Читать книгу A Fatal Mistake: A gripping, twisty murder mystery perfect for all crime fiction fans - Faith Martin, Faith Martin - Страница 11

Probationary WPC Trudy Loveday stifled a yawn and got up from the uncomfortable chair she’d been sitting on for the past four hours. Her posterior felt rather numb, and she was glad to stretch her legs, but as she did so she glanced automatically at the poor man lying in the hospital bed in front of her. He didn’t stir. And from what she’d overheard of the doctors’ low-voiced consultations with one another earlier that morning, she rather feared he never would.

A car had mounted the pavement and hit Mr Michael Emerson in Little Clarendon Street late last night. The driver had failed to stop, and witnesses hadn’t been able to provide a decent description of the vehicle that had knocked him over, breaking his arm and fracturing his skull.

When she’d reported for duty at the station that morning, her superior officer, DI Harry Jennings, had assigned her to sit by his bedside in the event that he regained consciousness and began to speak.

But she hadn’t been at the Radcliffe Hospital (ironically, barely a stone’s throw from where the poor man had been run down) more than half an hour before she’d begun to suspect the futility of her task. Clearly none of the medical staff believed he would survive, and Trudy felt desperately sorry for the man’s wife, who was right now sleeping in the chair on the other side of his bed.

Careful not to wake her, Trudy put down her notebook and pen on the bedside table and walked stiffly to the window to look outside.

The hospital was a large and beautiful pale-stone building, rather Palladian in style, surrounding a central courtyard on three sides, with Cadwallader College on the right-hand side of it, and a stand of old cedars to the left. As she glanced out at the soot-blackened pub on the opposite side of Woodstock Road, she blinked a little in the bright sunlight.

It was another hot summer’s day and very warm in the ward, and underneath her black-and-white uniform she was uncomfortably aware that she was perspiring a little. At least she didn’t have to wear her policewoman’s hat indoors, but her long, curly, dark-brown hair was twisted into a neat, tight knot on top of her head, and her scalp felt distinctly damp and itchy.

The window was open, though, allowing a scant breeze to come in, and she supposed she should be glad it wasn’t winter, when the air would be thick with smoke from all the chimneys. But even as she watched, an old Foden lorry trundled past, adding its bit of pollution to the grime that seemed to coat the beautiful city of dreaming spires and left everything looking and feeling slightly grubby.

She was just contemplating returning to her uncomfortable chair when she heard the soft slap-slap of the flat shoes all the nurses wore. She turned around, expecting to see a nursing sister taking her patient’s vital signs.

Instead, a young nurse she hadn’t seen before was beckoning her over. ‘There’s a telephone call for you. You can take it at the desk,’ she informed her quietly.

‘Oh, thank you,’ Trudy said.

She smiled an apology at Mrs Emerson, who had awoken at the sound of voices, but the poor woman barely noticed as she once again fixed her gaze intently on her husband. She’d learned from a hurried conversation with the matron that the couple had been married for nearly twenty-five years and had three grown-up children, and Trudy simply couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling.

Feeling depressed, she followed the briskly trotting nurse to the desk in the centre of the ward, where a tight-faced sister handed her the receiver before bustling away. Clearly, she was of the opinion that she had better things to do with her time than act as secretary to a lowly policewoman, and Trudy didn’t really blame her.

‘Hello, WPC Loveday,’ she said smartly.

‘Constable. Get back to the station sharpish, please. I have another assignment for you.’ She recognised DI Jennings’s voice at once, and automatically stiffened to attention.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. But already she could hear the dialling tone in her ear.

She trotted back to Mr Emerson’s bedside and stowed her accoutrements neatly away in her police-issue satchel, only stopping at the nurses’ desk on her way past to ask someone to send word to the local police station should their patient say anything.

Then she jogged outside, where she collected her bicycle, mounted it and began to pedal fast towards St Aldate’s. Luckily it wasn’t far and wouldn’t take her long. She knew how DI Jennings felt about being kept waiting.

As she pedalled, careful to dodge the many other cyclists thronging St Giles, she wondered why she’d been called off her duty at the hospital so soon.

