A Matter of Trust (11 page)

‘OXFORD DON SLAIN IN CAR PARK'

Nesta, who'd just been raising her second mug of coffee to her lips, froze. Slowly, as she read, she put the mug back down on the table, her hands shaking.

She read the piece through twice, not quite believing what she was reading.

‘
Police confirmed last night, that the body discovered in the car park of St Bede's College, was that of the noted psychologist, Sir Vivian Dalrymple. Sir Vivian was a well-known lecturer and author of many well received works in the field of Experimental psychology.

It is believed that Sir Vivian was attacked by a mugger between the hours of 11.30 and 12.30, after attending a Dinner at the College. Police sources confirmed
that
the main gates, and the postern gates that led into the car park were, unusually, unlocked at the time of the slaying, and the police are not ruling out the possibility that Sir Vivian was killed by a drug addict, stealing to maintain his habit.

Lord Roland St John James, Principal of St Bede's, has expressed his shock at such a thing happening in the College, and has offered his condolences to Sir Vivian's family.'

And that was it.

Nesta sat and stared at the paper for a long time before stiffly rising to her feet, paying her bill and heading out once more into the cold and damp. It was too far to walk to Park Town, so Nesta returned for her VW Beetle, coaxed it into life, and twenty minutes later, was turning off the Banbury Road and parking more or less opposite Sir Vivian's home.

Her mind, after a sluggish start, had begun functioning again.

As an ex college student herself, she knew about the tragic and insidious drugs culture that plagued University cities. The police obviously suspected Sir Vivian had been the victim of either a junkie (student or otherwise) or an opportunist thief, who'd found the doors to St Bede's unlocked and had wandered in, too see what could be stolen. And Sir Vivian was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All
of Nesta's previous feelings of wellbeing fizzled out into a depressing sense of anger and despair. It was so pointless! That lovely old man, a victim of some crazed or evil parasite! She supposed that, as a psychologist-in-the-making, she should be more tolerant, but . . . Hell! Being a shrink didn't mean you couldn't believe that some people were just downright
ugly.

She sighed, trying to control her frustrated anger, and forced herself to calm down. She made a mental note to have a look around St Bede's at some future point, but not just yet. First, she had to get back her father's papers.

She brushed a tear away as she parked, locked the car and stood indecisively on the pavement, high hedges towering over her, dripping cold droplets of water down the back of her neck.

She shuddered, and glanced at his house. She should have been prepared for all the police cars parked outside his residence, of course, but in her shock, she hadn't really been thinking straight.

She hedged around the small gaggle of curious people, who were standing outside the front entrance, and glanced, with the rest, through the closed wrought iron gates.

The garden looked just as she remembered it. Was it only a week or so ago that she'd stood there, watching him dead-head his roses. And now . . . She drew in a ragged breath,
feeling
ashamed of herself for coming here. And she really should have known better. As if it was likely that she'd really have been allowed to just waltz in and reclaim her things. Even something as important as her father's thesis.

Nesta chewed on her lip uncertainly, and retreated across the road, back to her car with a head full of whirling thoughts. Her papers had to be in the house. Unless Sir Vivian had taken them to his office at St. Bede's, his old college? But why would he do that?

For a long while Nesta stood there, uncertain what to do next. She supposed she could simply ask the policeman on duty when she might see someone in charge, and set about claiming back her property. But on the other hand, she was reluctant to interrupt the police at this important time. More than anything else, she wanted the man responsible for killing Sir Vivian caught and punished. Which meant giving the police plenty of room to do their job. And they wouldn't be interested in her problems, unless they related to their investigation.

Which they obviously didn't.

Nesta was still chewing her bottom lip, a habit of hers when she was anxious, and was moving restlessly from foot to foot, when Lisle Jarvis walked down the path and out through the gates.

The uniformed constable on guard nodded
at
him respectfully, but Nesta didn't need this silent salute in order to pick him out as the man in charge. In spite of looking tired enough to drop, there was a raw, rough energy about the man that, even from across the distance of the road, reached out to her and teased at her femininity. All of a sudden, her heartbeat quickened.

