‘I wonder how well he and Polly really knew each other.’
‘She’s a pretty girl. I doubt he’d stand much of a chance with her.’
‘No.’
‘Oh well, just so long as he hasn’t sold some kind of story to the tabloids,’ said Lance. ‘We don’t want to get caught out.’
Grace didn’t care to imagine what Keith’s reaction wouldbe were he to learn some vital piece of evidence from a newspaper headline rather than from his own troops. As they passed the cafe they’d seen Roxanne go into, Grace glanced inside, but there was no sign of her.
‘Can you ask Roxanne? Find out what people are telling her?’ asked Lance.
Grace shook her head. ‘No way. I can’t be seen talking to her. You saw the look Keith gave me this morning. Besides,’ she teased, ‘you’d probably have greater powers of persuasion!’
‘How come?’
‘She’s been asking me whether or not you’re single!’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
She laughed with him, but the illusion of intimacy was fleeting, a sad reminder that access to the only old and familiar friend she had here in Essex was now barred, if only temporarily. If Roxanne
had
paid Danny for any kind of exclusive, then of course she was only doing her job, but it increased the distance between them.
Grace and Lance had to ask for directions before successfully locating the dean’s airy and well-maintained corner office. They had asked to speak to a student co-ordinator in Dr Beeston’s department, but their request had been passed further up the chain and they’d been given an appointment with the dean of faculty. Simon Bradford was a pleasant man in his early fifties, dressed in the kind of classy lightweight suit that suggested a few semesters spent at an American university. He quickly introduced the elegant, bird-like woman beside him as Fiona Johnson, thedirector of communications. It was clear that the university was not taking lightly the likelihood that one of their students had been murdered, despite the somewhat lackadaisical reaction to Polly’s disappearance earlier in the week.
Lance explained that because they were still awaiting both formal identification and cause of death, the information they were about to divulge must remain highly confidential. Nevertheless, they were currently investigating the murder of Rachel Moston. The dean was well prepared and quickly pulled up her student profile on his computer while Ms Johnson expressed appropriate sentiments of regret.
‘Where did this take place?’ was her first question, and Grace could see her instant relief when Lance told them that the body had been discovered early this morning not on campus but five miles away in Colchester town centre.
Dr Bradford, scanning his screen, shook his head sadly. ‘No problems this end,’ he said. ‘Rachel Moston had consistently good grades throughout her three years here, good attendance record and no academic warnings. Such a waste, a real tragedy. I can only feel for her family.’
‘What about her relationships with fellow students? Any close friends we might speak to?’
‘You’d have to ask one of her tutors.’
‘If you could you let us have a list of her year group,’ said Lance.
While Dr Bradford tapped at his keyboard, ready to print the document, Grace smiled at Fiona Johnson. ‘I just wantedto say how helpful Student Services have been over Polly Sinclair,’ she said lightly.
‘Has she still not turned up?’ Ms Johnson matched her conversational tone, but Grace found it impossible to believe that the presence here of the university’s director of communications was unrelated to the fact that now the fate of two students would be front-page news.
‘No. Her parents are extremely concerned, as are we.’ She turned to the dean. ‘Might we have a list of all Rachel Moston’s tutors as well, please? Who would it be best to speak to about her?’
A printer at the side of the room hummed into life, and Dr Bradford let Fiona Johnson
‘She’s a pretty girl. I doubt he’d stand much of a chance with her.’
‘No.’
‘Oh well, just so long as he hasn’t sold some kind of story to the tabloids,’ said Lance. ‘We don’t want to get caught out.’
Grace didn’t care to imagine what Keith’s reaction wouldbe were he to learn some vital piece of evidence from a newspaper headline rather than from his own troops. As they passed the cafe they’d seen Roxanne go into, Grace glanced inside, but there was no sign of her.
‘Can you ask Roxanne? Find out what people are telling her?’ asked Lance.
Grace shook her head. ‘No way. I can’t be seen talking to her. You saw the look Keith gave me this morning. Besides,’ she teased, ‘you’d probably have greater powers of persuasion!’
‘How come?’
‘She’s been asking me whether or not you’re single!’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
She laughed with him, but the illusion of intimacy was fleeting, a sad reminder that access to the only old and familiar friend she had here in Essex was now barred, if only temporarily. If Roxanne
had
paid Danny for any kind of exclusive, then of course she was only doing her job, but it increased the distance between them.
Grace and Lance had to ask for directions before successfully locating the dean’s airy and well-maintained corner office. They had asked to speak to a student co-ordinator in Dr Beeston’s department, but their request had been passed further up the chain and they’d been given an appointment with the dean of faculty. Simon Bradford was a pleasant man in his early fifties, dressed in the kind of classy lightweight suit that suggested a few semesters spent at an American university. He quickly introduced the elegant, bird-like woman beside him as Fiona Johnson, thedirector of communications. It was clear that the university was not taking lightly the likelihood that one of their students had been murdered, despite the somewhat lackadaisical reaction to Polly’s disappearance earlier in the week.
Lance explained that because they were still awaiting both formal identification and cause of death, the information they were about to divulge must remain highly confidential. Nevertheless, they were currently investigating the murder of Rachel Moston. The dean was well prepared and quickly pulled up her student profile on his computer while Ms Johnson expressed appropriate sentiments of regret.
‘Where did this take place?’ was her first question, and Grace could see her instant relief when Lance told them that the body had been discovered early this morning not on campus but five miles away in Colchester town centre.
Dr Bradford, scanning his screen, shook his head sadly. ‘No problems this end,’ he said. ‘Rachel Moston had consistently good grades throughout her three years here, good attendance record and no academic warnings. Such a waste, a real tragedy. I can only feel for her family.’
‘What about her relationships with fellow students? Any close friends we might speak to?’
‘You’d have to ask one of her tutors.’
‘If you could you let us have a list of her year group,’ said Lance.
While Dr Bradford tapped at his keyboard, ready to print the document, Grace smiled at Fiona Johnson. ‘I just wantedto say how helpful Student Services have been over Polly Sinclair,’ she said lightly.
‘Has she still not turned up?’ Ms Johnson matched her conversational tone, but Grace found it impossible to believe that the presence here of the university’s director of communications was unrelated to the fact that now the fate of two students would be front-page news.
‘No. Her parents are extremely concerned, as are we.’ She turned to the dean. ‘Might we have a list of all Rachel Moston’s tutors as well, please? Who would it be best to speak to about her?’
A printer at the side of the room hummed into life, and Dr Bradford let Fiona Johnson
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