At nearly twenty years of age, she was an intelligent young woman, and had quickly realised DI Jennings wasn’t at all happy at having one of only a few women PCs assigned to his station. Trudy had quickly become resigned to being given the dregs of police work, keeping her clear of his eyeline and out from under his feet. Thus, she had gloomily been expecting to stay at the hospital for days, hugging her notebook and pen in case of the odd mumbled word, and fighting off boredom and pity in equal measure.

So what on earth could the sudden summons back to the station be all about? She hoped, glumly, that she hadn’t done something wrong that she was about to be hauled over the coals for. Any minor misdemeanour of hers was always noted and sarcastically commented on, whereas if PC Rodney Broadstairs, the station house’s blue-eyed boy, made the same errors, nobody said a word.

When she got to the station, there was nobody about to give her any clue as to what was in the wind, although Walter Swinburne, the oldest PC at the station, gave her an encouraging smile as she passed his desk.

But the moment she tapped on her DI’s door, waiting for his summons before entering the office, her gloom lifted like magic. For there, sitting in the chair in front of DI Jennings’s desk and scowling ferociously at him, was Dr Clement Ryder.

And probationary WPC Trudy Loveday was probably the only copper in the city who was ever glad to see him!

DI Jennings watched her come in, noting her flushed cheeks and damp hair – no doubt the girl was feeling the heat and the bike ride had winded her. He bit back a sigh of impatience and the retort that rose to his lips that a man would have been able to take such physical exertion in his stride. And if the picture of some rather overweight male constables flashed through his mind to give lie to this thought, he firmly suppressed them.

Instead, he sighed heavily and indicated the chair next to his unwanted visitor. ‘Take a seat, Constable Loveday,’ he said flatly.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Trudy said smartly, and sat upright on the edge of the chair indicated.

‘Hello, Constable Loveday,’ Clement Ryder said, turning to her and thinking how charming she looked today. A little dishevelled, perhaps, but her dark-brown eyes were dancing with curiosity and interest. Just as he remembered them.

‘Dr Ryder,’ she said calmly, displaying none of her happiness to see him. This took some effort on her part because she’d already guessed that he’d come into her life to rescue her from the humdrum routine of her usual working days. Just like the last time she’d seen him, when he’d asked for her help on another case. A case, she was very happy to remember, that they’d solved between them.

Harry Jennings sat up a bit straighter in his chair. ‘Dr Ryder was just telling me all about the Chadworth case, Constable. Are you familiar with it?’

‘No, sir,’ Trudy admitted, and promptly wondered if she would be in the doghouse for not knowing. Was it something she should have been studying?

Harry Jennings shrugged his shoulders. ‘No reason why you should be, I suppose,’ he admitted, a shade reluctantly. ‘You weren’t called out to take a part in it, as I recall. Perhaps Dr Ryder can give you a brief summary,’ he added, thin lips twitching slightly. He’d already had his ear bent for the past quarter of an hour on the subject and didn’t feel inclined to repeat it.

‘Derek Chadworth, a law student, found dead in the river last week,’ Clement obliged him succinctly.

‘Oh, yes. I know the case,’ Trudy said at once, and with some relief. She hated looking ignorant in front of the coroner. As her DI had said, it wasn’t her case, but she had overheard some of her colleagues talking about it in the outer office. ‘He was one of the drunken students on the punts that overturned, wasn’t he? Death by accidental drowning?’

‘That’s what we all thought the verdict would be.’ DI Jennings couldn’t help but interrupt, his voice sardonic in the extreme now. ‘However, it seems the… jury—’ and here he laid a rather pointed emphasis on the last word ‘—in their undoubted wisdom, chose to bring back an open verdict instead.’

The coroner’s lips twitched slightly. Trudy caught the tension in the room and forced back a smile. If it came to a battle of wills or wits between these two men, she knew who the winner would be.

‘And as I was just telling the Inspector here,’ Clement Ryder slipped in smoothly, with an expression as innocent as a newborn babe’s, ‘an open verdict requires a little more investigation.’

DI Jennings sighed heavily. ‘And as I was telling him,’ he said through teeth that, if not exactly gritted, seemed inclined to stick firmly together, ‘it’s a verdict that will have caused upset to many families.’

‘The dead boy’s, you mean, sir?’ Trudy said, a little puzzled. Only to swallow hard as the DI shot her a furious look.

