giving them their own space.’
Seward thought about their own cramped and shared offices at police HQ and was going to add a soured comment of her own, but decided against it. She wanted Morrison to be the one who talked.
They found a spot in the grounds away from the groups of students, and Taggart said: ‘We’d like to get in touch with Eric Drake.’
‘Yes, you said,’ said Morrison, nodding. ‘Why?’
‘It’s to do with an ongoing investigation,’ said Taggart.
‘What investigation?’ persisted Morrison.
‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to divulge that at this moment, sir,’ Taggart told him. ‘However, we understand that Eric Drake isn’t in today. Is that right?’
‘This isn’t a school, Sergeant. It’s a university,’ snapped Morrison. ‘We encourage mature individual creativity, and sometimes the creative mind doesn’t conform to the office hours mentality.’
‘So any of your students can not turn up and no one bothers?’ asked Seward.
‘They turn up for lectures, tutorials, that sort of thing, but much of their work is carried out on their own at theirown speed.’
‘So Eric Drake hasn’t had any lectures or tutorials scheduled for the last few days?’
Morrison looked uncomfortable.
‘Well, he
has,’
he said, a defensive tone creeping into his voice. Then he looked at Seward defiantly. ‘But I’m sure that when he presents the piece he’s working on, it will justify the time he has spent working on it outside the campus.’
‘And what piece of work is he involved with at the moment?’ asked Taggart, trying to put a friendly tone in her voice to counter Seward’s aggressiveness. Nice cop, nasty cop.
‘Many different pieces of work,’ said Morrison vaguely. ‘This is not a restrictive course. The students have to complete a wide range of assignments.’
‘But what particular piece of work were you referring to when you said that when he presents it, it will justify the time he’s spent working on it?’ persisted Seward.
‘It’s a film,’ said Morrison. ‘A short film.’
‘What sort of film?’ asked Seward. ‘Documentary? Drama?’
‘Drama,’ said Morrison.
‘Any particular genre?’ Seward pressed. ‘Fantasy? Horror? Film noir?’
Taggart looked at Seward in momentary surprise; then recovered herself. She’d been taken aback to hear Seward talking like one of these art critics on the telly. Morrison also looked at Seward with a new wariness. He checked Seward’s expression for any sign of sarcasm, but saw none. The truth was that Debby Seward loved films. She hadspent her childhood being taken to the cinema by her father, a complete movie nut, and had come to share his love of films. Laurel and Hardy silents. Musicals. Westerns. She particularly liked old black and white thrillers. Film noir, the film buffs called them. She loved them for the stories, for the intrigue. But most of all for the flawed heroes: the Robert Mitchum types, doing their best to be heroic against a tide of sleaze and corruption.
And, as deeply as she loved film, she had contempt for those who lived off it without giving anything back. Film critics who felt themselves so clever by writing a few witty lines, words which in some cases had destroyed the career of a writer or director or actor. The fakes who couldn’t make it as creative people in their own right, so they got their rocks off attacking those who could. People like Paul Morrison.
‘I believe Drake’s work touches on all known genres,’ said Morrison. ‘He is a very talented and driven young man. He has a fierce imagination, and a wonderful eye. Do you know the work of Orson Welles?’
The patronizing way that Morrison emphasized the name ‘Orson Welles’, as if talking to an idiot, prompted Seward to ask ‘Do you mean
Citizen Kane
or his television adverts for sherry?’ just to annoy him, but instead she just nodded, watching him.
‘Drake has the same kind of intensity and individuality about
Seward thought about their own cramped and shared offices at police HQ and was going to add a soured comment of her own, but decided against it. She wanted Morrison to be the one who talked.
They found a spot in the grounds away from the groups of students, and Taggart said: ‘We’d like to get in touch with Eric Drake.’
‘Yes, you said,’ said Morrison, nodding. ‘Why?’
‘It’s to do with an ongoing investigation,’ said Taggart.
‘What investigation?’ persisted Morrison.
‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to divulge that at this moment, sir,’ Taggart told him. ‘However, we understand that Eric Drake isn’t in today. Is that right?’
‘This isn’t a school, Sergeant. It’s a university,’ snapped Morrison. ‘We encourage mature individual creativity, and sometimes the creative mind doesn’t conform to the office hours mentality.’
‘So any of your students can not turn up and no one bothers?’ asked Seward.
‘They turn up for lectures, tutorials, that sort of thing, but much of their work is carried out on their own at theirown speed.’
‘So Eric Drake hasn’t had any lectures or tutorials scheduled for the last few days?’
Morrison looked uncomfortable.
‘Well, he
has,’
he said, a defensive tone creeping into his voice. Then he looked at Seward defiantly. ‘But I’m sure that when he presents the piece he’s working on, it will justify the time he has spent working on it outside the campus.’
‘And what piece of work is he involved with at the moment?’ asked Taggart, trying to put a friendly tone in her voice to counter Seward’s aggressiveness. Nice cop, nasty cop.
‘Many different pieces of work,’ said Morrison vaguely. ‘This is not a restrictive course. The students have to complete a wide range of assignments.’
‘But what particular piece of work were you referring to when you said that when he presents it, it will justify the time he’s spent working on it?’ persisted Seward.
‘It’s a film,’ said Morrison. ‘A short film.’
‘What sort of film?’ asked Seward. ‘Documentary? Drama?’
‘Drama,’ said Morrison.
‘Any particular genre?’ Seward pressed. ‘Fantasy? Horror? Film noir?’
Taggart looked at Seward in momentary surprise; then recovered herself. She’d been taken aback to hear Seward talking like one of these art critics on the telly. Morrison also looked at Seward with a new wariness. He checked Seward’s expression for any sign of sarcasm, but saw none. The truth was that Debby Seward loved films. She hadspent her childhood being taken to the cinema by her father, a complete movie nut, and had come to share his love of films. Laurel and Hardy silents. Musicals. Westerns. She particularly liked old black and white thrillers. Film noir, the film buffs called them. She loved them for the stories, for the intrigue. But most of all for the flawed heroes: the Robert Mitchum types, doing their best to be heroic against a tide of sleaze and corruption.
And, as deeply as she loved film, she had contempt for those who lived off it without giving anything back. Film critics who felt themselves so clever by writing a few witty lines, words which in some cases had destroyed the career of a writer or director or actor. The fakes who couldn’t make it as creative people in their own right, so they got their rocks off attacking those who could. People like Paul Morrison.
‘I believe Drake’s work touches on all known genres,’ said Morrison. ‘He is a very talented and driven young man. He has a fierce imagination, and a wonderful eye. Do you know the work of Orson Welles?’
The patronizing way that Morrison emphasized the name ‘Orson Welles’, as if talking to an idiot, prompted Seward to ask ‘Do you mean
Citizen Kane
or his television adverts for sherry?’ just to annoy him, but instead she just nodded, watching him.
‘Drake has the same kind of intensity and individuality about
Similar Books
