Trevor pressed.
Art’s pulse rate rocketed. ‘Oh, only in passing. To say hello to. I saw him last night, after dinner, I think. But only to say hello to.’
Trevor smiled briefly. The little man was almost jumping with nerves. But was that due to anything in particular, or was he just naturally a little manic?
Jenny was wondering much the same thing, although having been interviewed by him, was more inclined to think that it was more a crisis of nerves than anything else. But then, as she knew only too well, in a situation like this, who could ever really say?
Certainly, she could think of no reason why the assistant bursar of St Bede’s would want to kill a relative stranger. Surely, the inspector would be looking for the killer primarily amongst the society members themselves? Didn’t statistics prove that most people were killed either by their familymembers, friends or personal acquaintances?
Trevor, who was also wondering why Art should be so nervous, nodded at Peter Trent. ‘If you could just give my sergeant your particulars, Mr McIntyre, we won’t keep you. Or you either, Miss Starling. I dare say you’ll be wanting to go and see Dr Glover-Smythe.’ And made a mental note to find out just who he was when he was at home.
Jenny, who had no real desire to find out what it was the Bursar wanted, smiled stiffly, and rose to her feet. Her height, at something close on to six feet, took Trevor by surprise, but he was careful not to show it.
‘If you don’t mind, madam, I have a WPC standing by. It would be very helpful if you wouldn’t mind going back to your room and changing your clothes first. We need them for forensic evidence. To rule you out of the investigation, that is.’ He said it politely, as a request, but they both knew it was no such thing.
‘Of course,’ Jenny said, without rancour. They probably want to check for blood spatter, she thought. Whoever had stuck a fleshing tool into Maurice Raines’s neck must have got blood on them, surely?
‘Then you can go about your normal business, I think,’ Trevor said congenially.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Jenny said, somewhat drily, smiled briefly at the still perspiring Art, and then joined the WPC who was waiting for her at the end of the corridor.
Trevor watched her go, listened as his sergeant took down his notes from Art McIntyre, then shook hands with him and watched him leave also.
The little man looked very happy to be going.
‘Bit jumpy, the little bald chap, isn’t he?’ Peter noted neutrally.
‘Yes. What did you learn from the group in the JCR?’
Succinctly, but leaving out nothing relevant, Peter Trentfilled him in on what he’d been told, and what he surmised.
‘The coffee cups? Yes, I noticed those too. Forensics have taken a sample for testing, naturally. But from what I could see, they hadn’t been drunk from. With a bit of luck though, we might get some worthwhile fingerprint evidence from them. You think the vic had arranged to meet someone there?’
Peter Trent nodded. ‘According to a fair number of the stallholders, it was Raines himself who made sure that they were all out and gone, by the very latest at around about twenty to twelve. Why would he do that unless he was expecting someone?’
‘Hmm. And whoever he arranged to meet killed him.’
‘Could be.’
‘Make sure and ask the scouts if any of them served the victim with the coffee. I rather think, though, that Maurice Raines, or perhaps his killer, made the stuff themselves in the little kitchenette just off there.’ He nodded to a door opposite. ‘I’ve asked forensics to check it out when they’re finished at the main crime scene.’
‘OK, guv. You have something in particular you want to do?’
Trevor nodded. ‘Perhaps. I’m going back to the station for a half an hour or so. I want to run a trace on our very helpful first-finder. There’s something about her attitude that’s niggling away at me.’
The sergeant nodded
Art’s pulse rate rocketed. ‘Oh, only in passing. To say hello to. I saw him last night, after dinner, I think. But only to say hello to.’
Trevor smiled briefly. The little man was almost jumping with nerves. But was that due to anything in particular, or was he just naturally a little manic?
Jenny was wondering much the same thing, although having been interviewed by him, was more inclined to think that it was more a crisis of nerves than anything else. But then, as she knew only too well, in a situation like this, who could ever really say?
Certainly, she could think of no reason why the assistant bursar of St Bede’s would want to kill a relative stranger. Surely, the inspector would be looking for the killer primarily amongst the society members themselves? Didn’t statistics prove that most people were killed either by their familymembers, friends or personal acquaintances?
Trevor, who was also wondering why Art should be so nervous, nodded at Peter Trent. ‘If you could just give my sergeant your particulars, Mr McIntyre, we won’t keep you. Or you either, Miss Starling. I dare say you’ll be wanting to go and see Dr Glover-Smythe.’ And made a mental note to find out just who he was when he was at home.
Jenny, who had no real desire to find out what it was the Bursar wanted, smiled stiffly, and rose to her feet. Her height, at something close on to six feet, took Trevor by surprise, but he was careful not to show it.
‘If you don’t mind, madam, I have a WPC standing by. It would be very helpful if you wouldn’t mind going back to your room and changing your clothes first. We need them for forensic evidence. To rule you out of the investigation, that is.’ He said it politely, as a request, but they both knew it was no such thing.
‘Of course,’ Jenny said, without rancour. They probably want to check for blood spatter, she thought. Whoever had stuck a fleshing tool into Maurice Raines’s neck must have got blood on them, surely?
‘Then you can go about your normal business, I think,’ Trevor said congenially.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Jenny said, somewhat drily, smiled briefly at the still perspiring Art, and then joined the WPC who was waiting for her at the end of the corridor.
Trevor watched her go, listened as his sergeant took down his notes from Art McIntyre, then shook hands with him and watched him leave also.
The little man looked very happy to be going.
‘Bit jumpy, the little bald chap, isn’t he?’ Peter noted neutrally.
‘Yes. What did you learn from the group in the JCR?’
Succinctly, but leaving out nothing relevant, Peter Trentfilled him in on what he’d been told, and what he surmised.
‘The coffee cups? Yes, I noticed those too. Forensics have taken a sample for testing, naturally. But from what I could see, they hadn’t been drunk from. With a bit of luck though, we might get some worthwhile fingerprint evidence from them. You think the vic had arranged to meet someone there?’
Peter Trent nodded. ‘According to a fair number of the stallholders, it was Raines himself who made sure that they were all out and gone, by the very latest at around about twenty to twelve. Why would he do that unless he was expecting someone?’
‘Hmm. And whoever he arranged to meet killed him.’
‘Could be.’
‘Make sure and ask the scouts if any of them served the victim with the coffee. I rather think, though, that Maurice Raines, or perhaps his killer, made the stuff themselves in the little kitchenette just off there.’ He nodded to a door opposite. ‘I’ve asked forensics to check it out when they’re finished at the main crime scene.’
‘OK, guv. You have something in particular you want to do?’
Trevor nodded. ‘Perhaps. I’m going back to the station for a half an hour or so. I want to run a trace on our very helpful first-finder. There’s something about her attitude that’s niggling away at me.’
The sergeant nodded
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