‘We are pursuing several lines of enquiry,’ said Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding, ‘but we are particularly keen to trace this man, last seen yesterday morning in the vicinity of Evesham Street and Great Junction Street. He is known to have sustained a bad injury to his right hand, which would certainly require medical treatment. We are appealing to him to contact the police so that he can be eliminated from our investigation. If you know this man, please contact our hotline.’
‘Never seen him before in my life,’ the chief constable muttered, as he looked at the gaunt, ageless face and the grey wool hat. ‘But I’ll bet we’ve had a few calls by now.’ He knew also that most of them would be wild geese thrown up by well-meaning citizens, that a few would come from pranksters, and that others would be malicious. There was someone out there, undoubtedly, with a grey woolly hat and a badly injured hand, but he was unlikely to be traced by an approximate likeness in a newspaper.
He was still looking at the page when the big green door creaked open. ‘Good morning, young Proud,’ the old man greeted him. He was dressed from another era, but immaculately, in grey flannels and a smoking jacket, and he had carpet slippers on his feet. His thick white hair had a Brylcreem shine and he was freshly shaved. Proud wondered if he had made a special effort for him, then thought back to his school days and recalled that the rector was always turned out like a new pin.
‘Good morning to you, Mr Goddard.’ He held out the newspapers.
‘Ah, they’ve arrived at last,’ the throw-back said, checking his watch as he took them. ‘Eleven thirty: not good enough. I must have a word with the newsagent.’ He stood aside. ‘Come in, come in. It’s too cold a morning to be standing out there.’
Proud allowed himself to be ushered into a well-lit hallway, then through a living room into a sun-bathed conservatory. The previous weekend’s snow had cleared, but a crisp frost sat on the grass outside like a lambskin carpet.
‘Were you reading about our local sensation?’ Goddard asked, waving the Post in the air before tossing it, and the Mail, on to a table on which a pot of tea and two cups sat waiting.
‘The murder? Did that happen near here?’
‘Swansea Street runs parallel to this one. If you go to the end of the garden and look along the vennel you’ll see one of your caravan things. Damn nuisance, actually; it prevented me from getting my bicycle out this morning. Have them move it, will you, James?’ He smiled, revealing teeth that were too white to be anything but false. ‘Sorry, I’m forgetting myself: that should have been Sir James.’
‘Only my wife and my secretary call me that, Mr Goddard. It’s James, as always.’
‘Now that you’re no longer a pupil, you’d better call me Russell.’
‘It wouldn’t sound right, sir. You’re still the rector to me, and to everyone else who was at Edinburgh Academy in your time.’
‘In that case, you’d better pour the tea, like you used to in my study when we had our regular chats in your year as head boy. Did you know that there were people who said that I appointed you because you were the Lord Provost’s son?’
‘I heard the whispers, yes,’ Proud admitted, as he picked up the tea-pot.
‘All rubbish: I couldn’t stand your father. No, I chose you in spite of that fact, because you were good at everything you did, if excellent at nothing, and because you commanded the confidence of every pupil in the school and most of the masters. Time proved me right too. You’re still head boy, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose I am in a way. My present establishment is coeducational, though. I expect that there will be a head girl one of these days.’
The old rector looked genuinely shocked. ‘Surely not! I know we live in an age of change, but that would be taking political correctness just a little too far.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘My late wife would have crucified me, had she heard me saying something like that. She’d be happy otherwise, though; it looks as if we’re going to have a woman as First Minister.’
‘There are precedents for that too.’
‘Thirty-three of them to be exact, starting with Mrs Bandaranaike in Ceylon. Did you know that when she assumed office for the third time she was appointed by her daughter, Mrs Kumaratunga, who was president at the time?’
‘No, I did not.’
Mr Goddard’s eyes twinkled. ‘In that case you won’t know either that both Mr Bandaranaike and Mr Kumaratunga were assassinated: risky business, being married to a female politician. This de Marco woman doesn’t have a husband, does she?’
‘I don’t believe so. I’ve met her on several occasions and I’ve never heard her speak of one.’
‘In that case, aspiring suitors should bear the Bandaranaike women in mind.’ The old man sipped his tea. ‘Sorry: you probably don’t remember this, but history was my main subject. However, James, you haven’t come here for a lesson, have you?’
‘I’m always willing to learn, sir, but no, I haven’t.’
‘Have you come to ask me what I knew of the murder victim, then?’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I have made his acquaintance on a few occasions over the years. I found him to be an unpleasant man, surly, no manners at all. I canvassed him for the Conservatives at the last general election. He was abusive. Quite unnecessary: there’s no reason at all why politics can’t be conducted in a civilised manner. Indeed, they must be. The world in which we live now is full of examples of the evil that can come about when that principle is forgotten.’
‘Did he have a wife?’
‘He did when he moved here twenty years ago, but she left him as soon as their son had finished school. Heriot’s,’ he added.
‘Did he upset anyone else around here?’
‘He was the sort of man who would upset anyone, but mostly he ignored his neighbours and we ignored him.’
‘Have you been interviewed by my officers, Mr Goddard?’
‘No, I haven’t, although I did see some of them in the street this morning.’
Proud looked at his old headmaster. ‘I should know this, but how long have you been retired?’
‘Thirty-three years, James.’
‘Which makes you?’
‘Ninety-three.’
‘My goodness. How’s your memory?’
‘What did I just tell you about woman Prime Ministers?’
Proud laughed. ‘Point taken: in that case, here’s the real reason for my visit. I want to ask you about Claude Bothwell.’
‘You mean Adolf?’
‘The staff called him Adolf too?’
‘What else would you call a German teacher with such a damn silly wee moustache? What do you want to know about him?’
‘As much as you can tell me. It’s not him I’m trying to trace, but a woman with whom he was said to be carrying on, a teacher in the junior school, Miss Annabelle Gentle.’
The old man’s thin eyebrows rose. ‘He was, was he?’ he murmured. ‘There was conjecture about that at the time, after they both left.’
‘You didn’t know about it?’
‘Not for a fact. How did this come to your attention?’
‘Through Miss Gentle’s daughter; she’s trying to trace her.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll be much help to the woman.’
‘I don’t know either, but you’re the best lead I have. Can you tell me about the circumstances of their leaving?’
‘It was abrupt; that’s the best I can say about it. You’ll remember yourself, I’m sure, that Bothwell was supposed to be taking your German class that year. Well, he didn’t turn up, damn him. There was no formal resignation, no notice was given or served.’
‘Did you contact him?’
‘I tried to. The school secretary phoned his house to see what was up, but she got no reply. She called several times, with the same result. Eventually I went to see him. The place was deserted: he and his wife had gone. One of the neighbours saw me on the doorstep and told me that they’d left a few weeks before. He’d seen Bothwell loading suitcases into his car, and assumed that they were off on holiday, but they never came back.’