Astley took the reins again, ‘when it came to it, he wasn’t able to perform. That’s quite common too. Of course, if he ejaculated with his trousers on, we’d have nothing to work on.’
‘Ah, genetic fingerprinting,’ Smith beamed.
‘Exactly.’ Astley joined the pair at the table again. ‘But for that to work, you need a specimen – blood, semen, sweat, something. We had nothing.’
‘Wasn’t it wet?’ Maxwell seemed to remember. ‘On that Friday?’
‘By the time they found her, yes. But I estimated the time of death at between three and five.’
‘Broad daylight?’
‘Yes,’ Astley nodded. ‘It was fine until six or seven. You’re thinking about footprints?’
It was Maxwell’s turn to nod.
‘I don’t know what the scenes of crime lads got,’ Astley said. ‘I think they picked up a few partial prints on door frames and so on. But you’ve got to remember how many people must have used that place over the years. Kids. Winos. Courting couples. Short of fingerprinting the entire town …’
‘That’s been done, hasn’t it?’ Smith asked.
‘Once or twice, yes,’ Astley told him, ‘but it’s an unusual step and you can’t force people. Anyway, who’s to say our man lives in Leighford?’
‘You’re sure it’s a man?’ Maxwell asked.
Astley looked at him. ‘Ninety-five per cent,’ he said. ‘Statistically, women don’t kill at close quarters. Not by strangulation. They poison. They shoot. Lizzie Borden chopped. But they don’t strangle.’
‘I thought Lizzie Borden got off,’ Smith said.
‘Yes,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘like you and I get off buses, but she did it all the same. Seen the photographs? She was a chunky little lady. Biceps like wardrobes.’
‘Look,’ Astley brought them back to modern crimes, ‘let me say this again. This conversation never took place. You know as much as I do now about the death of little Jenny Hyde. Though, frankly, if the law isn’t getting anywhere, I don’t really see …’
‘Well,’ Maxwell stood up and extended a hand, ‘thank you, doctor, for your candour.’
‘We must do this again sometime.’ Smith shook his hand too.
‘Yes,’ Astley growled, ‘in another lifetime, preferably.’ He saw them to the door. ‘My advice’, he said, ‘would be to leave well alone.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Maxwell said. ‘There are too many unanswered questions.’
‘Yes, there are,’ Astley nodded, chewing his pipe, ‘but you might not like the answers very much.’
On the way to Smith’s car, Maxwell opened the gate. ‘I’m surprised,’ he said.
‘What about?’ Smith asked.
‘That the good doctor confided so readily. In fact, I’m surprised he confided at all.’
‘I’m not,’ Smith chuckled. T knew he couldn’t resist showing off. He always was an arrogant bastard. Couldn’t pass up the chance to blind us with science. You know, he actually volunteered to take part in University Challenge?’
‘No.’ Maxwell held his fingers upright in the sign of the cross. ‘Did you win? Your team?’
‘Christ, no. We were against Gonville and Caius. You’re bikeless, Maxie,’ Smith observed. ‘I’ll run you home.’
‘Fine,’ beamed Maxwell. ‘As long as we stick to running.’
‘I did drive you here,’ Smith reminded him.
‘Did you?’ Maxwell asked. ‘I was shitting myself at the time and signally failed to notice.’
‘Get in!’ Smith pushed his Old Contemptible into the car.
And the tyres screamed into the night.
In Scotland they call them janitors. In some parts of London, school keepers. To most of us, they are caretakers. But whatever they call them, they are the backbone of a school. The governors don’t run it; the Headmaster doesn’t; not even the school secretary. The caretaker does. Cross him and you’re buggered. There’ll come a day when your classroom’s freezing, when you can’t unlock your office door, when you’re desperate for someone to put the chairs out for an
‘Ah, genetic fingerprinting,’ Smith beamed.
‘Exactly.’ Astley joined the pair at the table again. ‘But for that to work, you need a specimen – blood, semen, sweat, something. We had nothing.’
‘Wasn’t it wet?’ Maxwell seemed to remember. ‘On that Friday?’
‘By the time they found her, yes. But I estimated the time of death at between three and five.’
‘Broad daylight?’
‘Yes,’ Astley nodded. ‘It was fine until six or seven. You’re thinking about footprints?’
It was Maxwell’s turn to nod.
‘I don’t know what the scenes of crime lads got,’ Astley said. ‘I think they picked up a few partial prints on door frames and so on. But you’ve got to remember how many people must have used that place over the years. Kids. Winos. Courting couples. Short of fingerprinting the entire town …’
‘That’s been done, hasn’t it?’ Smith asked.
‘Once or twice, yes,’ Astley told him, ‘but it’s an unusual step and you can’t force people. Anyway, who’s to say our man lives in Leighford?’
‘You’re sure it’s a man?’ Maxwell asked.
Astley looked at him. ‘Ninety-five per cent,’ he said. ‘Statistically, women don’t kill at close quarters. Not by strangulation. They poison. They shoot. Lizzie Borden chopped. But they don’t strangle.’
‘I thought Lizzie Borden got off,’ Smith said.
‘Yes,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘like you and I get off buses, but she did it all the same. Seen the photographs? She was a chunky little lady. Biceps like wardrobes.’
‘Look,’ Astley brought them back to modern crimes, ‘let me say this again. This conversation never took place. You know as much as I do now about the death of little Jenny Hyde. Though, frankly, if the law isn’t getting anywhere, I don’t really see …’
‘Well,’ Maxwell stood up and extended a hand, ‘thank you, doctor, for your candour.’
‘We must do this again sometime.’ Smith shook his hand too.
‘Yes,’ Astley growled, ‘in another lifetime, preferably.’ He saw them to the door. ‘My advice’, he said, ‘would be to leave well alone.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Maxwell said. ‘There are too many unanswered questions.’
‘Yes, there are,’ Astley nodded, chewing his pipe, ‘but you might not like the answers very much.’
On the way to Smith’s car, Maxwell opened the gate. ‘I’m surprised,’ he said.
‘What about?’ Smith asked.
‘That the good doctor confided so readily. In fact, I’m surprised he confided at all.’
‘I’m not,’ Smith chuckled. T knew he couldn’t resist showing off. He always was an arrogant bastard. Couldn’t pass up the chance to blind us with science. You know, he actually volunteered to take part in University Challenge?’
‘No.’ Maxwell held his fingers upright in the sign of the cross. ‘Did you win? Your team?’
‘Christ, no. We were against Gonville and Caius. You’re bikeless, Maxie,’ Smith observed. ‘I’ll run you home.’
‘Fine,’ beamed Maxwell. ‘As long as we stick to running.’
‘I did drive you here,’ Smith reminded him.
‘Did you?’ Maxwell asked. ‘I was shitting myself at the time and signally failed to notice.’
‘Get in!’ Smith pushed his Old Contemptible into the car.
And the tyres screamed into the night.
In Scotland they call them janitors. In some parts of London, school keepers. To most of us, they are caretakers. But whatever they call them, they are the backbone of a school. The governors don’t run it; the Headmaster doesn’t; not even the school secretary. The caretaker does. Cross him and you’re buggered. There’ll come a day when your classroom’s freezing, when you can’t unlock your office door, when you’re desperate for someone to put the chairs out for an
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