Futures - Peter Crowther (ed.) v1.0 Read online

  “Not a problem.” Neill Heller Caesar sat down next to Antony, giving the young man a reassuring smile. Antony needed the gesture. He had obviously had quite a night; his tie was unknotted, hanging around his collar, his jacket was crumpled, and there were several stains on the fabric. Apart from that he came over as perfectly average, a short man with broad shoulders, who kept himself fit and healthy.

  “You had dinner with Mr. Raleigh and your other friends this evening?” Gareth Alan Pitchford asked.

  “That’s right.” Antony Caesar Pitt’s voice was strained, attempting defiant contempt. He couldn’t quite pull it off, lacking the internal confidence to make it real. He searched round his jacket pockets and pulled out a silver cigar case. Selecting one of the slim cigars and lighting it was another attempt at conveying calm nerves. He took a deep drag.

  “I understand the dinner finished around ten o’clock. Where did you go after that?”

  “To some friends.”

  “And they are…T “I’d rather not say, actually.”

  The detective smiled thinly. “I’d rather you did.”

  Neill Heller Caesar put a friendly hand on Antony’s leg. “Go ahead.” It was an order more forceful than any the detective could ever make.

  Antony exhaled a thick streamer of smoke. “It’s a club I go to occasionally. The Westhay.”

  “On Norfolk Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “It’s a club. Why does anyone go to a club?”

  “For a dance and a pleasant evening, usually. But this is different. People go to the Westhay, Mr. Caesar, because there’s an unlicensed card game there most evenings. I understand you’re a gambling man.”

  “I enjoy a flutter. Who doesn’t? It’s not as if having a game with friends is a major crime.”

  “This is not the vice division; I don’t care about your personal shortcomings, I’m investigating the murder of your friend. How long were you there?”

  Antony chewed the cigar end. “I finished just after one. They wiped me out, and believe me you don’t ask for credit at the Westhay. It’s strictly cash only. I walked back to my college and your constables were waiting for me. But look, even if I give you the names of the guys I was playing with it won’t do you any good. I only know first names, and they’re not going to admit even being there.”

  “That’s not your concern right now, Mr. Pitt. I gather you and Mr. Raleigh played cards on a regular basis.”

  “For Mary’s sake! I wouldn’t kill Justin over a couple of hundred pounds.”

  “The detective spread his hands wide. “Did I say you would?”

  “You implied it.”

  “I’m sorry if that’s the impression you received. Do you know of anyone who had any kind of dispute with Mr.

  Raleigh?”

  “No. Nobody. Justin was genuinely a great guy.”

  The detective leaned back in his chair. “So everyone tells us. Thank you, Mr. Pitt. We will probably need to ask you more questions at some other time. Please don’t leave the city.”

  “Sure.” Antony Caesar Pitt straightened his jacket as he got up, and gave Neill Heller Caesar a mildly annoyed glance.

  One of the station’s secretaries came in as Antony left. She handed a clipboard to Gareth Alan Pitchford. His expression of dismay deepened as he flicked through the three flimsy sheets of paper which it held.

  “Bad news?” Francis inquired.

  “It’s the preliminary forensic report.”

  “Indeed. Were there any fingerprints on the knife?”

  “No. Nor were there any on the window latch. The site team is now dusting all three rooms. They’ll catalog each print they find.”

  “And work through a process of elimination,” Francis said. “The only trouble with that is, the prints belonging to all Justin’s friends will quite legitimately be found in there.”

  “That’s somewhat premature, isn’t it?” Neill Heller Caesar said. “You’ve no idea how many unknown prints they’ll find at this stage.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  I could tell how troubled Francis was. I don’t know why. He must have been expecting negatives like that in the report: I certainly was.

  “You have a problem with it?” Neill Heller Caesar asked him.

  “No. Not with the report. It’s the way Justin’s friends are all saying the same thing: he had no enemies. Indeed, why should he? A young man at university, what could he have possibly done to antagonize someone so?”

  “Obviously something.”

  “But it’s so out of character. Somebody must have noticed the reason.”

  “Perhaps they did, and simply aren’t aware of it.”

  Francis nodded reluctantly. “Maybe.” He gave the detective a glance. “Shall we continue.”

  Interestingly from my point of view, Neill Heller Caesar elected to stay in the interview room. Maloney didn’t have any family representative sit in with him. Not that the Maloneys lacked influence; he could have had one there with the proverbial click of a finger. It made me wonder who had made the call to Neill. I scribbled a note to ask the police later. It could be guilt, or more likely, anxiety.

  Alexander Stephan Maloney was by far the most nervous of the interviewees we’d seen. I didn’t consider it to be entirely due to his friend being murdered. Something else was bothering him. The fact that anything could distract him at such a time I found highly significant The reason became apparent soon enough. He had a very shaky alibi, claiming he was working alone in one of the laboratories in the Leigh-field chemistry block.

  “Number eighteen,” he said. “That’s on the second floor.”

  “And nobody saw you there?” Gareth Alan Pitchford asked, a strong note of skepticism in his voice.

  “It was quarter to eleven at night. Nobody else is running long-duration experiments in there right now. I was alone.”

