Dying on Principle (7 page)

‘Trying to fly, was she?' I asked tartly.

‘Might have topped herself. Or just fallen. No need to jump to – sorry – you know, no hasty conclusions. Come on, plenty to do, Sophie. But maybe you ought to take a sickie. Go and get Aggie to fuss you a bit.'

We started back down the stairs.

‘No. Not until you've—' I gestured. I didn't want to mention Melina yet. ‘I'll hang about here until you've got some idea of what happened to her. I've got a room on the second floor. Third on your left as you come upstairs.'

‘All to yourself?' he asked. ‘Rather a luxury after that maelstrom you called your office at William Murdock.'

‘May not be all to myself any longer. But I'll be there. Until you or Ian comes and gets me. I suppose you'll want a statement in any case. I suppose I must be one of the last people to see her alive. Me and Dr Trevelyan. But I don't think she'll be able to talk at the moment.'

The room was still unoccupied, apart from the boxes and the ashtray, so there was no one to take my mind off my part in Melina's death. Fact: she'd wanted to talk to me. Fact: I'd been in too much of a hurry. Fact: she'd begged me to listen. Fact: I'd refused. Fact: she was dead.

Whether it was by her own hand or by someone else's, maybe I could have prevented her death.

The knowledge pounded round my head like a hamster on a wheel. It changed rhythm soon enough – I could have prevented her death; I should have prevented her death.

If I could have a hot coffee to wrap my hand round, perhaps I could have stopped shivering. But getting a coffee meant risking the canteen, and Chris would be coming for me here. I couldn't cry, I couldn't pace, I couldn't do anything until he or Ian came. Nothing except listen to the voice in my head: ‘I should have prevented her death. Could have. Should have.'

There was a sharp tap at the door, and Chris was suddenly beside me. ‘Sophie?'

The words came out loud now: ‘I could have stopped her.'

His voice was very cold and official: ‘Do you have any reason to believe she killed herself?'

I told him, haltingly, about our encounter in Safeway.

‘If she killed herself, she made her own decision. People who kill themselves do so, as I understand it, because they think their life has become intolerable. One conversation more or less wouldn't change that underlying belief. And if she didn't kill herself, then someone else did. And if she'd given you information this person didn't want passed on, you'd have been at risk too. Now, what about a coffee?'

I pointed to the memo from Curtis about staff refreshments.

‘Jesus, we are into abrasive management styles, aren't we? Well, in that case, Ms Rivers, I'll have to ask you to accompany me to Rose Road Police Station to make your statement, aided and abetted by a cup of my coffee.'

I smiled, if wanly: Chris prided himself on the excellence of his coffee.

I set the button in the middle of the door handle and ushered him out, checking, as I always did, that the door had locked – not that it would keep out the owner of the ashtray of course.

‘Snib,' said Chris suddenly, as we joined the staff and students milling up and down the stairs.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘That thing in the doorknob. Last conference I went to—'

‘Hawaii?' I asked dryly. Chris was given to conferring in exotic places.

‘Newcastle. There was a notice in the room telling the occupant to set the snib before he left. Took three DCIs and two supers to work out what the hell it meant.'

He said nothing else until we reached his car, which was surrounded by other police vehicles. A uniformed officer was sitting in the driver's seat. Chris would have to hang on here, wouldn't he? The constable started to get out, however, and spoke in an undertone to Chris.

‘Yes, perhaps,' Chris replied. ‘No, ask Sergeant Dale to take Ms Rivers to Rose Road, will you? You'll find him entrapped by a terrifying blue-rinse female called Cavendish. Tell him you're the fifth cavalry.'

‘OK, Gaffer.'

The young man gave a casual salute and loped off.

Chris waited till he was out of earshot. ‘That's another worst-case scenario: being trapped behind a desk. Can't bear leaving things to other people.'

‘You never could,' I said, thinking of searches he'd led, of other jobs he might easily have delegated.

‘If you finish your statement before I get back, Ian'll take you home. No, listen: I want to talk to you, just in case—'

I took a deep breath. ‘Do you think it was, Chris? Suicide?'

