Dying Fall by Judith Cutler Page B

to cycle round to the police station and tell them what I feared than to try and explain over the phone. I was just locking my cycle to the railing when a Cavalier pulled up beside me. The driver wound down his window, smiling pleasantly. DCI Groom – Chris.
    â€˜You’ve come about your body, have you?’
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘Another one.’
    All the time he was escorting me through the corridors to his room I was wondering why I’d made such an inane quip. From time to time, I could catch him glancing sideways at me.
    We sat down on opposite sides of his tidy desk. He wrote down the facts as I gave them. He was taking me seriously.
    I wonder how much he’d have told me about Aftab’s return if he hadn’t been filling in time while his colleagues busied themselves with the inquiries he’d set in train. He plied me with coffee while he talked – he’d just acquired a percolator, which bubbled irritatingly on the windowsill. Biscuits or cake? All this talk. Then at least the hard facts about Aftab. A PC in Bradford had found him sicking his guts up outside the Photography Museum.
    I shook my head; I wanted to laugh in disbelief, and I fancy that Groom might, in other circumstances.
    â€˜Why Bradford?’
    â€˜He’s got family up there. And the museum because he’d always wanted to go. That giant cinema screen, with all those special effects. He’d stayed in so long he’d got something like travel sickness.’
    â€˜Not kidnapped?’
    â€˜Doesn’t seem like it.’
    â€˜So why did his cousin –’
    â€˜We’ll find out. But Iqbal’s in Amsterdam at the moment.’
    â€˜Amsterdam!’
    â€˜Amsterdam. Flew out yesterday, as soon as they’d had the funeral. Oh, he cleared it with us first. Said it was essential, even with the family in mourning. And since he had an unbeatable alibi for the time, we couldn’t argue.’
    â€˜Alibi?’
    â€˜In Erdington nick. He’d cheeked a constable who booked him for playing silly buggers in that XR3 of his. So we pulled him in for a couple of hours.’
    â€˜When you talk to him,’ I said, ‘I suppose you couldn’t ask him why he told you people Aftab had been kidnapped before he even told the family.’
    I went through the motions of living for the rest of the day – I ate because I knew I ought, pushed on through my pile of marking because it had to be done. When I saw Chris Groom’s Cavalier pull up outside my house at about five, I knew why he had come, even before I saw his face.
    I made coffee automatically. Made my mouth open to ask the right questions.
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜At the back of the Music Centre, Sophie. Where they’re still working.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜A blow to the head. A scaffolding pole, probably.’
    â€˜Do I – will I have –’ I made an effort: I’d known since Friday evening, after all. ‘Do you need me to identify him?’
    Groom shook his head.
    â€˜Then who?’
    â€˜Mr Rossiter, is it? The manager?’
    Poor Tony.
    â€˜Death was instantaneous. He wouldn’t have felt anything. Though why he should want to wander round a building site, in the dark, in a force-ten gale, entirely defeats me. Asking for trouble, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜But George wouldn’t do anything like that. He was an orderly man. He always used to tidy my kitchen when he came here. Books, records. Couldn’t stop himself putting them in order.’
    He shook his head. ‘The evidence we have so far points to his having tried to take a short cut. “No Access” signs everywhere. Just ignored them. Going to meet someone, perhaps.’
    â€˜I told you. He was going to meet me.’
    I thought he’d never leave. He found cake for me to eat, then the whiskey bottle. He offered to phone friends or relatives. What about a neighbour? Finally, in