Futures - Four Novellas Part 3

Miss Caesar?"

"As soon as I got to Dunbar. The police were everywhere, so I knew it was a real mess. I used Peter's phone before I went into Justin's room."

"Where was she?"

"At her room in Offers ... Uffington College."

"And she arrived straight away?" Gareth Alan Pitchford asked.

"You know she did. You were the one who let us in to Justin's rooms, remember? Uffers is only just down the road from Dunbar, it's less than four minutes' walk away. I expect she ran."

"Okay." The detective closed his notebook. "Thank you very much. We'll need to talk to you again, of course. I'll have a car run you home."

"I'll stay, thanks. I want to be with the others when you've finished interviewing them."

"Of course."

It was Antony Caesar Pitt who followed Carter into the interview room. By that time it was close to three o'clock in the morning. A Caesar family representative came in with him; Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar. Younger than Francis, dressed in a very expensive gray business suit. There was no way of telling what an inconsiderate hour it was from his deportment; he was shaved, wide awake, and friendly with the police. I envied that ability to insinuate himself into the situation as if his presence was an essential component of the investigation. Another goal to aim for. People like us have to be as smooth as a beach stone.

The world calls us representatives, but negotiators would be more accurate. We're the deal makers, the oil in the cogs of the Roman Congress. Families, that is the big ones like mine who originated from the Sport of Emperors, can hardly venture into physical conflict when we have a dispute amongst ourselves. Violence is going the same way as Shorts, bred out of our existence. Instead, you have us.

Families have their own internal codes of behavior and conduct, while the Roman Congress provides a framework for overall government. So when two families collide over anything-a new invention, access to fresh resources-people like Francis and Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar sit down together and thrash out an agreement about distribution and equal rights. Two hundred years ago, when the Americas were opened up, the major disputes were over what territories each family should have to settle, which is when our profession matured. These days, the big quarrels mostly concerns economic matters-inevitable given the way the whole world is hurtling headfirst into scientific industrialization.

But representation of family interests also goes right down to a personal individual level. To put it in First Era crudity, we were there that night to make d.a.m.n sure the police caught whoever killed one of us. While Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar was there to ensure his family members weren't pressured into confessing. Unless of course they were guilty. For all our differences, no family would tolerate or cover up for a murderer.

Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar shook hands with both of us, giving me an equal amount of respect. As flattery went, I have to admit he scored a partial success.

"Hope you don't mind my sitting in," he said pleasantly. "There are two of our flock involved so far. Best to make sure they conduct themselves correctly now. Could save a lot of time later on. I'm sure everyone wants this appalling incident cleared up as soon as possible. My condolences, by the way."

"Thank you," Francis said. "I'm most gratified that you're here. The more people working on this investigation, the faster it will be solved. Hope you can manage the crowding. I don't believe this room was built with such a large audience in mind."

"Not a problem." Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar sat down next to Antony, giving the young man a rea.s.suring smile. Antony needed the gesture. He had obviously had quite a night; his tie was unknotted, hanging around his collar, his jacket was crumpled, and there were several stains on the fabric. Apart from that he came over as perfectly average, a short man with broad shoulders, who kept himself fit and healthy.

"You had dinner with Mr. Raleigh and your other friends this evening?" Gareth Alan Pitchford asked.

"That's right." Antony Caesar Pitt's voice was strained, attempting defiant contempt. He couldn't quite pull it off, lacking the internal confidence to make it real. He searched round his jacket pockets and pulled out a silver cigar case. Selecting one of the slim cigars and lighting it was another attempt at conveying calm nerves. He took a deep drag.

"I understand the dinner finished around ten o'clock. Where did you go after that?"

'To some friends."

"And they are ... ?"

"I'd rather not say, actually."

The detective smiled thinly. "I'd rather you did."

Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar put a friendly hand on Antony's leg. "Go ahead." It was an order more forceful than any the detective could ever make.

Antony exhaled a thick streamer of smoke. "It's a club I go to occasionally. The Westhay."

"On Norfolk Street?"

"Yes."

"Why were you there?"

"It's a club. Why does anyone go to a club?"

"For a dance and a pleasant evening, usually. But this is different. People go to the Westhay, Mr. Caesar,

because there's an unlicensed card game there most evenings. I understand you're a gambling man."

"I enjoy a flutter. Who doesn't? It's not as if having a game with friends is a major crime."

"This is not the vice division; I don't care about your personal shortcomings, I'm investigating the

murder of your friend. How long were you there?" Antony chewed the cigar end. "I finished just after one. They wiped me out, and believe me you don't ask for credit at the Westhay. It's strictly cash only. I walked back to my college and your constables were waiting for me. But look, even if I give you the names of the guys I was playing with it won't do you any good. I only know first names, and they're not going to admit even being there." "That's not your concern right now, Mr. Pitt. I gather you and Mr. Raleigh played cards on a regular basis."

"For Mary's sake! I wouldn't kill Justin over a couple of hundred pounds."

