It was almost like a stage set. Even the old stone-flagged steps of Staircase Five had been mopped clean earlier in the day. Generations of student feet had worn them away so they sloped upwards at a slight angle. They shone where the light hit them.
Laura was an optimistic girl; why not? She was nineteen, just gone, and things usually went well for her. She knew that tonight would be a wonderful night, one to cherish and remember. Behind her geek-chic glasses, her eyes were shining with the happiness of the moment.
16
Dame Elizabeth looked at the woman across the desk from her. She had spent her whole working life grading and assessing people – students, civil servants, university lecturers, lovers – and she knew she was good at it.
How, she wondered would she judge the policewoman? First of all, she thought, Corrigan had obviously made an excellent choice. Dame Elizabeth had specified she did not want anyone who would stand out. She didn’t want students, or faculty for that matter, protesting they were being spied on by the authorities. Universities were a breeding ground for silly, paranoid fantasies, not helped by organizations like Special Branch occasionally launching fantastically stupid undercover investigations. Now there were the torrent of unauthorized incidents of surveillance as revealed by Bradley Manning and Edward Snowden. Undercover policewomen at a strongly left-wing university, it could so easily go disastrously wrong.
Gallagher, or whoever she really was, certainly did not look like she was in the police. She didn’t look groomed enough. With her springy, slightly unkempt hair, the black eye and the rather expensive blouse she was wearing, she reminded Dame Elizabeth of the radical student activists of her youth. There was something about the cast of the face that was anti-authoritarian. She could easily imagine Gallagher petrol-bombing the US Embassy in protest against the Vietnam War or leading a Baader-Meinhof protest march in what was then West Germany. It was a fanatic’s face. But if you looked closely, you could see she was surprisingly good-looking. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, dark, curved eyebrows, and her figure was excellent.
She also looked like trouble. It was spelled out in the combative set of the jaw and the far from friendly expression on her face.
Her estimation of Corrigan, already quite high, rose another notch. She wouldn’t be brave enough to employ this woman, no matter how good her qualities. He was a bloody good judge of character. I’m getting old, she thought, annoyed at herself. I’m choosing the easy route and I’m getting risk averse.
Hanlon also reminded her of someone she’d once known back in her youth. The face hung tantalizingly at the back of her mind, but Dame Elizabeth had met a lot of people and she didn’t follow the thought up.
‘So, have you found anything relevant to add to DCI Murray’s investigation?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon. She made no attempt to elaborate or say more. It was this unusually abrupt reply that triggered Dame Elizabeth’s formidable memory. Now she knew who Hanlon reminded her of.
The possibility alarmed her, almost like meeting a ghost. It’s not so, she told herself. There is something almost horrific about the past returning to haunt you. It’s ill omened. It never presages good. Her face, schooled in a thousand meetings, showed nothing of her inner turmoil. It cannot be.
She moved the thought to one side for later inspection. There is no point getting sidetracked in a meeting, particularly if you’re the one doing the distracting. She concentrated on the business in hand.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said. Time to remind the policewoman who was in charge here.
‘I’ve established that Dr Fuller is a habitual customer of a brothel specializing in S&M. That there is quite compelling circumstantial evidence linking him to the death of Hannah Moore,’ Hanlon said.
Dame Elizabeth rolled her
Laura was an optimistic girl; why not? She was nineteen, just gone, and things usually went well for her. She knew that tonight would be a wonderful night, one to cherish and remember. Behind her geek-chic glasses, her eyes were shining with the happiness of the moment.
16
Dame Elizabeth looked at the woman across the desk from her. She had spent her whole working life grading and assessing people – students, civil servants, university lecturers, lovers – and she knew she was good at it.
How, she wondered would she judge the policewoman? First of all, she thought, Corrigan had obviously made an excellent choice. Dame Elizabeth had specified she did not want anyone who would stand out. She didn’t want students, or faculty for that matter, protesting they were being spied on by the authorities. Universities were a breeding ground for silly, paranoid fantasies, not helped by organizations like Special Branch occasionally launching fantastically stupid undercover investigations. Now there were the torrent of unauthorized incidents of surveillance as revealed by Bradley Manning and Edward Snowden. Undercover policewomen at a strongly left-wing university, it could so easily go disastrously wrong.
Gallagher, or whoever she really was, certainly did not look like she was in the police. She didn’t look groomed enough. With her springy, slightly unkempt hair, the black eye and the rather expensive blouse she was wearing, she reminded Dame Elizabeth of the radical student activists of her youth. There was something about the cast of the face that was anti-authoritarian. She could easily imagine Gallagher petrol-bombing the US Embassy in protest against the Vietnam War or leading a Baader-Meinhof protest march in what was then West Germany. It was a fanatic’s face. But if you looked closely, you could see she was surprisingly good-looking. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, dark, curved eyebrows, and her figure was excellent.
She also looked like trouble. It was spelled out in the combative set of the jaw and the far from friendly expression on her face.
Her estimation of Corrigan, already quite high, rose another notch. She wouldn’t be brave enough to employ this woman, no matter how good her qualities. He was a bloody good judge of character. I’m getting old, she thought, annoyed at herself. I’m choosing the easy route and I’m getting risk averse.
Hanlon also reminded her of someone she’d once known back in her youth. The face hung tantalizingly at the back of her mind, but Dame Elizabeth had met a lot of people and she didn’t follow the thought up.
‘So, have you found anything relevant to add to DCI Murray’s investigation?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Hanlon. She made no attempt to elaborate or say more. It was this unusually abrupt reply that triggered Dame Elizabeth’s formidable memory. Now she knew who Hanlon reminded her of.
The possibility alarmed her, almost like meeting a ghost. It’s not so, she told herself. There is something almost horrific about the past returning to haunt you. It’s ill omened. It never presages good. Her face, schooled in a thousand meetings, showed nothing of her inner turmoil. It cannot be.
She moved the thought to one side for later inspection. There is no point getting sidetracked in a meeting, particularly if you’re the one doing the distracting. She concentrated on the business in hand.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said. Time to remind the policewoman who was in charge here.
‘I’ve established that Dr Fuller is a habitual customer of a brothel specializing in S&M. That there is quite compelling circumstantial evidence linking him to the death of Hannah Moore,’ Hanlon said.
Dame Elizabeth rolled her
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