‘Not just the deceased parents, Loveday,’ he snapped. ‘Although, naturally, they can’t have been very happy with such a—’ and here he shot the bland-faced coroner a telling look ‘—meaningless verdict. I was also thinking of the parents of all the other students present on that tragic day.’

‘Most of whom are ladies and gentlemen of distinction and means, naturally,’ Clement put in, shooting Trudy a twinkle-eyed look.

‘Be that as it may,’ Jennings snarled, ‘you can see their point of view! Nobody wants their son or daughter to have to deal with such a tragic turn of events on what should have been a day of celebration. Having a friend die young can be a very traumatic event in any circumstances. But to have that tragedy drawn out even further by a coroner’s jury leaving matters so up in the air… and with nobody quite knowing what to make of it… well!’

He threw his hands out in a gesture of annoyance. ‘Naturally, people want answers and to be able to decently draw a line under things. And a verdict of accidental death, or even death by misadventure, would have allowed them to do just that.’ He took a deep, steadying breath. ‘The Chief Superintendent is of the opinion that the case should be allowed to quietly settle down, allowing the boy’s parents to bury him and grieve in peace. And for all the other young men and women involved to get on with their lives.’

Dr Ryder slowly swung one leg over his knee and regarded his ankle socks thoughtfully. He had, of course, as DI Jennings had surmised only too accurately, influenced – some might even have said instigated – the verdict that had been handed down.

It had been quite easy for a man like Clement Ryder to arrange, naturally. He’d merely had to fix the foreman of the jury with a gimlet eye as he took them through a summary of the evidence, and stress certain facts. For instance, when telling them that ‘if, on consideration, you feel that some questions remain unanswered to your satisfaction, then it is only right and proper that you return an open verdict’. And, ‘if you feel that you are not sure exactly how Mr Chadworth came to drown on that day last week, then you mustn’t allow yourself to guess, or be swayed by any one theory’. This last had been directed at the WI matrons, who’d taken the hint all right.

Oh, no. He hadn’t wanted a cut and dried verdict, but one that would give him time to get to the bottom of what had really been happening in his court, and an open verdict was the only one that would allow him to do so.

Now he smiled benignly at the irate Inspector and spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘Of course, it’s an intolerable situation for everyone,’ he surprised Jennings by admitting. ‘Which is why the case needs investigating a little further,’ he reiterated.

‘As if we don’t have enough on our plates as it is,’ the Inspector grumbled. ‘We had a hit and run last night, and we’ve still got that Sussinghurst case dragging on…’

‘I’m sure you’re very busy, Inspector,’ Clement interrupted smoothly. ‘Which is why I’ve asked you to spare just a solitary and humble PC to help me do a little more digging.’

As he spoke, he saw Trudy Loveday’s face begin to glow with pleasure as she realised that her hopes about the reason for this call to the DI’s office were well-founded. For, once before, the coroner had come to the station to ask for a police officer to help him with a case, and the DI had assigned him Trudy.

And that time, between them, they’d managed to catch a murderer!

Of course, there was little likelihood of that happening again, Trudy knew, but even so! It beat sitting about in a stuffy hospital for hours on end, either waiting for her patient to say something meaningful, or for the poor man to pass away.

Jennings, suddenly tired of being the old so-and-so’s cat’s paw, shook his head and, like Pontius Pilate, seemingly washed his hands of the whole affair.

‘Haven’t I said you can have WPC Loveday for a few days?’ he said testily. ‘And may I remind you, only for a few days! I can’t spare her for long, haring about on some open-and-shut case, just because you’ve a bee in your bonnet about some students being less than candid!’

‘Thank you, Inspector. I’ll be sure to thank the Chief Constable for your forbearance when next I see him at the club,’ Clement said, smiling affably as he rose from his chair.

At this parting shot, Jennings flushed mightily. He rather suspected that ‘the club’ the coroner was referring to had something to do with the Masons – an institution he was determined to join just as soon as it could be arranged.

Any ambitious officer needed to be a member of that club all right, and this timely reminder that it didn’t do to get on the influential Dr Ryder’s bad side had him backing off rapidly, albeit with little grace.