"The detective spread his hands wide. "Did I say you would?"

"You implied it."

"I'm sorry if that's the impression you received. Do you know of anyone who had any kind of dispute

with Mr. Raleigh?"

"No. n.o.body. Justin was genuinely a great guy."

The detective leaned back in his chair. "So everyone tells us. Thank you, Mr. Pitt. We will probably

need to ask you more questions at some other time. Please don't leave the city."

"Sure." Antony Caesar Pitt straightened his jacket as he got up, and gave Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar a mildly annoyed glance.

One of the station's secretaries came in as Antony left. She handed a clipboard to Gareth Alan Pitchford.

His expression of dismay deepened as he flicked through the three flimsy sheets of paper which it held.

"Bad news?" Francis inquired.

"It's the preliminary forensic report."

"Indeed. Were there any fingerprints on the knife?"

"No. Nor were there any on the window latch. The site team is now dusting all three rooms. They'll

catalog each print they find."

"And work through a process of elimination," Francis said. "The only trouble with that is, the prints belonging to all Justin's friends will quite legitimately be found in there." "That's somewhat premature, isn't it?" Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar said. "You've no idea how many unknown prints they'll find at this stage."

"You're right, of course."

I could tell how troubled Francis was. I don't know why. He must have been expecting negatives like

that in the report: I certainly was.

"You have a problem with it?" Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar asked him.

"No. Not with the report. It's the way Justin's friends are all saying the same thing: he had no enemies.

Indeed, why should he? A young man at university, what could he have possibly done to antagonize someone so?"

"Obviously something."

"But it's so out of character. Somebody must have noticed the reason."

"Perhaps they did, and simply aren't aware of it."

Francis nodded reluctantly. "Maybe." He gave the detective a glance. "Shall we continue." Interestingly from my point of view, Neill h.e.l.ler Caesar elected to stay in the interview room. Maloney didn't have any family representative sit in with him. Not that the Maloney's lacked influence; he could have had one there with the proverbial click of a finger. It made me wonder who had made the call to Neill. I scribbled a note to ask the police later. It could be guilt, or more likely, anxiety.

Alexander Stephan Maloney was by far the most nervous of the interviewees we'd seen. I didn't consider it to be entirely due to his friend being murdered. Something else was bothering him. The fact that anything could distract him at such a time I found highly significant. The reason became apparent soon enough. He had a very shaky alibi, claiming he was working alone in one of the laboratories in the Leigh- field chemistry block.

"Number eighteen," he said. "That's on the second floor."

"And n.o.body saw you there?" Gareth Alan Pitchford asked, a strong note of skepticism in his voice.

"It was quarter to eleven at night. n.o.body else is running long-duration experiments in there right now. I was alone."

"What time did you get back to your rooms?"

"About midnight. The college lodgekeepers can confirm that for you."

"I'm sure they will. How did you get back from the laboratory to the college?"

"I walked. I always do unless the weather is really foul. It gives me the opportunity to think."

"And you saw no one while you were walking?"

"Of course I saw people. But I don't know who any of them were. Strangers on a street going home to

bed. Look, you can ask my professor about this. He might be able to confirm I was there when I said I was."

"How so?"

"We're running a series of carbon acc.u.mulators, they have to be adjusted in a very specific way, and we built that equipment ourselves. There are only five people in the world who'd know what to do. If he looks at it in the morning he'll see the adjustments were made."

"I'd better have a word with him, then, hadn't I?" the detective said. He scrawled a short note on his pad. "I've asked all your friends this question, and got the same answer each time. Do you know if Justin had any enemies?"

"He didn't. Not one." There was silence in the interview room after he left. All of us were reflecting on his blatant nerves, and his nonexistent alibi. I kept thinking it was too obvious for him to have done it. Of course not all the suspects would have alibis: they didn't part after their dinner believing they'd need one. Ask me what I was doing every night this past week, and I'd be hard pressed to find witnesses. Christine Jayne Lockett bustled into the interview room. I say bustled because she had the fussy motions that put me in mind of some formidable maiden aunt.

When she came into a room everyone knew it. When she spoke, she had the tone and volume which forced everyone to listen. She was also quite attractive, keeping her long hair in a high style. Older than the others, in her mid twenties, which gave her a certain air. Her lips always came to rest in a cheerful grin. Even now, in these circ.u.mstances, she hadn't completely lost her bonhomie.

"And it started out as such a beautiful day," she said wistfully as she settled herself in the chair. Several necklaces c.h.i.n.ked and clattered at the motion, gold pagan charms and crucifixes jostling against each other. She put a small poetry book on the table. "Do you have any idea who did it, yet?"

"Not as such," Gareth Alan Pitchford said.

"So you have to ask me if I do. Well I'm afraid I have no idea. This whole thing is so incredible. Who on earth would want to kill poor Justin? He was a wonderful man, simply wonderful. All of my friends are. That's why I love them, despite their faults. Or perhaps because of them."

"Faults?"