back on his nose. “But that didn’t matter. Not a bit of it to me. Because she was a joy. An innocent. A gift.”
“Her troubles didn’t cause you embarrassment, then? Professional embarrassment?”
Weaver stared at him. His expression altered in a single instant from ravaged sorrow to disbelief. Lynley found the sudden change disquieting, and despite the occasion for both grief and outrage, he found himself wondering if he was being entertained by a performance of some sort.
“My God,” Weaver said. “What are you suggesting?”
“I understand you’ve been short-listed for a rather prestigious position here at the University,” Lynley said.
“And what does that have to do with—”
Lynley leaned forward to interrupt. “My job is to obtain and evaluate information, Dr. Weaver. In order to do that, I have to ask questions you might otherwise prefer not to hear.”
Weaver worked this over, his fingers digging into the handkerchief balled into his fist. “Nothing about my daughter was an embarrassment, Inspector. Nothing. Not a single part of her. And nothing she did.”
Lynley tallied the denials. He reflected upon the rigid muscles in Weaver’s face. He said, “Had she enemies?”
“No. And no one who knew her could have hurt Elena.”
“Anthony,” Justine murmured hesitantly, “you don’t think she and Gareth…Might they have had a falling out?”
“Gareth Randolph?” Lynley said. “The president of DeaStu?” When Justine nodded, he went on with, “Dr. Cuff told me he’d been asked to act as a guardian to Elena last year. What can you tell me about him?”
“If he was the one, I’ll kill him,” Weaver said.
Justine took up the question. “He’s an engineering student, a member of Queens’ College.”
Weaver said, more to himself than to Lynley, “And the engineering lab is next to Fen Causeway. He has his practicals there. His supervisions as well. What is it, a two-minute walk from Crusoe’s Island? Across Coe Fen, a one-minute run?”
“Was he fond of Elena?”
“They saw a great deal of each other,” Justine said. “But that was one of the stipulations set up by Dr. Cuff and her supervisors last year: attendance at DeaStu. Gareth saw to it that she went to the meetings. He took her to a number of their social functions as well.” She shot her husband a wary look before she finished carefully with, “Elena liked Gareth well enough, I dare say. But not, I imagine, the way he liked her. And he’s a lovely boy, really. I can’t think that he—”
“He’s in the boxing society,” Weaver continued. “He’s got a blue in boxing. Elena told me that.”
“Could he have known that she would be running this morning?”
“That’s just it,” Weaver said. “She wasn’t supposed to run.” He turned to his wife. “You told me she wasn’t going to run. You said that she’d phoned you.”
His words had the ring of an accusation. Justine’s body retreated fractionally, a reaction that was almost imperceptible considering her upright posture in the chair. “Anthony.” She said his name like a discreet entreaty.
“She phoned you?” Lynley repeated, perplexed. “How?”
“On a Ceephone,” Justine said.
“Some sort of visual phone?”
Anthony Weaver stirred, moved his eyes off his wife, and pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ve one in the study. I’ll show you.”
He led the way through the dining room, through a spotless kitchen fitted with an array of gleaming appliances, and down a short corridor that led to the rear of the house. His study was a small room that faced the back garden, and when he switched on the light, a dog began to whine beneath the window outside.
“Have you fed him?” Weaver asked.
“He wants to be let in.”
“I can’t face it. No. Don’t do that, Justine.”
“He’s just a dog. He doesn’t understand. He’s never had to—”
“Don’t do it.”
Justine fell silent. As before, she remained by the door
“Her troubles didn’t cause you embarrassment, then? Professional embarrassment?”
Weaver stared at him. His expression altered in a single instant from ravaged sorrow to disbelief. Lynley found the sudden change disquieting, and despite the occasion for both grief and outrage, he found himself wondering if he was being entertained by a performance of some sort.
“My God,” Weaver said. “What are you suggesting?”
“I understand you’ve been short-listed for a rather prestigious position here at the University,” Lynley said.
“And what does that have to do with—”
Lynley leaned forward to interrupt. “My job is to obtain and evaluate information, Dr. Weaver. In order to do that, I have to ask questions you might otherwise prefer not to hear.”
Weaver worked this over, his fingers digging into the handkerchief balled into his fist. “Nothing about my daughter was an embarrassment, Inspector. Nothing. Not a single part of her. And nothing she did.”
Lynley tallied the denials. He reflected upon the rigid muscles in Weaver’s face. He said, “Had she enemies?”
“No. And no one who knew her could have hurt Elena.”
“Anthony,” Justine murmured hesitantly, “you don’t think she and Gareth…Might they have had a falling out?”
“Gareth Randolph?” Lynley said. “The president of DeaStu?” When Justine nodded, he went on with, “Dr. Cuff told me he’d been asked to act as a guardian to Elena last year. What can you tell me about him?”
“If he was the one, I’ll kill him,” Weaver said.
Justine took up the question. “He’s an engineering student, a member of Queens’ College.”
Weaver said, more to himself than to Lynley, “And the engineering lab is next to Fen Causeway. He has his practicals there. His supervisions as well. What is it, a two-minute walk from Crusoe’s Island? Across Coe Fen, a one-minute run?”
“Was he fond of Elena?”
“They saw a great deal of each other,” Justine said. “But that was one of the stipulations set up by Dr. Cuff and her supervisors last year: attendance at DeaStu. Gareth saw to it that she went to the meetings. He took her to a number of their social functions as well.” She shot her husband a wary look before she finished carefully with, “Elena liked Gareth well enough, I dare say. But not, I imagine, the way he liked her. And he’s a lovely boy, really. I can’t think that he—”
“He’s in the boxing society,” Weaver continued. “He’s got a blue in boxing. Elena told me that.”
“Could he have known that she would be running this morning?”
“That’s just it,” Weaver said. “She wasn’t supposed to run.” He turned to his wife. “You told me she wasn’t going to run. You said that she’d phoned you.”
His words had the ring of an accusation. Justine’s body retreated fractionally, a reaction that was almost imperceptible considering her upright posture in the chair. “Anthony.” She said his name like a discreet entreaty.
“She phoned you?” Lynley repeated, perplexed. “How?”
“On a Ceephone,” Justine said.
“Some sort of visual phone?”
Anthony Weaver stirred, moved his eyes off his wife, and pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ve one in the study. I’ll show you.”
He led the way through the dining room, through a spotless kitchen fitted with an array of gleaming appliances, and down a short corridor that led to the rear of the house. His study was a small room that faced the back garden, and when he switched on the light, a dog began to whine beneath the window outside.
“Have you fed him?” Weaver asked.
“He wants to be let in.”
“I can’t face it. No. Don’t do that, Justine.”
“He’s just a dog. He doesn’t understand. He’s never had to—”
“Don’t do it.”
Justine fell silent. As before, she remained by the door
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