eyes. ‘Dr Fuller’s sexual inclinations are his business,’ she said. She looked with hostility at Hanlon. ‘How many of your fellow male officers use pornography, have affairs or take favours from prostitutes on their patch?’ she demanded. She would not accept a lecture about morality from someone in the police.
Hillsborough, the Lawrence affair, Plebgate, the police federation, frivolous personal-injury claims involving kerbs and papercuts. And those were just what sprang immediately to mind.
‘More than I’d care to admit,’ said Hanlon, ruthlessly honest. ‘Fortunately, I don’t have to work with any bent policemen.’ Thank God for Enver, she thought, even DCI Murray for that matter, a perfectly happily married man, who bored his colleagues rigid with tedious stories and photos of his children.
Dame Elizabeth nodded, surprised at Hanlon’s candid answer.
‘There you are then,’ she said.
‘There is the possibility that he may have been pressuring students into sex for better grades,’ said Hanlon. It was a rumour she’d heard from a woman in her class, and one substantiated by Michaels, but she thought she’d air it, just to see the professor’s reaction.
Dame Elizabeth raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘The possibility,’ she said with heavy emphasis. ‘All sorts of things are possible; let’s try and confine ourselves to the empirically verifiable. Dr Fuller seems to be the victim of a certain amount of rumour and innuendo, none of which would warrant disciplinary proceedings, let alone police interest. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘May I remind you a girl is dead, Dame Elizabeth. That’s why the police are interested. It’s not out of a prurient interest in Dr Fuller’s sex life.’
Prurient, thought Dame Elizabeth. Not a word you hear every day. She looked into Hanlon’s menacing, cold eyes.
‘And that’s why we all want to find out who did it,’ she parried briskly. ‘Now, what do your fellow students have to say about him?’
‘That he’s hard-working, a good teacher, they like him,’ admitted Hanlon.
‘And what do you think?’ Dame Elizabeth tilted her open palms towards Hanlon in an over-to-you gesture.
Hanlon hesitated, unusual for her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She was thinking back to Iris Campion, to her statement that some of the girls say he can get a little too rough .
She pushed a hand through her unruly hair and the sleeve of her dark jacket slipped backwards revealing her slim, muscular forearm. She was wearing a very geometric, severe silver and platinum bracelet. Its unadorned simplicity and austerity seemed chosen to mirror Hanlon’s personality. Dame Elizabeth stared at it, aghast. Veteran as she was of the need to keep a public face on at all times, her features remained impassive.
‘Oh well,’ she said faintly, her mind almost hypnotized by the ornament, then, ‘Do you mind if I ask you what your real name is? I’m assuming Gallagher isn’t it.’
‘No, not at all. I’m DCI Hanlon.’
Dame Elizabeth’s heart sank. Of course it is. I knew that, she thought. What else could it be. Hanlon gave her a business card with her rank and mobile number. Dame Elizabeth took it. There was just one more test, one more thing of which she had to satisfy herself.
‘That’s a very unusual bracelet you’re wearing.’
‘It’s German, from the Bauhaus movement,’ Hanlon said. ‘It belonged to my mother.’
Walter Gropius, the founder of Bauhaus, designed it, thought Dame Elizabeth. It’s so rare, it’s practically unique. And no, it didn’t belong to your mother, DCI Hanlon. And yes, that is empirically verifiable.
Let’s verify the hypothesis.
So be it. Alea iacta est . The die is cast.
‘May I see it?’
Hanlon gave her a puzzled look but undid the clasp and handed the small bracelet to Dame Elizabeth. It was surprisingly heavy and very well made.
‘Walter Gropius, the founder of Bauhaus, designed it,’ said Hanlon. ‘It’s very
Hillsborough, the Lawrence affair, Plebgate, the police federation, frivolous personal-injury claims involving kerbs and papercuts. And those were just what sprang immediately to mind.
‘More than I’d care to admit,’ said Hanlon, ruthlessly honest. ‘Fortunately, I don’t have to work with any bent policemen.’ Thank God for Enver, she thought, even DCI Murray for that matter, a perfectly happily married man, who bored his colleagues rigid with tedious stories and photos of his children.
Dame Elizabeth nodded, surprised at Hanlon’s candid answer.
‘There you are then,’ she said.
‘There is the possibility that he may have been pressuring students into sex for better grades,’ said Hanlon. It was a rumour she’d heard from a woman in her class, and one substantiated by Michaels, but she thought she’d air it, just to see the professor’s reaction.
Dame Elizabeth raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘The possibility,’ she said with heavy emphasis. ‘All sorts of things are possible; let’s try and confine ourselves to the empirically verifiable. Dr Fuller seems to be the victim of a certain amount of rumour and innuendo, none of which would warrant disciplinary proceedings, let alone police interest. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘May I remind you a girl is dead, Dame Elizabeth. That’s why the police are interested. It’s not out of a prurient interest in Dr Fuller’s sex life.’
Prurient, thought Dame Elizabeth. Not a word you hear every day. She looked into Hanlon’s menacing, cold eyes.
‘And that’s why we all want to find out who did it,’ she parried briskly. ‘Now, what do your fellow students have to say about him?’
‘That he’s hard-working, a good teacher, they like him,’ admitted Hanlon.
‘And what do you think?’ Dame Elizabeth tilted her open palms towards Hanlon in an over-to-you gesture.
Hanlon hesitated, unusual for her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She was thinking back to Iris Campion, to her statement that some of the girls say he can get a little too rough .
She pushed a hand through her unruly hair and the sleeve of her dark jacket slipped backwards revealing her slim, muscular forearm. She was wearing a very geometric, severe silver and platinum bracelet. Its unadorned simplicity and austerity seemed chosen to mirror Hanlon’s personality. Dame Elizabeth stared at it, aghast. Veteran as she was of the need to keep a public face on at all times, her features remained impassive.
‘Oh well,’ she said faintly, her mind almost hypnotized by the ornament, then, ‘Do you mind if I ask you what your real name is? I’m assuming Gallagher isn’t it.’
‘No, not at all. I’m DCI Hanlon.’
Dame Elizabeth’s heart sank. Of course it is. I knew that, she thought. What else could it be. Hanlon gave her a business card with her rank and mobile number. Dame Elizabeth took it. There was just one more test, one more thing of which she had to satisfy herself.
‘That’s a very unusual bracelet you’re wearing.’
‘It’s German, from the Bauhaus movement,’ Hanlon said. ‘It belonged to my mother.’
Walter Gropius, the founder of Bauhaus, designed it, thought Dame Elizabeth. It’s so rare, it’s practically unique. And no, it didn’t belong to your mother, DCI Hanlon. And yes, that is empirically verifiable.
Let’s verify the hypothesis.
So be it. Alea iacta est . The die is cast.
‘May I see it?’
Hanlon gave her a puzzled look but undid the clasp and handed the small bracelet to Dame Elizabeth. It was surprisingly heavy and very well made.
‘Walter Gropius, the founder of Bauhaus, designed it,’ said Hanlon. ‘It’s very
Similar Books
