Dying to Write (10 page)

‘So where does that leave us?'

‘With a lot of questions to answer. And a few to ask.'

‘You mean, you want to ask some.'

‘Only to clarify my thinking, which seems to have been singularly cloudy for a couple of days. Can't work it out, Matt. I'm always a light sleeper, until I really go dead to the world. I hardly slept at all on Sunday night, or last night, for that matter. But Monday I was out cold for hours.'

Matt rubbed his hands over his face as if trying to iron out the creases.

‘Do you know something? I was so knackered on Monday I fell asleep on the sofa. Spark out. And you saw what time I woke up. But last night … I know she's in some sort of trouble, Sophie. I know. But I don't know what sort and I don't know where.'

I nodded. I had the same intuition. I felt she was still alive. I certainly knew that George was dead before I had any evidence, though I didn't know the moment he'd been killed. But if I started talking intuitions and presentiments, I'd get sidetracked. I liked Matt, wanted to believe he knew as little about Kate's disappearance as I did, but wanted most of all to find Kate.

‘Why did a woman as talented and successful as she was want to come on a course like this?' I asked. I could compare their answers.

‘Because she wanted help, I suppose. There was a big problem with the way her novel was going. She couldn't spot what it was and trusted me to. She was a bit superstitious, too: I've always had a hand somewhere in what she's written – oh, only as a critic, don't get me wrong. And she felt showing it to me was like touching wood. And we're friends.'

I reflected on the inflexion of ‘friends'. It didn't sound as if it were a euphemism. But there again, it didn't sound quite straight. I glanced at him. He turned away.

‘Why didn't you tell me her rat was back?' he asked.

‘I didn't not tell you. You weren't in your room when I brought him back. That's how I got into Kate's room for the cage: through the bathrooms. Which reminds me: maybe it'd be safer if you kept your room locked. Just in case, as it were.'

He nodded absently.

I looked at my watch. Seven thirty-five. A bit early for breakfast, but I hadn't anything else to do. And the interview with Chris about Courtney might be a bit fraught. I might as well eat now. And when I saw Shazia, I'd ask her to buy some rat food.

And some other food! Today was Wednesday, the day I was to cook with Agnes and Thea. An urgent meeting was called for.

‘Coming down for some breakfast?' I asked.

‘Not yet. I've got to read through this lot first.' He gestured at a pile of manuscripts. ‘People will want a response when they see me.'

I smiled. My students are like that. Hand in an essay three weeks late, and expect you to have it marked before lunch. At least my efforts hadn't added to his stress.

‘And I can't recall seeing anything of yours, Sophie, come to think of it.'

I smiled again. And left the room at a run.

What a pity I had to spoil my exit by returning for my biro. It's vaguely special. A grateful student gave it to me, in the days when students could afford to show their gratitude without getting deeper into debt. There was no sign of the biro on the floor or on the chart.

Matt patted a hand over his worktable. No joy.

‘There it is: over on the windowsill,' he said, pointing. He walked across and picked it up. ‘Very nice,' he said, inspecting it. ‘Engraved, too.'

‘You get me to write and I'll give you an entire pen-and-pencil set, all engraved,' I said. The way I was going it seemed a pretty safe offer. Then I lost interest in the game. I looked out of the window at the cars.

I was sure Kate had parked more neatly than that. Everything she did with that little Peugeot was meticulous. I'd swear she'd left it exactly parallel to the wall. Now it was at an angle of some thirty degrees to it. I suppose the distortion in the old mirror glass, maybe the whole concept of the mirrors, had prevented me from noticing. I didn't want to say anything to Matt at this point. I wanted to think about it, and maybe talk to Chris about it. He was bound to come looking for me soon. He'd probably go straight to my room. I'd better wait there for him.

As soon as I opened the door to my bedroom I saw the note. I was meant to see it. It was, after all, fastened firmly to my pillow. The haft of the penknife they'd used was crimson against the white of the pillowcase.

I managed not to scream aloud. I'd better find Chris. I backed out and closed the door firmly.

The PC in the umbilical corridor – a different one from last night's guardian of Courtney's bag – thought he might be in ‘that lady writer's room'.

