The Blood Upon the Rose by Tim Vicary Page B

him. He was also puzzled by the odd, incongruous fact that the university lists had revealed her, unlike her father, to be a Catholic. Perhaps that, too, had something to do with the handsome woman in the portrait.
    Catherine saw a solid, burly individual in a drab raincoat and heavy boots, with a square determined face and short moustache. A typical stolid policeman, she thought, all method and no imagination. She regarded the interview as an amusement, a formality. She smiled politely, like a good society hostess.
    ‘Can I offer you coffee, Inspector?’
    ‘No, thank you, miss. I've had my breakfast. I've come to ask you some questions about the shooting the other day.’
    ‘Yes? I doubt if I can help very much. It was all a bit of a blur, I'm afraid.’
    ‘Nonetheless, we think we've got some idea who did it. You're a student at University College, I understand.’
    ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘I’ve been checking the lists there. You're registered as a first-year medical student.’
    A feather of fear brushed the soft hairs on the nape of her neck, as though the man's boots had blundered over her grave. Or Sean's. She gazed at him coldly, noticing for the first time the intelligence of the eyes in the solid, square, working man's face.
    ‘That's right.’ She sipped her coffee, to give herself time. ‘I don't quite see …’
    He held out a photograph. ‘Do you know this fellow?’
    It was Sean, of course. She should have known. A fresh-faced, proud smile, collar, tie, very neat slicked-down hair; a photo that might have been taken on prize day at school. This detective was a Belfast man, an outsider - how could he have got hold of Sean's photo so quickly? Her coffee cup rattled in the saucer as she put it down. Kee noted the reaction with interest.
    ‘Yes, I ... may do.’
    ‘How do you know him?’
    ‘Oh, he's just another student at the faculty, I think. I've seen him there in lectures. I don't know him very well.’
    ‘Did you see him on Friday? At Ashtown Gate?’
    ‘No.’ A vehement shake of the head. I'm not Judas, you know . ‘What sort of chap is he, this Simon Brennan?’
    ‘Sean. It's . . . Sean Brennan, not Simon.’ Catherine spoke more slowly, as she saw it had been a trick, and the hairs rose again along her spine. Have I betrayed him already?
    Kee said: ‘Yes. Sorry. Sean, then.’
    ‘I don't know. I told you. I don't know him very well.’
    ‘Well enough to know his name.’
    She sighed. This man must be dismissed before he uncovered more secrets. She made her voice frigid, like that of her mother bored by some tedious tenant. ‘Yes, well, that doesn't mean much, does it? Look, Inspector, I don't want to seem rude, but it's not very likely that a medical student would be throwing Mills bombs at the Viceroy, is it? We've got too much reading to do, for a start.’
    ‘I agree it's not likely, miss, but I regret to say we've quite a lot of evidence to show that it happens. Not everyone behaves as they should, these days.’ He picked the photograph up, as though to put it back in his pocket. Then he changed his mind, and held it between his fingers on his lap, facing her, so that she had to see it or look away. ‘It must have been quite an upsetting experience for you, being in the car. You might easily have been killed. We're very interested to talk to this young lad, you understand. Would you … be likely to be seeing him again?’
    She blushed. There was no disguising it. She could feel the warm flush spreading up from her neck, round behind her ears and into her cheeks and forehead, in a way that it had not done for years. In a hopeless attempt to hide it, she stood up and walked to the door.
    ‘I really couldn't say, Inspector. Certainly not before next term, anyway. It's the vacation now, you know.’
    ‘Yes.’ Kee stood up too, intrigued. But he did not immediately accept her implied invitation to leave. ‘And of course you don't meet him at any other time?’
    ‘No, I do