He shook his head. ‘Until the pathologist's had a look, and we've talked to other people, I really am keeping an open mind. According to young Dr Patel, the surgeon, her initial impression is that the injuries are consistent with a fall from a considerable height. The question is …' he paused.

I finished his question for him: ‘Did she fall or was she pushed?'

Flapping a hand in vague greeting at a couple of Rose Road's WPCs I'd met last year, I took my seat in a newly decorated interview room and waited for the promised coffee. Ian took my statement without comment, breaking off only when I started to yawn.

‘Stress,' he said tersely. ‘Hang on a bit.'

He left me to contemplate the grim state of my nails, but was soon back bearing coffee in Chris's china cups. He fished a couple of Kit-Kats from his pocket. I looked on temptation and succumbed.

He was surprised when I insisted on going back to work after lunch, but accepted my explanation that I had a class with an exam in less than six weeks' time. Chris would have to wait until I'd done my duty.

As it happened, he had to wait a little longer. I was leaving my classroom, without any conviction on my part that I had helped the students at all, when I ran into Phil. I locked the door and fell into step with him. He looked nearer sixty than forty and his hair drooped disconsolately behind one ear.

‘Bad business,' I said quietly.

‘Yes, we could do with a cuppa,' he said. ‘Such a nice kid! One of the best I've come across. In here,' he said, opening the door to the technicians' restroom, ‘and bugger this.' He flipped a finger at the Curtis memo, which he too had stuck on the wall. He filled a kettle and shook a packet of decaffeinated teabags at me. ‘Better for you, except they say there's something in the paper that makes you senile. But at least if you're mad, then you don't know anything about it.'

‘Unless you're Dr Trevelyan,' I risked.

‘Like I was saying, she must actually have seen Melina. It wasn't just a figment, was it? She really did.'

‘I hope someone's told her. And the hospital,' I said.

‘Not my job. D'you want to give something towards her flowers?' He shook a chinking foolscap envelope at me. ‘Don't feel you have to: you didn't know her, not properly. None of us did, come to think of it. Not much in here. Won't get her more than a bunch of daffs, and goodness knows who I'll be able to get to take them to her.'

I fumbled some change out of my purse into the envelope, and initialled the front. No, not much of a collection.

‘What about flowers for Melina's family?' I asked.

‘Hang on, I was just getting – where's that envelope? But it won't be flowers. In some funny sect, she was. They spend a lot of time talking to God, but not on Sundays. We're to give the money to her church to do good with. Ta.'

‘I suppose, when you go round with it, I couldn't come too, could I? She was one of the few people at Muntz who I got to know at all,' I fibbed.

Phil nodded absently. ‘Wonder why she did it.'

‘Any idea?'

‘Well.' He made the tea straight into mugs, and sloshed in milk. ‘The police were asking and I said no, of course, because I didn't then. But …'

I was desperate to prompt him.

‘There's something – look, I don't know about this at all. Bring your tea through here.'

Obediently, though he had drowned it in milk and I was hoping quietly to abandon it, I picked up my mug and followed him to Dr Trevelyan's room.

‘It's this “Access denied” thing, see,' he said, unlocking the door, and then locking it behind us. ‘Worried me, like I was saying. And now she's off for the duration, I had to find my way into the stuff – well, it's my job, Sophie, I need to use the info. Not just being nosy, you'll understand that.'

I nodded: he'd need to know all about suppliers for simple day-to-day matters like ordering paper and ink cartridges.

‘So I thought I'd giver her files a scan, see if there was anywhere she might have left her passwords, see.'

I saw.

He switched on her computer. Her printer gave an engaging little set of pings, quite tuneful. The screen prepared for action.

‘I thought, while I was at it, I ought to check her e-mail. Just in case.'

‘You knew Dr Trevelyan's password?' I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

‘You may well ask! Well, to be honest, I watched her type it in once. Same as my bank PIN, as it happens, so I'd be obliged if you'd turn away. Thanks.'

I looked at the room: bare to the point of anonymity. I've seen hotel rooms that were more welcoming. I thought of the posters I'd already stuck up in my new room, and of the plants I was persuading to grow on the windowsill. Dr Trevelyan had been
in situ
longer than I had, but might never have been there at all. And yet she didn't strike me as the self-effacing type.

