“All this just because I want to see the police?” Rosalyn asked.
“All this just because you don’t want to see yourself.”
“My money’s on the pullover,” Sergeant Havers said. She picked up the squat stainless steel teapot and poured, grimacing at the pale colour of the brew with a “what is this stuff, anyway?” to the waitress who was passing their table.
“Herbal blend,” the girl said.
Blackly, Havers stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. “Grass cuttings, more likely.” She took a tentative sip and scowled. “Grass cuttings undoubtedly. Don’t they have the regular bit?
P.G. Tips? Something to wear the enamel off your teeth good and proper?” Lynley poured his own cup. “This is better for you, Sergeant. It has no caffeine.” “It also has no flavour, or don’t we care about that?”
“Just one of the drawbacks to the healthy life.”
Havers muttered and pulled out her cigarettes.
“No smoking, miss,” the waitress said as she brought their sweets to the table, an arrangement of carob-chip biscuits and sugar-free fruit tarts.
“Oh, hell and damnation,” Havers said.
They were in the Bliss Tea Room in Market Hill, a small establishment squeezed in between a stationery shop and what appeared to be a gathering place for the local skin heads. Heavy Mettle had been scrawled by an obviously untutored hand in red greasepaint across the latter shop’s window, and the ear-assaulting screech of electric guitars periodically blasted out the front door. In apparent answer to the window decoration, the stationers had countered with Waitless Cowardice across their own glass, a joke that no doubt went unappreciated by the owners and patrons of the neighbouring business.
The Bliss Tea Room-with its plain pine tables and woven grass mats-had been unoccupied by customers when Lynley and Havers entered. And the combination of the music from next door and the health food on the menu was evidence enough that the little restaurant wasn’t long for this world.
They’d made their phone call to Cambridge’s forensic department from a call box on Silver Street rather than from the junior combination room where Havers had started to direct him upon leaving Georgina HigginsHart’s bed-sit. He had stopped her, saying:
“I saw a call box on the street. If we’ve got a match on the fibres, I’d rather the news wasn’t overheard and put into the University’s gossip mill before we’ve had a chance to decide what to do with it.”
So they had left the college and headed towards Trumpington where an old chipped call box stood near the corner, with three of its front glass panels missing and a fourth taken up by a sticker featuring a drawing of a foetus in a rubbish bin and Abortion is Murder printed in crimson letters that dissolved into a garish pool of blood beneath them.
Lynley had made the call because he knew it was the next logical step in the case. But he wasn’t surprised by the information which the Cambridge forensic team relayed.
“No match,” he said to Havers as they returned to Queens’ College where they’d left the car. “They haven’t finished with everything yet. But so far, nothing.”
What remained to be tested were a coat, a pullover, a T-shirt, and two pairs of trousers. Sergeant Havers was giving her attention to these.
She dipped her carob-chip biscuit into her tea and took a bite before she spoke again, resuming her theme. “It makes perfect sense. The morning was cold. He’d have been wearing a pullover. I think we’ve got him.”
Lynley had chosen the apple tart. He took a bite. It wasn’t half-bad. He said, “I can’t agree. Not for the fibres we’re looking for, Sergeant. Rayon, polyester, and cotton make too light a blend for a pullover, especially one worn in November to cut the morning’s chill.”
“Okay. I’ll buy that. So he wore something over it. An overcoat. A jacket. He took that off before he killed her. Then he put it back on to hide the blood which he got all over himself when he beat in her face.”
“And then had it cleaned and ready in anticipation of our coming for it this morning, Sergeant? Because there were no stains on it. And if he anticipated our coming to pick it up, why would he just leave it with the rest of his clothes? Why wouldn’t he get rid of it?”
“Because he doesn’t quite know how an investigation works.”
“I don’t like it, Havers. It doesn’t feel right. It leaves too much unaccounted for.”
“Like what?”
“Like what was Sarah Gordon doing at the crime scene that morning and prowling round Ivy Court that night? Like why did Justine Weaver run without the dog Monday morning? Like what’s the connection between Elena Weaver’s presence and performance in Cambridge and her father’s attaining the Penford Chair?”
Havers took a second biscuit, broke it in half. “And I thought you had your heart newly set on Gareth Randolph. What happened to him, then? Have you scratched him off the roster? And if you do-if you put Sarah Gordon or Justine Weaver or anyone besides Thorsson, by the way, in his place-what’s the story behind the second killing?”
Lynley set his fork down, pushed the apple tart to one side. “I wish I knew.”
The tea room’s door opened. They both looked up. A girl stood hesitantly just inside.
She was clear-skinned, with a mass of auburn hair swirling round her face like cirrus clouds at the last part of sunset.
“You’re…” She peered about as if to make sure that she was addressing the proper people. “You’re the police, aren’t you?” Assured of this, she came to their table. “My name’s Catherine Meadows. May I speak with you?”
She removed her navy beret, her matching scarf, and her gloves. She kept on her coat. She sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair, not at their table but at the one next to them. When the waitress approached, the girl looked confused for a moment before glancing at the menu and ordering a single cup of mint tea and a toasted, whole wheat cake.
“I’ve been trying to find you since half past nine,” she said. “The porter at St. Stephen’s couldn’t tell me where you were. It’s only luck that I saw you come in here at all. I was over at Barclay’s.”
“Ah,” Lynley said.
Catherine smiled fleetingly and worried the ends of her hair. She kept her shoulder bag on her lap and her knees pressed together. She said nothing else until the tea and the teacake were placed before her.
“It’s Lenny,” she said, her eyes on the fl oor.
Lynley saw Havers slide her notebook onto the table top and soundlessly open it. He said, “Lenny?”
“Thorsson.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“I saw you waiting for him after the Shakespeare lecture on Tuesday. I didn’t know who you were then, but he told me later that you’d talked to him about Elena Weaver. He said there was nothing for us to worry about at the time because…” She reached for the cup as if about to drink, but then apparently changed her mind. “That doesn’t matter, does it? You just need to know that he didn’t have anything at all to do with Elena. And he certainly didn’t kill her. He couldn’t have. He was with me.”
“When exactly was he with you?”
She looked at them earnestly, her grey eyes growing dark. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. “It’s so personal. He could get in such trouble if you were to tell anyone. You see, I’m the only undergraduate Lenny’s ever…” She rolled the corner of her paper napkin into a little tube and said with calm determination, “I’m the only one he’s ever allowed himself to get close to. And it’s been a struggle for him. His morals. His conscience. What would be right for us. What would be ethical. Because he’s my supervisor.”