be the one to rise and fetch the year group list, which she handed to Lance. Seconds later another sheet rolled through, which Ms Johnson handed to Grace. There were seven names, amongst them that of Dr Matt Beeston. Silently Grace passed it on to Lance.
‘I’m afraid we have to ask, but is there anyone on this list we ought to be paying attention to?’ Grace made the question sound entirely routine. ‘Any issues over pastoral care, or any complaints against any of these tutors?’
She nearly missed the hint of warning in Dr Bradford’s glance at Ms Johnson. It was little more than a raised eyebrow and a dip of the chin, but it was there, and Grace wondered what they were hiding. It made her think of Colin, her old DCI, and how desperately he’d hated being put on the spot like this, how much virtually any large institution resented its boat being rocked, its self-serving procedures being forcibly picked apart.
‘Had there been any formal complaints made in relation to the conduct of university staff,’ Ms Johnson answered, ‘we would have taken appropriate action and it would be a matter of record.’ She turned and locked the dean into a moment of silent accord before turning back to the detectives. ‘There is no record of any formal complaint made against any of these faculty staff.’
So why, wondered Grace, are you at such pains to spell it out? And why had Matt Beeston been so jolly keen to remind them that Polly wasn’t one of his students? She met Ms Johnson’s level gaze. ‘Anything off the record we should know about?’ she asked in as friendly a tone as she could manage. ‘This
is
a murder enquiry.’
‘I really wish we could offer more help.’ Ms Johnson rose to her feet, smoothing her skirt and avoiding eye contact. ‘Don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything else we can do.’ She extended her hand: the interview was over.
SEVEN
The entire team, including the civilian support staff, had crowded into the main Major Investigation Team office for the first briefing when Keith returned in the afternoon with the post-mortem results. Everyone was keen to get the investigation fully launched, and Grace, too, relished the heady adrenaline surge, all too aware of the long days of hard work, little sleep and badly digested sandwiches, coffee and pizza that probably lay ahead.
Duncan added a photograph of a bottle of Fire’n’Ice vodka to the board, then perched on the nearest desk, waiting for Keith to begin. Everyone had been told about the existence of the bottle, but no one other than those who’d been in the forensic tent at six o’clock that morning knew about its intimate connection to the victim, nor had been shown the relevant crime scene photographs, which Keith had locked away in his office.
‘Right,’ Keith began. ‘Rachel Moston. Twenty-one. Just finished her final-year exams and, according to her parents, had a good placement fixed up with a London law firm.Regular boyfriend who we’ve confirmed was in Nottingham last night, taking part in a university judo competition. According to him, she planned to go with friends to the Blue Bar last night.’
Mention of the Blue Bar sent a ripple of anticipation around the room, though no one yet had the balls to ask if they were officially linking Rachel’s murder to Polly Sinclair’s disappearance.
Accurately reading their minds, Keith sighed. ‘Rachel Moston’s debit card transactions confirm she
was
there. She settled a fairly hefty bar bill a little before midnight.’
Grace was all too uncomfortably aware that her own name would show up in the list of electronic purchases from last night, but swiftly decided she could inform Keith of that later. Meanwhile she did her best to hide a ripple of shock: had she and Roxanne rubbed shoulders with the dead girl hours – minutes, even – before she was killed?
‘Preliminary autopsy results suggest death was caused by ligature strangulation,’ Keith continued. ‘No
‘I’m afraid we have to ask, but is there anyone on this list we ought to be paying attention to?’ Grace made the question sound entirely routine. ‘Any issues over pastoral care, or any complaints against any of these tutors?’
She nearly missed the hint of warning in Dr Bradford’s glance at Ms Johnson. It was little more than a raised eyebrow and a dip of the chin, but it was there, and Grace wondered what they were hiding. It made her think of Colin, her old DCI, and how desperately he’d hated being put on the spot like this, how much virtually any large institution resented its boat being rocked, its self-serving procedures being forcibly picked apart.
‘Had there been any formal complaints made in relation to the conduct of university staff,’ Ms Johnson answered, ‘we would have taken appropriate action and it would be a matter of record.’ She turned and locked the dean into a moment of silent accord before turning back to the detectives. ‘There is no record of any formal complaint made against any of these faculty staff.’
So why, wondered Grace, are you at such pains to spell it out? And why had Matt Beeston been so jolly keen to remind them that Polly wasn’t one of his students? She met Ms Johnson’s level gaze. ‘Anything off the record we should know about?’ she asked in as friendly a tone as she could manage. ‘This
is
a murder enquiry.’
‘I really wish we could offer more help.’ Ms Johnson rose to her feet, smoothing her skirt and avoiding eye contact. ‘Don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything else we can do.’ She extended her hand: the interview was over.
SEVEN
The entire team, including the civilian support staff, had crowded into the main Major Investigation Team office for the first briefing when Keith returned in the afternoon with the post-mortem results. Everyone was keen to get the investigation fully launched, and Grace, too, relished the heady adrenaline surge, all too aware of the long days of hard work, little sleep and badly digested sandwiches, coffee and pizza that probably lay ahead.
Duncan added a photograph of a bottle of Fire’n’Ice vodka to the board, then perched on the nearest desk, waiting for Keith to begin. Everyone had been told about the existence of the bottle, but no one other than those who’d been in the forensic tent at six o’clock that morning knew about its intimate connection to the victim, nor had been shown the relevant crime scene photographs, which Keith had locked away in his office.
‘Right,’ Keith began. ‘Rachel Moston. Twenty-one. Just finished her final-year exams and, according to her parents, had a good placement fixed up with a London law firm.Regular boyfriend who we’ve confirmed was in Nottingham last night, taking part in a university judo competition. According to him, she planned to go with friends to the Blue Bar last night.’
Mention of the Blue Bar sent a ripple of anticipation around the room, though no one yet had the balls to ask if they were officially linking Rachel’s murder to Polly Sinclair’s disappearance.
Accurately reading their minds, Keith sighed. ‘Rachel Moston’s debit card transactions confirm she
was
there. She settled a fairly hefty bar bill a little before midnight.’
Grace was all too uncomfortably aware that her own name would show up in the list of electronic purchases from last night, but swiftly decided she could inform Keith of that later. Meanwhile she did her best to hide a ripple of shock: had she and Roxanne rubbed shoulders with the dead girl hours – minutes, even – before she was killed?
‘Preliminary autopsy results suggest death was caused by ligature strangulation,’ Keith continued. ‘No
Similar Books