The tapping at the keyboard stopped.

‘OK. Now look at this.'

I peered over his shoulder. He started to read aloud, not well.

‘Best show this to the police,' I said.

‘You OK? Didn't mean to upset you like this, love. Here, sit yourself down.'

‘I'm all right.'

‘My Aunt Fanny you are! And I think you're right. It's a suicide note all right.'

Was it? If it was, it was the last thing I wanted to see. Maybe I could have helped. I should have tried. The hamster wheel started turning again.

‘And you know what?' Phil continued. ‘I think Dr T did see her doing herself in, and that's why she was so upset. And you're right about little Melina – my reading of this is, she was a lezzie, see. A dyke. I wonder if Dr T is? You're right, Sophie: makes you think, doesn't it?'

Wondering silently why he should choose to impute all these conclusions to me, I passed him the phone.

‘No, you get on with it,' he said. ‘You know that policeman, after all. Nice-looking lad, I thought. And of course, the police get good pensions. I'll have another dig at this password business.'

And he tapped away again while I rang Chris's number. No Chris, but a voice I didn't recognise promised to pass on the message.

The house was terribly quiet. Normally I find Radio Three or Classic FM as soon as I get in, though I switch over to Radio Four for
PM
. But the radio had been giving notice for some time, and it chose this afternoon to expire.

Wanting a voice to keep me company, I checked the answering machine. A little bonus – two messages. One was from Chris, grave and hesitant, thanking me for the news and telling me I should be resting; the other from a buoyant Aberlene, reminding me of the evening meeting and telling me the address: a road in Selly Oak.

I felt too low to cook a proper meal. In the fridge, there were a couple of tomatoes, a tired lettuce that ought to be eaten, an onion no longer young and some furry cheese. All the ingredients for a miserable sandwich. But it dawned on me, as I sat down and sank my teeth into it, that George would have been furious with me for sitting round lamenting my lot. Something bold, that's what he'd have demanded. I could hear his voice, urging me off my bum and on to the bus. Because I was going to Selly Oak, that's why, and the bus would drop me by a big Comet store where I could get myself not just a simple radio, but one of these all-singing, all-dancing affairs. Damn it, I'd been waiting long enough to get a CD player! OK, I'd have to carry a cumbersome ghetto blaster in a huge cardboard box to the meeting, but I could get a taxi back home. And I dived into my bookcase for the relevant
Which?

The trouble started at the checkout. There were a couple of whispers, and the kids behind the counter started to eye me. Then a sleek young man appeared and drew me to one side.

They were bouncing my Barclaycard.

‘I've only got about £90 on it,' I expostulated. Dinner for Chris.

‘I'm sorry. Is there any other way you'd wish to pay?'

I wanted to storm out, but a dramatic exit wouldn't secure me my radio. Neither, of course, would my cheque-guarantee card – £50 limit. And though there were large signs everywhere promising me interest-free credit, I didn't think they'd regard my application with particular enthusiasm in view of my Barclaycard problem. So, having established that they'd keep the radio for me till I returned on Saturday, I left quietly, keeping my temper under control.

I couldn't vent it at Aberlene's, either: a couple of other people had already arrived and were sitting at the dining table in her back room. Hers was a big Edwardian house, and every time I walked down her hall I wanted to peel up the floor and take it home. But peeling up Minton tiles isn't easy, even if she'd let me. Occasionally she tantalised me further by reminding me that her garage floor was even better – it had once been the kitchen.

I knew the two musicians who sat to my left: Simon and Adrian, a tutti viola and very handsome with it. Simon slipped a sealed envelope across to me – my invitation, formal if belated, to become a trustee. Then came Frank Laker, a middle-aged and nondescript solicitor. He sat almost opposite me. We were three short: two apologies, and the other new trustee was late. We dithered about whether we could start the meeting without him. I buttoned my lip: I wasn't going to express an opinion about anything until I'd seen the others in action. Aberlene, on my right, raised a quizzical eyebrow at my continued silence; this was a Sophie she didn't know. Eventually, after what appeared to be a whispered prompt from Adrian, Simon, as chair, decided we should start.