I sit down next to him. ‘OK. Even if these aren’t connected, we still have a set of unidentified fingerprints in that cellar.’
‘But like Challow said, it could just be the plumber.’
‘You’re a betting man, aren’t you, Baxter?’
He flushes; he didn’t realize I knew.
‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly say betting as such –’
‘You do the football – the horses – I hear you’re pretty good at it, too.’
‘Well, I’ve won a bit,’ he says guardedly. ‘Now and again.’
‘So what are the odds, do you think? That those prints are the plumber’s?’
His face changes. He’s not embarrassed now, he’s calculating.
‘Twenty-five to one. And that’s a gift.’
***
‘DC Gislingham? It’s Louise Foley.’
It takes him a moment to remember who she is. Which doesn’t go unnoticed.
‘Birmingham University?’ she says drily. ‘Remember? You asked me about disclosing Dr Harper’s file?’
‘Ah, right, yes. Hold on, let me grab a pen. OK, shoot.’
‘I’ve spoken to the head of department and he’s authorized me to send you a copy of the relevant papers. I’ll be emailing them to you today.’
‘Can you give me the headlines? You know – the basics?’
She sighs, unnecessarily loudly. ‘It’s nothing like as salacious as you appear to be hoping. There was a relationship with a student, but she never made a complaint. There was no – coercion involved. Indeed, some of the girl’s friends suggested that it was more a case of her pursuing him, than the other way round. But nonetheless Dr Harper was married at the time, and such relationships are prohibited under university regulations, so it was agreed that it was in everyone’s best interests if he took early retirement. You’ll find all this in the file.’
‘OK,’ says Gislingham, tossing his pen back on the desk. ‘Just one more question – what was the girl’s name?’
‘Cunningham. Priscilla Cunningham.’
***
All the windows are open in the flat at Crescent Square. The breeze lifts the long white nets and there’s the sound of children playing in a garden a few doors away. The thud of a trampoline, squeals, a ball bouncing. All the children seem to be boys.
Pippa Walker goes to the door of the study and stands there a moment, watching. It’s the third time she’s done it in the last hour. Rob Gardiner is at the desk, staring at a laptop. The floor is covered with old notebooks, Post-its, piles of paper. He looks up at the girl, irritated.
‘Haven’t you got something to do? Play with Toby or something?’
‘He’s asleep. You’ve been in here hours. Surely you must have been through all that stuff before.’
‘Well, I’m going through it again. OK?’
She shifts her position slightly. ‘I thought you were working today.’
‘I was. I changed my mind. Not that it’s any business of yours.’
‘I’m just worried about you, Rob. It’s not a good idea – digging all this up again –’
She bites her lip, but it’s too late.
He looks at her heavily. ‘My wife was missing for two years. Her body has just been found in the most bloody awful circumstances, and the police have asked me to look through her notes again, in case there’s anything in them that might help convict the bastard who did it. So I’m very sorry if digging all this up again doesn’t meet with your approval, but I for one want to see that shit rot in jail. And if you don’t like it, then go and do something else. Read a bloody book for a change.’
Her face is scarlet. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – you know I didn’t –’
‘Frankly, I don’t give a toss what you meant. Just leave me alone.’
And he gets up and slams the door.
***
The team meeting is at 5.00 p.m. It doesn’t take long. To sum up:
The student Harper had an affair with ended up as his second wife. And yes, he was married at the time, but all that makes him is an adulterous shit, not a psychopath.
The fingerprints in the cellar could suggest the involvement of another as yet unknown perpetrator. Absolutely sod all leads on who that might be.
No forensic evidence at the house allowing us to identify a murder scene, so there’s still a possibility she was killed somewhere else, and by someone else.
DNA results: still waiting. To quote Challow, ‘I’m not a bloody miracle worker.’
The girclass="underline" still sedated and/or not talking. The boy: ditto.
Press conference: put off till tomorrow because I haven’t got a bloody clue what to tell them.
If I sound pissed off, that’s because I am. Keep calm and carry on. Yeah, right.
***
Elspeth Gibson drinks a lot of tea. Erica Somer has already had two cups and they’re no way near done yet. She’s already spotted the forensic artist checking his watch. The cat is sitting on the arm of the chair staring at them, its paws folded like a fishwife. It’s clearly severely miffed at this outrageous usurpation of its usual seating arrangements.
‘So you think the man you saw talking to Dr Harper was definitely in his fifties?’
‘Oh yes, dear. The way he dressed, for one thing. No one wears clothes like that any more.’
‘Like what, exactly?’
‘Oh, you know. Neckties. Tweed jackets. Young people wouldn’t be seen dead in that sort of thing, would they? It’s all T-shirts and those jeans with the crotch around their knees. And tattoos.’ She shudders and reaches for the teapot again.
The forensic artist quickly covers his cup. ‘No more for me, thanks.’
Somer leans over and looks at the e-fit on the tablet. The clothes may be their best bet, in the end, because otherwise this could be a picture of just about any late-middle-aged man in Oxford. Tallish, greyish hair, heavyish build. More ‘ish’ than anything else, in fact.
‘Was there something that stood out about him? No scars or anything like that? Perhaps the way he walked?’
Mrs Gibson considers. ‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘Can’t say that there was.’
‘And his voice – anything different about that?’
‘Well, I only spoke to him once or twice and it was some time ago, but he definitely sounded educated, if you know what I mean. Certainly not common.’
‘No accent at all?’
‘Now you come to mention it there may have been a bit of a Brummie twang. Though my guess is he’d tried to get rid of it. But when people are angry something like that often slips out –’
‘Angry? I’m sorry, Mrs Gibson, I don’t follow.’
‘Didn’t I tell you? It was that time I heard them arguing. He was obviously very upset.’
‘You heard them arguing? You never mentioned that before – when was this?’
Mrs Gibson stops, pot in hand. ‘Lord, it must have been at least three years ago. Perhaps more. Time gets so treacherous when you get to my age – things you think were a few months ago turn out to be years –’
Somer sits forward a little. ‘What exactly were they arguing about? Do you remember?’
Mrs Gibson looks perplexed. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you. I only heard them because I happened to be walking past at the time and they were on the doorstep. I remember this man John saying something about the old man’s will. That’s why I thought he was his son. But it was then I heard the twang. It was only one or two words, but I suppose I was a bit more attuned to it than most, with my husband coming from there. Funny – I never thought about that before.’