‘Yes, well, thank you, Dr Ryder,’ Jennings muttered. Then, as the medical man began to make for the door, Jennings, too, rose from his seat. ‘I’ll just have a few words with my officer, sir, before you go,’ he added quietly.

‘Righty-oh,’ Clement said cheerfully, opening the door and passing through it without shutting it behind him. Trudy, seeing the look on the Inspector’s face, hastily rectified that and then returned to stand meekly before his desk.

But her heart was racing. She was going to work with Dr Ryder again! She was actually going to watch and listen and be taught things, instead of being given paperwork and ignored. She could have sung with happiness.

‘Right then, Constable,’ Jennings said heavily. ‘You know the drill – same as last time. Just keep the old man happy, and report back to me every day. I want to know everything that man is up to. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Trudy said. She knew Dr Ryder was too clever a man not to know she would be forced to do this, so didn’t feel at all treacherous in agreeing to the orders.

‘Try and rein him back from any real excesses. And watch you don’t go about upsetting any VIPs,’ he added, all but wagging a finger at her. ‘Most of the parents of the young people at that picnic party are members of the aristocracy, or the new money set. And if you go about upsetting them, they’ll get on to the top brass, and the top brass will have me roasted. And I won’t stand for that! Understood?’

At this, Trudy gulped. She wasn’t quite sure just how she was supposed to go about stopping Dr Ryder when he wanted something, and when he could be, well, perhaps a little straightforward in his speech and manner.

Seeing her hesitation, and guessing the reason for it, DI Jennings sighed heavily. Even he had to concede that it was hardly fair to ask a young girl of nineteen to handle someone like Ryder. Someone who could blister the paintwork with just a look or an acid phrase, and had been known to best the sharpest of QCs and any number of other dignitaries. ‘Oh, just do your best, Constable,’ he finished wearily.

‘Yes, sir,’ Trudy said, and, with a feeling of infinite relief, quickly left the Inspector’s office.

Once outside the station, it was just a short walk to Dr Ryder’s office in the coroner’s court and mortuary complex in Floyds Row. His secretary, recognising her from their first case six months before, smiled at her as Clement strode in, ordering ‘tea and cake, and plenty of it’ as he swept past her.

The older woman shook her head and sighed at his cavalier manner. But Trudy noticed she was smiling.

A few minutes later, Clement Ryder was eating a slice of angel cake and watching his young protégé thoughtfully as she read through the court documents on the seemingly unremarkable case of the drowned law student. He was curious to see what she made of them.

On their last case he’d come to acquire a great deal of respect for this young woman’s intelligence and backbone. She was still very green, of course, but she had plenty of potential, if steered right. Which was why, of course, he’d made damned sure Jennings assigned her to him again. Of course it helped that the buffoon of an inspector totally underestimated the girl’s qualities. Given the proper mentoring by her older and more experienced colleagues, she could really shine. Not that that was likely to happen, he thought, a shade gloomily.

Still, he’d do all he could to help her hone some skills while she was helping him get to the bottom of his latest project.

It took her half an hour to read every scrap of paper in the file, and when she’d finished she leaned back in the chair, a slight frown pulling her fine, dark brows together over her dark, pansy-brown eyes.

‘Well?’ he asked sharply.

‘On the face of it, sir, it looks rather straightforward, doesn’t it? There was a large party of drunken students, and two very overcrowded punts. There was a collision with a third punt and, as a result, a lot of people were pitched into the river. It’s quite possible Derek either couldn’t get to the surface quickly enough, or perhaps got trampled underneath someone else’s feet, expelling all the air from his lungs before he knew what was happening.’

‘Oh, yes. All of that is possible.’ The coroner surprised her slightly by agreeing at once. ‘Mind you, I still think it rather odd that nobody saw him getting into difficulties. There were at least twenty or more students in the water.’

‘Who would have been looking to save themselves, most likely,’ Trudy put in.

‘Oh, almost certainly.’

‘Perhaps he couldn’t get to the surface because of the sheer weight of numbers? Who knows, maybe somebody flailing about actually stood on him?’

‘Again, perhaps. But supposing any of that happened, with so many eyes actually in the water, and so many eyes on the bank watching it all happen, is it very likely that nobody saw the body rise to the surface at some point and float away?’

