‘You think you know who it is?’ Louise asked.
The road was clear, and he put his foot down. ‘Hope to God I’m wrong, but …’
Soon they were parking at St Herbert’s. As they jumped out of the car, Daniel spotted Micah Bridge trudging towards the front entrance. The principal’s stoop was more pronounced than ever, and as they came up to him, a defeated look clouded his watery eyes. Daniel felt a gnawing sadness. Aslan may not have matched the profile of the typical habitue of St Herbert’s, but he’d been young and full of life. Less than a week ago, he’d shinned down that drainpipe from the parapet up on the first floor, seemingly without a care in the world. To picture him lying on a mortuary slab made Daniel’s stomach churn. No matter what Louise said, he could never have done his father’s job. How had the old man coped, dealing with violence as a way of life?
After introducing Louise, he said, ‘This latest death at Lane End Farm …’
Speaking in little more than a whisper, the principal said, ‘The victim is Aslan Sheikh, he was murdered. Daniel, I can scarcely believe what is happening. My God, two members of staff dead within a few days of each other.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Very little.’ The principal mopped sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The policeman wanted me to tell him about Aslan. What work he did, the people he dealt with. Whether he had any enemies.’
‘They aren’t suggesting an accident or suicide this time?’
Micah Bridge shook his head. ‘Surely you are not implying that Orla was murdered as well?’
‘I’m not implying anything, but hatred isn’t the only motive for murder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps Aslan was killed because of something he found out, or witnessed.’
‘Such as?’
‘He was here on Friday morning, wasn’t he? Sham told me he spent time in the library. She thought he was looking something up.’
The principal stared. ‘I find that hard to credit. He showed so little interest in our collections.’
‘Looks as though he stumbled across a reason to take an interest.’
‘For heaven’s sake, what could it be? This library is a place for quiet, scholastic research. We have nothing to do with the grubbiness of murder.’
Some have grubbiness thrust upon them, Daniel thought.
‘Are the police still here?’
‘They left an hour ago, once they had finished speaking to Sham.’
‘She’s working today?’ Daniel was surprised. ‘I thought she only-’
‘Works Monday to Friday, and then with the utmost reluctance?’ The principal sniffed. ‘She claims her aunt sent her, saying she ought to be here to lend a hand, given that the press may turn up at any moment with their flashbulbs and their prying questions. I’m not sure I believe her. It’s almost as if she’s … gloating over Aslan’s death.’
To spite Purdey, because Aslan had confided the truth about his identity to her and not to Sham? Daniel wondered.
‘Where is she now?’
‘On reception, as usual. Checking her lipstick so as to present her best face to the arriving media, no doubt.’
The principal couldn’t conceal his bitterness. He seemed to take the deaths of Orla and Aslan as a personal attack on himself and St Herbert’s. Come to think of it …
‘When were you first appointed principal, Micah?’
‘Seventeen years ago. Though for some years before that, I regularly gave lectures and undertook academic work here.’
‘Were you around when Orla’s brother went missing?’
The principal pursed dry cracked lips. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. It was a dreadful time; that poor young boy who disappeared, never to return. Not that I ever met the lad. And to this day, I’ve barely exchanged a dozen sentences with his father. I made the mistake of seeking a donation to our funds on one occasion.’
‘So you know Fleur from way back?’
‘We were barely acquainted in those days. I knew her father better. He wasn’t a man of letters, but he did support the library. Noblesse oblige, I suppose. He was keenly aware of Sir Milo’s legacy, and that after Jolyon’s accident, the Hopes name would soon be dead. He was bitter that the money had run out, and that the only reason his daughter lived so well was that she’d married for money, rather than love. It wasn’t just that she married into a family that sold caravan pitches to the common herd. She picked the brother who held the purse strings, even though her father disliked him.’
‘Alfred Hopes was a snob, then?’
Micah Bridge coloured, and Daniel realised he’d struck a nerve. The principal’s academic elitism was as snobbish as Alfred Hopes’ condescension about class. ‘You might say so, but at least he wasn’t ruled by profit-and-loss accounts and balance sheets. But why do you ask?’
Daniel waved the question away, realising he didn’t have a sensible answer. He’d become lost in a maze, taking one wrong turning after another in trying to make sense of the fates of Orla and Aslan. Time to start thinking like a historian again. Gathering all the scraps of evidence, seeing if they contradicted assumptions he’d already made. How often had he preached to students the importance of asking the right questions? He believed with a passion that understanding history helped you to make sense of the present, and so it must be with murder. The reasons for the deaths were rooted in the past, he was sure of it. Ask the right questions about what happened twenty years ago, and he’d find the right answers.
A squeal of brakes made him swivel round. An open-top sports car was screeching to a halt at the end of the drive. Fleur Madsen was hunched behind the wheel, dark glasses masking her eyes. The wind had tangled her hair; he’d never before seen her looking a fraction short of elegance personified. The principal, looking as though the arrival of his chair of trustees was all he needed to make his misery complete, dragged himself forward to greet her.
With a wave to Fleur and a nod to his sister, Daniel opened one of the double doors and came face-to-face with Sham Madsen, admiring her reflection in a compact mirror.
‘Didn’t expect to see you today, Daniel!’ Her eyes opened very wide. He thought she’d overdone the mascara. ‘Or you, Louise! Have you heard the dreadful news?’
‘I don’t know any details.’
‘Apparently,’ Sham lowered her voice, as if imparting a state secret, ‘poor Aslan’s head was bashed in and he was dumped in a slurry tank. Yuck, can you imagine? Dad is worried sick about Mike Hinds. He wants to make sure he has the best defence.’
‘Why? Does he think Hinds is guilty?’
‘No, I’m not saying that, but it stands to reason the police think so. What if Aslan turned up at Lane End and demanded money? Old Mike would go apeshit.’
‘Killing his own son would be a bit of an overreaction, wouldn’t it?’ Louise asked.
Sham made a throat-slitting gesture. ‘Hey, you don’t know Mike.’
‘What was Aslan researching on Friday morning?’ Daniel asked.
She frowned. ‘Search me.’
He’d do better to search the archives instead, but before he could head off for the library, Fleur trotted through the door, Micah Bridge trailing in her wake. She had taken off the sunglasses; her eyes lacked their usual sparkle and her make-up didn’t disguise the pallor of her cheeks. She was wearing a plain white blouse and black trousers, and an expression as severe as her outfit. As they exchanged greetings and shock-horror exclamations about Aslan Sheikh’s death, he remembered Aslan describing her as a cougar. Had she flirted with him? Or even gone further? Today, for sure, she wasn’t in flirtatious mood.
‘What brings you two here on a Sunday?’ she asked. Unspoken was the rider: I didn’t have you down as a rubbernecking sensation-seeker.
‘The day before he died,’ Daniel said, ‘Aslan checked something out in the library. I was curious about what it might be.’
Fleur looked at him in bewilderment. He’d never before noticed the faint worry lines around her eyes. ‘I simply cannot imagine.’