He was. Standing on duckboards. With him were his usual sergeant, Ian Dale, and a man in white overalls. Chris's greeting was off-hand. Perhaps he was embarrassed by my assumption that I could intrude on him when he was working. Certainly he returned to his conversation with the man in overalls so quickly that if I interrupted now I'd look like an importunate child. And the news could wait – a few moments. Then I'd have to tell him about it, and ask about Kate's car. I turned to Ian, who went so far as to shake my hand and greet me as ‘Sophie'. This was emotion indeed from Ian, a dour Brummie. He had shared with Tina the tedious duty of guarding me; he'd taken me supermarket shopping, in the hope that he'd discovered at last a suitable candidate for the role of Mrs DCI Groom, but he'd been sadly disappointed by my choice of vegetables. But anyone who'd chosen okra and aubergines would have been equally suspect – there was nothing personal.

‘Too thin, if you ask me,' he said, indicating Chris with a jerk of his head. ‘And he could have done with a couple of days' acclimatisation leave. Look at him.'

The morning sun dug ruthlessly into every line on his face, highlighting the now quite definite stoop. I hoped Chris was sufficiently keen on pleasing me to risk an osteopath – he'd soon need one.

As if to confirm my fears, as he straightened he put his hand to his back.

‘OK, Sophie, you may as well know: there was no sign of Kate Freeman anywhere in the grounds. No sign of any sort of struggle taking place. No nothing.'

‘So –?'

‘I've got two options: to assume – in the absence of those phenobarbitone tablets – that she killed Nyree and disappeared; or to assume that whoever disposed of Nyree has disposed of Kate, too.'

‘Which do you favour?' I asked, feeling sick.

‘Open mind. I'm preserving the scene in either case. I shall have it sealed off and an officer on duty outside from now on. This is Ade, by the way. He's in charge of the team looking for stuff for Forensics. The Forensic-Science Laboratory,' he corrected himself with heavy irony.

Ade and I shook hands. He was younger than me – probably only late twenties – and was unprepossessing with ginger hair, buck teeth and a slightly receding chin. But he had a brightness about his big brown eyes that suggested a great deal of intelligence.

‘Before Ade gets to work,' Chris said, ‘cast your eyes around the room. Notice anything?'

‘What sort of thing?'

‘Anything different, out of place.'

I closed my eyes, covering them with my hands. When Chris tried to speak, I waved him to silence. What I wanted to do was see what I'd seen when I came in for my tutorial. The biscuits, the computer and printer. On the wardrobe there'd been a thick towelling robe – she'd expected to have to share a bathroom since she'd come as a student. And a little leather harness for Sidney.

I opened my eyes.

The desk was almost bare. No biscuits. No computer or printer. Her manuscript was still there.

‘Have you stowed anything in those bags yet, Ade? I asked.

‘Nope,' he replied, in a mellow Sheffield accent.

‘In that case, someone's lifted the notepad and printer. And they've done it recently. They were there when I came in for Sidney's cage yesterday afternoon. The biscuits had gone, though.'

‘What biscuits?' asked Chris.

‘Kate kept a packet of digestive biscuits for Sidney. Look, there are some crumbs there.' I pointed.

‘Risky, that,' said Ade. ‘Small mammals can get diabetes if you give them too much sugary stuff.'

‘Anything else?' asked Chris, tartly.

‘Bathrobe. A thick towelling one. Thicker than I could dry in a week. It was hanging over there, by Sidney's lead. I suppose,' I added hopefully, ‘I couldn't liberate the lead, could I? It would make exercising Sidney much easier, and I can't imagine that it'd provide much in the way of evidence.'

‘Like a bit of exercise, do rodents,' Ade observed.

Chris handed it to me without speaking.

I pocketed it. ‘Thanks. What about her bag?'

‘What about it?'

‘Have you found it? I think it was leather, but I only saw it in her car for a moment. Brown. A shoulder bag.'

‘No bag, sir,' said Ade.

‘Coat? Shoes?' said Chris.

‘Coat's still in the wardrobe.'

‘How about slippers?' I asked.

‘No slippers.'