‘All quiet, Constable?'

She heard the quiet, weary voice, even above the dim drumming of the rain and the murmur of the ghoulish sightseers. The constable nodded, and then, to her utter astonishment, said something and nodded in her direction. Instantly, a pair of brown eyes turned and focused on her.

Nesta had had no idea that her state of worry and agitation had been picked up by the constable, but then, in a sudden flash of comprehension, she realised that her body language must have been fairly screaming ‘anxiety'. And, of course, the police were trained observers. No doubt she'd stood out from the rest of the crowd, keeping herself a little apart, and looking more upset than merely just curious.

Nesta took her hands out of her pockets as the tall, tough-looking plainclothes policeman started across the road towards her. For one insane moment, she had the urge to bolt. Why, she couldn't have said.

Perhaps it was a combination of shock and
the
fight-or-flight instinct, when faced with a tough predator. Certainly, she had to force herself to stand firm and calm as Lisle Jarvis walked purposefully towards her. His eyes, she noticed, were hazel. Deeply and thickly lashed, wonderful and sharp. They were looking at her with all of a policeman's suspicion.

‘Good morning, Miss,' Lisle began.

He was dog tired. He'd been up all night, supervising the removal of the body, and organising his small but experienced team. In just a few short hours he'd got a full guest list of last night's Dinner from Sir Roland, as well as the addresses of all those concerned. He'd set his team into groups of two, who were even now beginning the preliminary interviews of all the potential witnesses. He was waiting on the forensics reports, and had arranged for another forensics team to go over the archery range at St Bede's with a fine tooth comb. Not that he expected much. The room was too public, too well used. The trouble would be not that there was
no
evidence, but that there would be
too much
of it. Unless they could match a fibre from Sir Vivian's body to a fibre in the room, he doubted that he would even be able to prove that the murderer
had
used a weapon from the archery room.

If, indeed, they had.

A little later on he'd be getting the autopsy report. Later on still, he would have to go and see Lady Dalrymple, which was something he
was
not looking forward to one little bit.

He'd been about to go home to get a few hours much needed rest, but had decided to take a quick look at Sir Vivian's home first.

It was already full of policemen, going about their business, and, as he'd half-expected, coming up with nothing useful. So when he'd trudged tiredly back to his car, and the constable on duty had pointed out to him a pretty, redheaded spectator who seemed to have a lot on her mind, he'd been both disgusted and hopeful. So far, even though it was such early days, they had nothing concrete to go on. Not even a motive.

But a pretty redhead always had potential. Could she be the murder victim's mistress, perhaps?

Now, drawing up in front of her, Lisle could see that this redhead had an awful lot of potential indeed.

Her hair, cut in the shape of a bell, and coming to sharp points either side of her well-shaped mouth, was sprinkled with raindrops. Her figure, even beneath the see-through plastic raincoat, looked curvaceous and full. Her eyes were the colour of Irish fields.

Lisle dragged in a quick breath, taken by surprise by the tug of sexual pleasure and interest that suddenly started stirring, deep in his abdomen.

Since his divorce, he'd been living a celibate lifestyle, and hadn't even noticed it
much.
Suddenly he was very much aware of a woman's power. She'd nudged awake the dragon that had been sleeping within, and he wasn't best pleased.

‘Can you tell me what you're doing here?' he asked, as usual, getting straight to the point. He was too damn tired to start making polite conversation.

Nesta blinked, opened her mouth, and then shut it again. What, after all, could she say? Explaining about her father's thesis would involve a long, complicated, and totally irrelevant story, and she could already see this man was practically dead on his feet. As a psychologist she could see the symptoms of fatigue in his hollow eyes and gruff voice, and inaccessible approach.

So she smiled and shrugged one shoulder. ‘Nothing really. I just saw the crowd and wondered what was happening.'