  “What time did you get back to your rooms?”

  “About midnight. The college lodgekeepers can confirm that for you.”

  “I’m sure they will. How did you get back from the laboratory to the college?”

  “I walked. I always do unless the weather is really foul. It gives me the opportunity to think.”

  And you saw no one while you were walking?”

  “Of course I saw people. But I don’t know who any of them were. Strangers on a street going home to bed. Look, you can ask my professor about this. He might be able to confirm I was there when I said I was.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re running a series of carbon accumulators, they have to be adjusted in a very specific way, and we built that equipment ourselves. There are only five people in the world who’d know what to do. If he looks at it in the morning he’ll see the adjustments were made.”

  “I’d better have a word with him, then, hadn’t I?” the detective said. He scrawled a short note on his pad. “I’ve asked all your friends this question, and got the same answer each time. Do you know if Justin had any enemies?”

  “He didn’t. Not one.”

  There was silence in the interview room after he left. All of us were reflecting on his blatant nerves, and his nonexistent alibi. I kept thinking it was too obvious for him to have done it. Of course not all the suspects would have alibis: they didn’t part after their dinner believing they’d need one. Ask me what I was doing every night this past week, and I’d be hard pressed to find witnesses.

  Christine Jayne Lockett bustled into the interview room. I say bustled because she had the fussy motions that put me in mind of some formidable maiden aunt. When she came into a room everyone knew it. When she spoke, she had the tone and volume which forced everyone to listen. She was also quite attractive, keeping her long hair in a high style. Older than the others, in her mid twenties, which gave her a certain air. Her lips always came to rest in a cheerful grin. Even now, in these circumstances, she hadn’t completely lost her bonhomie.

  “And it started out as such a beautiful day,” she said wistfully as she settled herself in the chair. Several necklaces chinked and clattered at the motion, gold pagan charms and crucifixes jostling against each other. She put a small poetry book on the table. “Do you have any idea who did it, yet?”

  “Not as such,” Gareth Alan Pitchford said.

  “So you have to ask me if I do. Well I’m afraid I have no idea. This whole thing is so incredible. Who on earth would want to kill poor Justin? He was a wonderful man, simply wonderful. All of my friends are. That’s why I love them, despite their faults. Or perhaps because of them.”

  “Faults?”

  “They’re young. They’re shallow. They have too many opinions. They’re easily hurt. Who could resist the company of such angels?”

  ’Tell me about Justin. What faults did he have?”

  “Hubris, of course. He always thought he was right. I think that’s why dear Bethany loved him so much. That First Era saying: ‘differences unite.’ Not true. She’s a strong-willed girl as well. How could a strong person ever be attracted to a weak one—tell me that. They were so lucky to have found each other. Nobody else could win her heart, not for lack of trying you understand.”

  “Really?” Gareth Alan Pitchford couldn’t shade the interest in his voice. “She had admirers?”

  “You’ve seen her. She’s gorgeous. A young woman of beauty, complemented by a fiercely sharp mind. Of course she had admirers, by the herd.”

  “Do you have names?”

  “Men would ask to buy her a drink every time we went into a tavern. But if you mean persistent ones, ones that she knew…Alexander and Carter were both jealous of Justin. They’d both asked her out before she and Justin became lovers. It always surprised me that they mana
ged to remain friends. A man’s ego is such a weak appendage, don’t you think.”

  “I’m sure. Did this jealousy last? Were either of them still pursuing her?”

  “Not actively. We were all Mends, in the end. And nothing I saw, no wistful gazes, or pangs of lust, would cause this. I do know my friends, Detective Pitchford, and they are not capable of murder. Not like this.”

  “Who is, then?”

  “I have no idea. Somebody from the First Imperial Era? One might still be alive.”

  “If so, I’ve not heard of them, but I’ll inquire. Do you know if Justin had antagonized anyone? Not necessarily recently,” he added, “but at any time since you knew him.”

  “His self-confidence put a lot of people off. But then all of us have that quality. It’s not a characteristic which drives someone to murder.”

  “Mr. Kenyon claims he was with you after the dinner at the Orange Grove. Is this true?”

  “Perfectly true. We went back to my apartment. It was after ten, and babysitters are devilishly expensive in this city.”

  “The babysitter can confirm this?”

  “Your officers already took her statement. We arrived back at about quarter past ten.”

  “And after that? You were together for the rest of the night?”

  “Right up until Carter got the phone call, yes. We drank some wine, I showed him my latest piece. We talked. Not for long, mind you. We hadn’t even got to bed before he dashed off.” Her fingers stroked at the book’s leather cover. “What a dreadful, dreadful day.”

  Gareth Alan Pitchford glanced round at all of us after Christine left, his expression troubled. It was as if he was seeking our permission for the interview we all knew couldn’t be avoided. Neill Heller Caesar finally inclined his head a degree.

  Bethany Maria Caesar had regained some composure since I saw her in Justin’s rooms. She was no longer crying, and her hair had been tidied up. Nothing could be done about her pallor, nor the defeated slump of her shoulders. A sorrowful sight in one so young and vibrant.