‘Perhaps it didn’t rise to the surface?’ She played devil’s advocate automatically.

‘Most bodies do,’ the coroner said, then shrugged. ‘Then again, who’s to say? Perhaps they did see a body float away but agreed among themselves to keep quiet about it.’

‘That’s rather far-fetched, isn’t it?’ Trudy said doubtfully. ‘Why would they do that?’

The coroner shrugged. ‘Who’s to say? The thing is, the reason you have an inquest in the first place is to tackle issues like the hows and whys.’

‘So you’re not convinced the court did get to the bottom of what really happened?’ she asked slowly. She’d learned a lot from her last encounter with this sometimes difficult, but always brilliant, man. And if he thought something was ‘off’, she wasn’t going to gainsay him out of hand.

‘Forget about the mechanics and facts of it for a moment, Trudy,’ Clement advised quietly, leaning back in his chair, and feeling his right leg tremble slightly.

With a scowl, he surreptitiously rubbed it under cover of his desk, quickly checking to make sure she hadn’t noticed this sign of weakness, and sighed. ‘Just run the testimony of the students over in your mind. What strikes you most about it?’

Trudy again went up a notch in his estimation when she didn’t answer straight away, but instead gave the question some thought. ‘Well… it does strike me as rather odd that the deceased had been invited to the party at all. I mean, from what I can tell, most of the partygoers were there at the invitation of this Lord Jeremy Littlejohn,’ she went on, checking the relevant pages. ‘The younger son of a duke, isn’t he?’

Clement snorted. ‘Indeed he is.’

Trudy shot him a quick look. ‘You didn’t like him?’

‘Irrelevant,’ the coroner said briskly. ‘Carry on with what you were saying.’

‘Well…’ Trudy frowned, trying to find a comfortable way of talking about social class with this professional man, while not letting her own, strictly working-class, origins get in the way. ‘It seems to me that his sort… I mean, most of his friends were wealthy and, well, upper class. But Derek Chadworth, according to his tutors and parents, was a scholarship boy. His father was merely a country solicitor. And he didn’t seem to do anything out of the ordinary to put himself on the map, so to speak, did he? He wasn’t a rowing blue, or a rugby star or anything, was he?’

‘So?’ Clement encouraged.

‘Well… he hardly seems a likely candidate to have belonged to their set,’ she concluded nervously, and immediately felt relieved when the coroner nodded approvingly.

‘No, he doesn’t. You’re quite right. And yet, when it came time to give his evidence—’ Clement nodded at the folder resting on her knees ‘—Lord Jeremy clearly stated, in an offhand manner, that he might have issued the invitation to Derek Chadworth. But that he couldn’t be sure whether or not he’d taken him up on it.’

Trudy nodded, rereading His Lordship’s evidence. ‘Yes. He says… Yes, here it is. “I knew Derek from around – I’d had a few ciders with him at the Eagle and Child and that sort of thing. I told him we were having a bash at Port Meadow and, if he wanted to come, he needed to be at the bridge and on a punt by half nine.” Hmm, he goes on to say that, on the day in question, after a couple of glasses of something called… er… Buck’s Fizz… at breakfast, he was feeling a big tight and wasn’t sure whether or not he’d seen him among the crowd piling into the punts.’

‘Buck’s Fizz is a mixture of freshly squeezed orange juice and champagne,’ Dr Ryder informed her dryly. ‘A popular choice for indolent young pups and arrogant lordlings who like to hold breakfast parties in their rooms for their minions.’

Trudy nodded and mentally made a note. Dr Ryder really didn’t like Lord Littlejohn. He must have done something to ruffle the coroner’s feathers. But from what she’d read of his evidence, she couldn’t quite see what it might be. True, he had been annoyingly vague about the dead boy – but so had all the other students.

‘Anything else strike you as odd?’ Clement asked mildly. But his eyes, when he looked at her, were as sharp as flint.

Trudy frowned. There was something nagging at her, something that didn’t exactly feel as if it fitted together. But no matter how hard she tried to track down the cause for her unease, she wasn’t able to. Eventually she shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’

Clement nodded with a soft sigh. Well, perhaps that was only to be expected. It wasn’t as if the young WPC had attended as many coroner’s sittings as he had!

