on. ‘You saw the body in the water, under the floodlights. You told Bridger he looked sort of yellow, like the colour of the water. There’s a gold filter in those lights, you know. I saw him in the mortuary, afterwards. The stab blows were mainly to the back, eight of them, made with a knife at least ten inches long. One in the right shoulder and another on the right upper arm. He was stabbed from behind and almost certainly swung round to try to defend himself. The one that punctured the left lung was the fatal one. But I’ve never seen anything like it. The blood had been washing out of him all night, with the water just running over and over him. It all just...pulsed away. Like raw meat under a tap. It’s so nice here,’ he said, breathing in the warm mixture of old wood, sun-baked cushions and lavender, before adding sadly, ‘Valerie’s after a patio.’
Sara was silent for a moment. Neither the warm hut, the flowers nor the view would provide safety from the picture that Andrew was holding up before her. ‘Have you found the knife?’ she asked.
‘Nope. It was most likely a kitchen knife. There’s no sign of it, and the keys that Matthew Sawyer had are missing, of course. There’s more than one set, naturally. George Townsend had the other set on Friday night, and there’s a master set in the Guildhall safe. Each set of keys contains the keys for
all
the museum buildings. It’s reckoned to be easier to keep track of three big sets than several separate ones for different buildings.’
Andrew had been speaking quietly and carefully, plotting aloud all the known events of the night. Up in the creosoty, scented peace of the hut, he was talking and simultaneously searching in his words for the bit that was not quite right, the bit that could not be right, the single little thing that would give him a start in the enquiry. He dug his feet hard against the wooden floor and drew his bow in a single discordant swipe across all the strings of his cello.
‘Damn it, there’s nothing to get hold of in this case. George Townsend took his set of keys with him to the Assembly Rooms and locked up there at about ten past eleven. And then he took them to the Museums Service general office in the Circus and put them in the safe there. He says sometimes he takes the keys home with him if he’s back on first thing in the morning, but on Friday he didn’t because Mr Sawyer was locking up the Pump Room and bringing his set of keys back to the Circus too, and he would have noticed if George’s keys hadn’t been in the safe, so he played it by the book. Only of course Sawyer didn’t deposit his keys. They’re still missing. On Saturday morning Colin had to take the master set from the safe to open up the Assembly Rooms. He said he assumed Mr Sawyer had gone off home the night before with the bunch of keys still in his pocket, and that he would be bringing them back later. Wasn’t for him to complain, Sawyer was the boss.’
‘The murderer wouldn’t hang on to the keys, surely?’ Sara murmured. ‘Or the knife either. I mean, you’d get rid of anything that associated you with what you’d done, wouldn’t you? Now, can we play some Fauré, please?’
She began quietly to play the Élégie in C Minor. Andrew watched and then lifted his bow and joined in. His tuning was less certain, his phrasing half-hearted. It was a depressing sound.
‘Try to breathe through these phrases. Right through, don’t be mean with them. Make it
sing
, Andrew, not whine. That’s better.’
She stopped playing and looked out across the garden as Andrew carried on.
He said, ‘It would still be helpful to find them.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to discuss it? Listen,
listen
. Your pitch is slipping under. Brighten it. That’s it.’
Andrew played to the end of the phrase. ‘We’ve done the routine search of the drains. Nothing there, which is no surprise – keys and knives would be too heavy to get carried along.
Sara was silent for a moment. Neither the warm hut, the flowers nor the view would provide safety from the picture that Andrew was holding up before her. ‘Have you found the knife?’ she asked.
‘Nope. It was most likely a kitchen knife. There’s no sign of it, and the keys that Matthew Sawyer had are missing, of course. There’s more than one set, naturally. George Townsend had the other set on Friday night, and there’s a master set in the Guildhall safe. Each set of keys contains the keys for
all
the museum buildings. It’s reckoned to be easier to keep track of three big sets than several separate ones for different buildings.’
Andrew had been speaking quietly and carefully, plotting aloud all the known events of the night. Up in the creosoty, scented peace of the hut, he was talking and simultaneously searching in his words for the bit that was not quite right, the bit that could not be right, the single little thing that would give him a start in the enquiry. He dug his feet hard against the wooden floor and drew his bow in a single discordant swipe across all the strings of his cello.
‘Damn it, there’s nothing to get hold of in this case. George Townsend took his set of keys with him to the Assembly Rooms and locked up there at about ten past eleven. And then he took them to the Museums Service general office in the Circus and put them in the safe there. He says sometimes he takes the keys home with him if he’s back on first thing in the morning, but on Friday he didn’t because Mr Sawyer was locking up the Pump Room and bringing his set of keys back to the Circus too, and he would have noticed if George’s keys hadn’t been in the safe, so he played it by the book. Only of course Sawyer didn’t deposit his keys. They’re still missing. On Saturday morning Colin had to take the master set from the safe to open up the Assembly Rooms. He said he assumed Mr Sawyer had gone off home the night before with the bunch of keys still in his pocket, and that he would be bringing them back later. Wasn’t for him to complain, Sawyer was the boss.’
‘The murderer wouldn’t hang on to the keys, surely?’ Sara murmured. ‘Or the knife either. I mean, you’d get rid of anything that associated you with what you’d done, wouldn’t you? Now, can we play some Fauré, please?’
She began quietly to play the Élégie in C Minor. Andrew watched and then lifted his bow and joined in. His tuning was less certain, his phrasing half-hearted. It was a depressing sound.
‘Try to breathe through these phrases. Right through, don’t be mean with them. Make it
sing
, Andrew, not whine. That’s better.’
She stopped playing and looked out across the garden as Andrew carried on.
He said, ‘It would still be helpful to find them.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to discuss it? Listen,
listen
. Your pitch is slipping under. Brighten it. That’s it.’
Andrew played to the end of the phrase. ‘We’ve done the routine search of the drains. Nothing there, which is no surprise – keys and knives would be too heavy to get carried along.
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