Instrument of Slaughter by Edward Marston

glimpse.’
    ‘I’d hate that. I could never marry a policeman.’
    ‘There are compensations,’ said Alice, loyally.
    ‘Not enough of them for me.’
    ‘Wait until you meet Mr Right. You won’t care what he does for a living.’
    ‘I would if he was a policeman,’ said Vera. ‘What about you?’
    Alice heard the sound of an approaching train and opened her door.
    ‘That’ll be them,’ she said, getting out of the lorry. ‘Come on, Vera – and don’t forget to speak in your very best French.’
     
    When it was opened twenty years earlier, the main library in the Metropolitan Borough of Shoreditch had impressed everyone with its Victorian solidity and with the grandeur of its facade. It was less striking now, its novelty gone, its brickwork soiled and the early signs of wear and tear apparent. The first thing that Harvey Marmion noticed was that some slates were missing from the roof. He stood on the pavement opposite for some time, studying the building in which Cyril Ablatt had spent so much of his life. People were streaming in and out, mostly women or older men. The library was obviously popular and well used. Marmion crossed the road and went in through the main entrance. Shelves of books stood everywhere. He could see that it was the ideal habitat for Ablatt.
    Having established who was in charge, Marmion introduced himself to Eric Fussell, an exceptionally tall, middle-aged man who kept his back straight and who peered down at people through wire-framed spectacles that seemed to double the size of his eyeballs. Fussell was quick to appreciate the need for privacy. He ushered the inspector into his office and closed the door. As they exchanged niceties, they sat down.Marmion glanced around the room. It was large, high-ceilinged, lined with books and spectacularly tidy. Everything on the desk was in neat piles, making him feel self-conscious about the clutter in his own office. Fussell exuded intelligence. His manner was polite and confiding.
    ‘What seems to be the problem, Inspector?’ he asked.
    ‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt works here.’
    ‘That’s correct. He’s not here at the moment, alas. If you wish to speak to him, you’ll have to go to his home.’ His eyelids narrowed. ‘Is Cyril in any kind of trouble? Is that the reason he didn’t turn up for work this morning?’
    ‘No,’ said Marmion, solemnly. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that he won’t be turning up at the library ever again. Mr Ablatt’s body was discovered during the night. He’d been bludgeoned to death.’
    ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Fussell. ‘That’s appalling!’ Doubt clouded his eyes. ‘Are you quite sure that it was Cyril?’
    ‘No question about it, sir. His father has identified the body.’
    ‘My heart goes out to him. This is dreadful news. Cyril was a fixture here. He used the library regularly for many years before he joined the staff.’
    ‘Mr Ablatt was very proud that his son became a librarian.’
    ‘Technically,’ said the other with more than a hint of pedantry, ‘he was only a library assistant. I’m the librarian. We’re an odd species. Librarians are rather like concert pianists – nobody needs two.’
    ‘I sit corrected, sir. What kind of an assistant was Cyril Ablatt?’
    ‘I couldn’t fault him. This was his true
métier
. Large numbers of people go through life either hating their job or regretting the one they failed to get. Cyril wasn’t like that. I’ve never met anyone so happy in his work. It was a labour of love to him.’
    ‘Tell me a bit more about him.’
    ‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’
    ‘Everything you can remember,’ said Marmion. ‘My mental picture of him is still incomplete. I need more detail.’
    ‘Well, I can certainly give you that.’
    As Fussell removed his spectacles, his eyes contracted to a more normal size. Taking out a handkerchief, he blew on the lenses before cleaning them methodically. He kept Marmion waiting a full minute