‘OK – try this. Put yourself in the shoes of one of them,’ Clement said with a slight grimace. ‘Not that you’d want to, mind. But you’ve just finished sitting your exams. You have a job in the City, or a job in Daddy’s firm or some such, just waiting for you to step into, and your whole life is stretching ahead of you in a golden haze of wealth and comfort. Now, just how much would you want to “come down” from Oxford with your name mixed up in some death-by-drowning scandal?’

Trudy shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t! Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t like it for a start. People like that need their reputations to be spotless, don’t they, and… oh!’ Suddenly, as light dawned, Trudy began to quickly reread the transcripts again.

‘Exactly!’ Dr Ryder said sharply, seeing she’d spotted the discrepancy now. ‘So why didn’t they all simply deny the dead boy had been part of their party? There is nothing, after all, in the physical evidence to say he had to have met his death while attending that celebration. He could have got into the river by some other means, at some other time. The time of death itself was given as between 8 a.m. and 2 p.m., after all. Granted, that supposition stretches coincidence quite a bit,’ he added with a frown.

Trudy, busily reading over the evidence of the Italian girl again, knitted her brows, only half-listening to him. ‘Well, perhaps they couldn’t deny it. I mean, if he was there… and there were so many witnesses… they couldn’t run the risk of being found out to be lying. Isn’t that committing perjury? Unless they all got together and agreed to say the same thing – and that’s almost impossible, isn’t it? I mean, that many people… a conspiracy on that scale… surely it’s not feasible.’ She broke off her reading to look at him intently.

The coroner sighed and shrugged. ‘I’m not so sure about that, Trudy. People en masse can act very differently from people as individuals. Just look at riots, and mass hysteria and mobs. These students were all of an age, and all friends, and all had their own necks and best interests to look after. So they definitely had good reason to tell the same story. And don’t forget that all of them – mark my words – were under the thumb to some degree or other of our Lord Jeremy Littlejohn. A proper little Machiavelli, if ever I saw one! I thought as much the moment the man opened his mouth to give evidence in my court. Then there’s such a thing as peer pressure, you know. Nobody likes to be thought of as a snitch. And who among them could have afforded to become an outcast by going against the consensus of opinion? Don’t forget, Lord Littlejohn and his family wield a lot of influence in the world these people inhabit,’ Ryder warned her. ‘One word in a banker’s ear, and somebody doesn’t get that job in the City he was looking forward to. Or one whisper from the Countess to some society matron or other, and some young girl can find her marriage prospects withering. Oh, yes. I can quite see how they could all be coerced or bribed or bullied into towing the line.’

Trudy went back to reading the files again. And wondered. Was she allowing Dr Ryder’s comments to colour her view of things? Or did the testimonies now all seem to have a certain ‘sameness’ about them?

‘So you think they were coached in what to say? By Lord Littlejohn?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘They all lied to keep him sweet?’

The coroner caught the scepticism in her voice and shook his head with dissatisfaction. ‘Not necessarily. I’m just saying there’s something that doesn’t ring true about the evidence they gave,’ Clement said grimly. ‘Time and time again, they say the same vague thing. “Derek might have been there, but I didn’t see him.” Or, “I was so drunk, I couldn’t say for sure that he was there. But then I can’t say that he wasn’t either.” Why, if you’re going to distance yourself from such a tragic event, and you all get together and agree to put on a united front, don’t you just go the whole hog and say, “Derek wasn’t there. Nobody saw him.” That way, the police would have to take your word for it. Even if they didn’t believe it, how could they prove otherwise?’

Trudy shook her head. Put like that… ‘But maybe they were telling the truth. Maybe they were just all so drunk they didn’t remember.’

‘Perhaps,’ Dr Ryder said, clearly not believing it for a minute and blowing out his breath in an annoyed whoosh. ‘But just take it from me, young Trudy,’ he said firmly, sitting up straighter in his chair. ‘Somebody—’ and here he nodded at the folder in her hands ‘—was trying to pull a fast one at that hearing. And in my court too! And I’m not having it. Something, as the Bard said, is rotten in the state of Denmark, and I intend to find out what it is. Of course,’ he added, feeling compelled to be honest with her, ‘when we do find out what it is, it might be nothing earth-shattering. It might not even be relevant to Mr Chadworth’s death. It might just turn out to be some silly stunt or secret the students are keeping to themselves for some reason. But until we find out what it is, we can’t know, can we?’