  Neill Heller Caesar hurriedly offered her a chair, only just beating me to it. She gave him a meek smile and lowered herself with gentle awkwardness, as if her body weighed more than usual.

  “I apologize for having to bring you in here, Miss Caesar,” the detective said. “I’ll be as brief as possible. We just have a few questions. Formalities.”

  “I understand.” She smiled bravely.

  “Where were you at ten thirty this evening?”

  “I’d gone back to my rooms at Uffington after the meal. There was some lab work which I needed to type up.”

  “Lab work?”

  “I’m taking biochemistry. It’s a busy subject right now, so much is opening up to us. It won’t be long now before we understand the genetic molecule; that’s the heart of life itself. Oh. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. It just takes my thought away from…”

  This time I was the one who chivalrously offered a glass of water. She took it gratefully, a small flustered smile touching her bps. “Thank you. I suppose I must have got to Uffers just after ten. The lodgekeepers should be able to tell you the exact time. They sign us in at night.”

  “Of course. Now what about Justin. You were closest to him, did you know if he was embroiled in any kind of antagonism with someone? Some wild incident? A grudge that wouldn’t go away?”

  “If you’d ever met Justin you wouldn’t have to ask that. But no…he hadn’t annoyed anyone. He wasn’t the type; he was quiet and loved his subject. Not that we were hermits. We went out to parties, and he played a few games for the college, but not at any level which counted. But we were going to make up for all that time apart after…” She tugged a handkerchief out of her sleeve and pressed it against her face. Tears leaked out of tightly closed eyes.

  “I believe that’s sufficient information for now,” Neill Heller Caesar said, fixing the detective with a pointed gaze. Gareth Alan Pitchford nodded his acceptance, clearly glad of the excuse to end the questioning. Neill Heller Caesar put his arm round Bethany’s trembling shoulders, and helped guide her from the interview room.

  “Not much to go on,” the detective muttered gloomily once she was outside. “I’d welcome any suggestions.” He looked straight at Francis, who was staring at the closed door.

  “Have patience. We simply don’t have enough information yet. Though I admit to being mystified as to any possible motive there could be for ending this young man’s life in such a terrifying way. We do so desperately need to uncover what it was that Justin encountered which led to this.”

  “I have a good team,” the detective said, suddenly bullish. “You can depend on our investigation to uncover the truth.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Francis said with a conciliatory smile. “I think my colleague and I have seen enough for tonight. Why don’t we reconvene tomorrow—or rather later this morning, to review the case so far. The remaining interviews should be over by then, and forensic ought to have finished with Justin’s room.”

  “As you wish,” the detective said.

  Francis said nothing further until we were safely strapped up in his car and driving away from the station. “So, my boy, first impressions? I often find them strangely accurate. Human instinct is a powerful tool.”

  “The obvious one is Alexander,” I said. “Which in itself would tend to exclude him. It’s too obvious. Other than that, I’m not sure. None of them has any apparent motive.”

  “An interesting comment in itself.”

  “How so?’

  “You—or your subconscious—haven’t included anyone else on your suspect list.”

  “It must be someone he knows,” I said, a shade defensively. “If not his immediate coterie, then someone else who was close. We can start to expand the list tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Francis said.

  It seemed to me that his mind was away on some other great project or problem. He sounded so disinterested.

  MURDER. It was the banner scored big and bold across all the street comer newspaper placards, most often garnished with adjectives such as foul, brutal, and insane. The vendors shouted the word in endless repetition, their scarves hanging loosely from their necks as if to give their throats the freedom necessary for such intemperate volume. They waved their lurid journals in the air like some flag of disaster to catch the attention of the hapless pedestrians.

  Francis scowled at them all as we drove back to the police station just before lunchtime. The road seemed busier than usual, with horse-drawn carriages and carts jostling for space with cars. Since the law banning combustion engines, electric vehicles were growing larger with each new model; the newest ones were easily recognizable, with six wheels supporting long bonnets that contained ranks of heavy batteries.

  “Those newspapers are utter beasts,” he muttered. “Did you hear, we’ve had to move Justin’s parents from their home so they might grieve in peace? Some reporter tried to pretend he was a relative so he could get inside for an interview. Must be a Short. What is the world degenerating into?”

  When we arrived at the station it was besieged with reporters. Flashbulbs hissed and fizzled at everyone who hurried in or out of the building. Somehow Francis’s angry dignity managed to clear a path through the rabble. Not that we escaped unphotographed, or unquestioned. The impertinence of some was disgraceful, shouting questions and comments at me as if I were some circus animal fit only to be provoked. I wished we could have taken our own photographs in turn, collecting their names to have them hauled before their senior editors for censure.

  It was only after I got inside that I realized our family must have interests in several of the news agencies involved. Commerce had become the driving force here, overriding simple manners and decency.

  We were shown directly to Gareth Alan Pitchford’s office. He had the Venetian blinds drawn, restricting the sunlight and, more importantly, the reporters’ view inside. Neill Heller Caesar was already there. He wore the same smart suit and shirt that he’d had on for the interviews. I wondered if he’d been here the whole time, and if we’d made a tactical error by allowing him such freedom. I judged Francis was making the same calculation.