? He was angry, resentful, bitter.’
‘Even in a universe he believed to be absurd and without meaning? You’d think he’d be gratified at having his philosophy borne out by reality.’
‘Philosophy is one thing, Detective Inspector, but emotions are quite another.’
‘Did he ever talk of suicide?’
‘Only in a philosophical way. I mean, he never said he was actually contemplating it personally, or anything like that, but he sometimes argued for it as a valid philosophical proposition. I mean, if you read Schopenhauer and Camus, you can’t help but meditate upon the idea of suicide.’
Annie had read a little philosophy at university, but mostly old stuff like Plato and Aristotle. She knew nothing of the modern philosophical ideas except what she had picked up growing up in the artists’ colony with her father. That was where she had first heard of existentialism, and she had even read a Jean-Paul Sartre novel once to impress a boyfriend. It hadn’t worked, so she never read another. ‘What do you mean by the idea of suicide?’ she asked.
‘The idea, not the reality. I mean that you might discuss the philosophical validity of murder, for example, or of incest, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to go out and murder someone or sleep with your mother. And anyway, isn’t all this rather moot? I understand you said on the telephone you were investigating the murder of Gavin Miller. That indicates to me that he was killed by someone. There’s no possibility of suicide, is there?’
Annie could have kicked herself. She should never have said murder. It was far from definite yet, not until after the post-mortem. ‘We try to keep an open mind. Do you know of anybody who would want to kill him?’
‘Surely you must be dealing with a gang of yobs, or someone who kills for the pleasure of it? Like a serial killer?’
‘You’ve been watching too much telly, Mr Lomax,’ she said. ‘For a start, you need at least three murders under your belt to be called a serial killer, and in the second place, the manner of Mr Miller’s death... well, let me just say it wasn’t consistent with the psychology of that sort of crime.’
‘How do you know there aren’t any others?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How do you know that the person who killed Gavin hasn’t killed others before him? Perhaps not around here, but elsewhere. Don’t some of these people have jobs that take them all over the country? Isn’t that how the Yorkshire Ripper slipped through your fingers?’
‘I’m afraid my fingers were busy turning the pages of Jackie when the Yorkshire Ripper was caught,’ said Annie, ‘but you make a good point. I’ll make sure I take it up with my boss.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lomax. ‘I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.’
‘That’s all right, sir. We’re always grateful for as much help as we can get from members of the public.’ Annie put her notebook away and got up to leave. ‘Just for the record, where were you on Sunday night?’
‘Me? At home. With Sally.’
‘All evening?’
‘Yes. We were watching TV. Downton Abbey.’
Annie smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Very good.’
Lomax glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost lunchtime,’ he said, turning on the charm and smoothing his hair with one hand. ‘There’s a decent pub around the corner. Perhaps you’d let me buy you a drink and a meal? We could discuss existentialism. Or something.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Annie, her hand on the doorknob. ‘I’ve got a nice rissole with my name on it waiting for me in the police canteen, and you’ve got a lovely wife called Sally at home.’
The computer lab was located in the annexe, just down the corridor through the double doors from Banks’s office, and it didn’t seem to have been suffering too much from budget cuts. Their computer equipment was state of the art, and the spacious room in which it was housed was fitted with a machine that surreptitiously sucked the dust off your shoes and clothes when you went in. As far as Banks knew, it even sucked the dandruff out of your hair. When computers were first used in businesses, Banks remembered, they filled whole rooms with whirring tape machines — the kind you see in old James Bond movies — and dust was anathema. It didn’t seem such a big deal today — his own computer got pretty dusty at times — but old habits die hard. Scientists, he had found, and CSIs in particular, were absolutely obsessed with contamination of evidence. He even had to wear a white lab coat over his suit, not to mention the ubiquitous latex gloves.