‘Do you think it’s possible they all collaborated to kill him?’ she suddenly asked breathlessly, her eyes glittering, her cheeks flushing in excitement.

And at this outburst of youthful exuberance, Clement grinned widely. ‘Whoa! Nobody said anything about that!’ He reined her back kindly.

‘But is it possible somebody at that party deliberately killed him?’ she persisted.

‘Well, let’s think about it for a minute,’ he said, thoroughly enjoying himself now. ‘There were more than twenty kids splashing about in the water. How likely is it, do you think, that someone could have grabbed hold of him and held him under without anyone noticing? Given that drowning men tend to splash about a fair bit.’

Her face fell. Then lightened again. ‘But if, say, three people did see it, and were for some reason keeping quiet about it…? That might explain why you think their evidence was suspect.’

‘Perhaps. But if you were going to kill someone, would you risk doing it in front of so many potential witnesses? And don’t forget, even if you were willing to take a chance on being able to bribe or threaten your fellow students in some way, that doesn’t negate the possibility that someone outside your control – an independent witness on the riverbank, for instance – would see you and spill the beans.’

Trudy sighed heavily, but, not willing to give up just yet, said tentatively, ‘Well, perhaps he wasn’t drowned at the party. Perhaps someone knew there was going to be a party and took advantage of it.’ With growing enthusiasm she sat up straighter. ‘The killer lures Derek to the river and drowns him there, knowing the punting party will be blamed.’

‘In which case, how did he know there’d be an accident? Unless he had an accomplice on one of the punts?’

Trudy sighed. ‘That does seem to be rather overcomplicated. But it’s not unheard of, is it? Two people conspiring to commit murder. But perhaps the accident was just a coincidence?’ she mused brightly. ‘The killer didn’t know there was going to be a collision, but at a picnic party, on a hot summer’s day by the river, he or she could count on there being a fair amount of swimming and bathing taking place. Perhaps the killer just relied on the fact that a drowned student, found in the river on a day when there’d been so many students mucking about in the water, would naturally be presumed to be one of their number, who had come to grief at the party?’

‘Perhaps. But have you considered the difficulty in that scenario?’ Clement cautioned her. ‘The killer would have to lure Derek to the river. How? On what pretext? He or she would then have had to drown a very fit and able lad, in a large stretch of water. The medical evidence made it clear he hadn’t received a blow to the head or been incapacitated by any obvious drug. Even if he was still a bit tipsy and hungover from a night’s drinking, you can be sure Derek would have put up a fight. And the chances of him being able to wriggle away are quite high, you know. It’s not as easy to drown someone as you might think. For a start, the killer would be certain to get drenched too.’

‘But it’s still possible,’ Trudy persisted stubbornly.

‘Perhaps. But again, the medical evidence puts time of death at around eight in the morning at the earliest. So where on the river could the killer feel safe from prying eyes? At that time, a lot of people are out and about, going to work, walking their dogs, fishing and what have you. If you were a killer, would you risk it? How could you be sure of going unseen and unnoticed?’

Trudy reluctantly acknowledged all these problems, and her woebegone expression made the coroner smile.

‘I’m not saying anything you’ve hypothesised didn’t happen. Just that we don’t know! Which means we need to do a lot more digging. So… are you ready to start?’

At this, probationary WPC Loveday grinned widely. Was she ready?

Of course she was ready!

‘Do we start at the scene of the accident?’ she asked brightly.

‘Whatever for?’ Clement asked, sounding surprised, but with a small smile playing on his lips. ‘I doubt there’d be anything to see after all this time, and the police went over the ground pretty thoroughly anyway. Any clues they might possibly have missed will long since have been trampled over by cattle or washed away in the river. Or do you think we might find a cigarette butt, containing tobacco made only in a small Malay village, and only sold in this country to three Emeritus Fellows and a recluse? Thus leading us straight to our prime suspect?’

Trudy laughed. ‘All right, point made! That sort of thing only happens in Sherlock Holmes novels. So, where do we start?’