‘Is that her nightie?' I reached to pull back the duvet, but Chris shot out a restraining hand. ‘Sorry. Chris, I have to talk to you about something else, when you've a moment. Two other things, actually.'

My voice must have shown more than I meant it to.

‘Give me a couple of minutes. D'you want to stay here? If not, Ian will go with you.'

‘No. I'll be all right. I've got to have a word with my two fellow cooks so Shazia can get the ingredients for tonight's meal. You'll find me in the kitchen or the dining room.' I smiled generally and left.

Thea and Agnes were delighted with my rather malicious suggestion for supper. Shazia looked amused when my list involved fresh coriander, ginger and chillies, but said nothing. She headed off for her Renault. Then she turned back. ‘Don't forget to cook for one extra,' she said. ‘There's that poet coming tonight to do a reading. He'll be eating with us too.'

‘There'll be plenty!' said Agnes. ‘Poor Mr Gimson may not want any.'

Then I remembered Sidney, and hared off after Shazia: she added rat food to her list and promised extra digestives. Sidney's diet was no business of mine.

Ian was waiting for me outside my room. I opened the door, stood aside for him to go first and pointed. The note and knife were still there, the blade stabbing through a folded sheet of paper.

Ian touched me gently on the arm and knelt on the floor. He tipped his head sideways to try to peer between the folds. But he wouldn't touch it till Chris appeared.

We surveyed the room together. My make-up lay where I'd left it on the dressing table. The pad was still on the desk. I knew better than to open any drawers or touch the wardrobe.

Then I realised it was too quiet. Sidney!

His cage was empty. I joined Ian kneeling on the floor; perhaps Sidney might just be under the bed.

‘Asking for divine assistance?' Chris demanded lightly. Then his tone changed. ‘Jesus! Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?'

‘That's what I came for. To tell you. But I got sidetracked.'

‘Get Ade.'

Ian left. I wondered why Chris hadn't simply summoned him via his radio. Then he turned to me.

‘I'm sorry. I should have listened. Thank God it was your pillow, not –'

I wonder if he could have continued.

‘I'm fine, Chris. Honestly. I don't like getting letters in this way, but I'll bet it's more a warning than a threat. Why don't you open it?'

‘Photographs first. Evidence.' He made an effort: ‘So why were you on your knees when I came in?'

‘Sidney. I was hoping he'd be under the bed. But there's no sign of him. I suppose he could have climbed out of the window but –'

‘No chance. And there'd be little scrabble-marks where he'd tried to jump,' said Ade, coming in with a camera bag. He took out an SLR and photographed my missive from a variety of angles. Then he passed Chris gloves, and held open a polythene bag to receive the knife, a Swiss Army one with God knows how many blades and a pair of nail scissors for good measure.

Chris opened the note, holding it at arm's length as if it were likely to explode. Then he pulled his head back. Finally he dug in his breast pocket for spectacles. Presbyopia. That's what you get when you're middle-aged.

Wearing gold-rimmed half-moons, he held the paper so I could read it too.

YOU. KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF MY BUISNESS.

‘Didn't use his spell-check,' I said. But my laughter was shaky.

‘My God, you've become computer-literate at last!' So was his.

‘Nice print,' said Ian, prosaically.

‘And what would our expert say?' asked Chris, smiling at me ironically.

So I decided to tell him: ‘Single-sheet feed, not tractor-driven. No perforations along the edge where the strip with the little holes has been torn off.'

‘Go on, Holmes.'

‘Laser or ink-jet? Or an extremely good 24-pin dot-matrix?'

‘Better and better. Any idea how many people have got word processors or computers?'

I shook my head. ‘The one in the office has died: Shazia's been using an aged Remington. There are ordinary typewriters at one end of the library. One of the older ladies, Jean, brought up an entire BBC Master, complete with printer. But her printer wouldn't produce this quality.' Come to think of it, I didn't know why I'd bothered to mention it. Except I do tend to talk more when I'm upset.

‘Anyone else?'

‘Kate, of course. The little number that was missing from her desk.'

‘I thought you said she had a notepad.'

‘A computer notepad, Chris. Posh. Expensive. And its printer.'

‘Anyone else?'

‘I really don't know.'