But that sounded even worse. It made her sound like nothing more than a ghoulish sightseer. She didn't know why, but she didn't want to belittle herself in front of this man. She felt herself flush in shame and, unable to meet the disappointed look in his eyes, glanced down at her wet feet. Her shoes, she noticed belatedly, had a hole in them.

Lisle's eyes narrowed.

Lying. She was lying to him. But perhaps he was just so tired he was getting suspicious of everyone?

‘I
see,' he said flatly, and saw her pretty head rear up. She was still flushing.

‘I don't normally . . . I mean, I'm not one of these people who like to stop at accidents and . . .' her voice trailed off miserably. ‘I was just out for a walk . . .'

Oh, shut up, Nesta, she told herself grimly. You're making a complete fool of yourself.

Lisle smiled. He couldn't help it. She looked so woebegone.

‘So you didn't know the man who lived there?' he asked, nodding back at the house.

Again Nesta opened her mouth, and again she closed it. She realised, a bit late in the day, that she shouldn't have come here. She should have gone back to her bedsit and done some solid thinking, and then worked out a campaign of action. Now she was caught in the cleft of a dilemma, and had nobody to blame but herself. She didn't want to be in the position of lying to the police, but on the other hand, she didn't feel able to come out with the whole truth just yet.

She shook her head, more at her own stupidity and rashness than anything else, but Lisle took it for a negative answer.

‘I see. Then in that case, I suggest you go home, and get out of this awful weather.'

For one moment, Lisle wanted to ask her where she lived. He told himself it was merely a precaution. If, after all, it turned out that she
was
involved, he needed to know where to
contact
her. But a little voice was jeering away in the back of his head. Precaution hell! He just wanted to see her again.

‘Oh, er . . . right,' Nesta said, backing away reluctantly. She couldn't, for some reason, seem to tear her eyes away from his.

Really, he was not her type. He was too old for her for a start—surely by more than a decade or maybe even a dozen years. And he was too rugged and tough. Too in charge and sure of himself. Whilst it made her feel challenged and protected and excited, all at the same time, she didn't see herself playing a submissive role in any relationship with a man.

She fumbled at the door of her VW Beetle, fumbled for her keys, got the car open and sat inside. What on earth was she thinking of? She'd met the man two minutes, and her mind was already thinking along the terms of a relationship?

She turned on the ignition, and put on her seat belt. And still he was looking at her—she could feel his gaze through the glass of the windscreen.

Lisle watched her drive away, holding up his hand as she gave him a timid wave through the steaming-up window.

He memorised her car number plate, just in case. And, less than a minute later, was glad that he did.

He was just climbing back into his own car, and had wearily told Jim that it was time they
went
home and got some sleep, when one of the constables, engaged on the door-to-door questioning of the victim's neighbours, beckoned to him sharply. He came running down from the house next door to Sir Vivian's, on the right hand side.

Lisle sighed but waited patiently, winding down the window.

‘Sir, I thought you should hear this straight away,' the constable, who looked about 15 to Lisle's jaundiced eye, leaned in through the window, red of cheek and sparkling eyed, and earnestly began reading from his notebook.

‘Mrs Sayers, who lives next door, remembers Sir Vivian receiving a visitor last Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon, she's not sure. She says a young woman called in, and stood talking to Sir Vivian for a few moments, out in the garden. They then went inside, and stayed inside for over an hour.' The constable broke off with a grin. ‘Apparently, Mrs Sayers was much upset, because Sir Vivian's wife is in the hospital, and since retiring as a Tutor, Sir Vivian hasn't been teaching any undergraduates. Or taken on any private tuition, for that matter.'

Lisle smiled wearily. ‘So a young lady, staying for over an hour when the lady of the house was away, ruffled Mrs Sayers' feathers?'

‘Yes, Sir. So far, it's the only lead we've been able to come up with.'

Lisle rubbed his eyes. They felt like grit. It
wasn't
much, but it was a starting point. ‘Does she know who the lady was?'