LITMIR.BIZ

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air as he snapped his battered old medical bag shut.

      ‘She’s been dead just over an hour, so I’d put the time of death at about half past twelve, give or take a few minutes. And whoever did it knew what they were doing, although I suppose that’s obvious,’ he added, pointing to the wound in the centre of Katya’s forehead.

      ‘Oh, and you should also take a look at this,’ he said, beckoning Trave back over and pulling up Katya’s left sleeve to expose the puncture marks above the elbow. ‘She’s been injecting or someone else has been doing it for her.’

      ‘Are any of those from tonight?’ asked Trave.

      ‘I don’t know. But the autopsy’ll tell us. I’ll let you know. I hope you catch the bastard, Bill,’ Davis added, looking back for a moment as he went out of the door. ‘Whoever did this isn’t one of our usual punters.’

      ‘No,’ said Trave to himself. ‘No, that he’s not.’

      Clayton waited patiently while Trave stood over by the window, looking out into the night. There were other things he needed to explain, including the news he’d just heard outside, but he knew better than to interrupt his boss while he was lost in a train of thought.

      ‘Something’s been happening in here,’ said Trave without turning round.

      ‘Happening, sir?’ Clayton repeated, sounding mystified. Of course something had happened. A young woman had been shot in the head.

      ‘It’s too damned tidy. I remember when I went round the house after the Mendel murder, this room didn’t look anything like it does now. Everything was strewn about everywhere: clothes, makeup, magazines, books – you name it. A typical girl’s bedroom. This is like a room in a hospital. Or a gaol,’ he added, taking hold of the steel bars over the windows with his hand. ‘What the hell are these for, I wonder?’

      Clayton had no idea.

      ‘All right, so tell me about Swain. Anything new?’ asked Trave, turning back from the window with a sigh.

      ‘Yes, he’s definitely escaped. And it was from Oxford Prison. Samuels got through to them a few minutes ago. Swain’s with a man called Earle, apparently. They got over the wall.’

      ‘Earle. Eddie Earle?’

      ‘Yes, that’s right. Edward James Earle. Doing five years for deception,’ said Clayton, glancing down at the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Do you know him?’

      ‘Yes, I know him. He’s a confidence trickster, quite a good one, specializes in conning old ladies out of their life savings. Easy Eddie he likes to be called – easy with other people’s money.’

      ‘They had help,’ said Clayton. ‘Apparently someone threw rope ladders over the perimeter wall, and they think there was a getaway car.’

      ‘How long ago? Have you got a time?’

      ‘Just after midnight. They’d have had time to get here, sir.’

      ‘I know,’ said Trave. It made no sense but Clayton thought he sounded disappointed.

      ‘All right,’ Trave went on after a moment. ‘So where are they now?’

      ‘Earle, I don’t know. No one’s seen him as far as I know. And I’m pretty sure Swain’s not in the house. I’ve had the place searched from top to bottom. But he could be somewhere out in the grounds. I’ve got people looking, but it’s difficult in the dark. To be sure, I mean. And he may be wounded. We don’t know.’

      ‘Wounded?’

      ‘Yes. The owner’s brother-in-law, Franz Claes, says he fired two shots at him in the corridor out there. The first one hit the door and the second one hit the wall at the far end, just by the turning to the stairs, but it may have touched Swain on the way. It was too dark for Mr Claes to see, apparently. But the bullet holes match his story.’

      ‘We’ll need to get ballistics to compare the bullets with the one over there,’ said Trave, pointing at Katya. ‘Not that I’m holding my breath.’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it. How did Swain get in?’

      ‘He broke the window in the study downstairs, and I reckon that’s how he got out too. All the other doors and windows seem to have been locked when we got here. Oh, and he tore his clothes on the rosebushes outside. There’s a bit of shirt we’ve recovered. Blue-and-white stripe, like prison uniform. I’ll have it checked out.’

      ‘Anything missing?’

      ‘Can’t be sure yet, but the owner hasn’t noticed anything, except a silver candlestick that the intruder took upstairs from the dining room, to light his way. He left it outside the door before he came in here. I’ve got it being dusted for fingerprints. And the study too, sir. Photographs as well.’

      ‘Good. You’ve been very professional, Adam. Just what I would have hoped. Well, I suppose we’d better go and talk to our friends downstairs. See what their story is,’ said Trave, making for the door.

      Clayton felt pleased. He didn’t often get praise from his boss, so when it came, it was worth savouring. But he also felt uneasy. There was something Trave wasn’t telling him, he thought, as they went downstairs. In normal circumstances he’d have expected the inspector to have a modicum of sympathy for the owner and his family after what they’d just been through, but instead, Trave’s attitude seemed to be bordering on hostile before he’d even clapped eyes on them.

      ‘Who do you want to see first?’ asked Clayton once they were back in the hall. ‘There are just three of them – the owner and his brother-in-law and sister-in-law. No servants – none of them live in apparently.’

      ‘Claes – the one with the gun,’ said Trave immediately. ‘Doesn’t he say he was the first one on the scene?’

      Clayton nodded and was halfway to the drawing room door when Trave’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

      ‘Wait. We haven’t decided where to interview them yet. Where’s more important than the order they go in right now.’

      ‘You don’t want to interview them where they are?’ asked Clayton, looking puzzled.

      ‘Osman? No, anywhere but in there. That’s his lord-of-the-manor room.’

      ‘His what?’

      ‘The place where he struts about entertaining high society, feeling like a million dollars. No, we need to put him on edge, put him at a disadvantage when we talk to him.’

      Trave stroked his chin musingly, and Clayton kept quiet. None of this made much sense as far as he was concerned. The training book said you should put witnesses at ease in order to get as much out of them as possible, not put them through the third degree. Unless they were suspects, of course, but Titus Osman wasn’t that. If anything, he was a victim. His niece had just been murdered, for God’s sake. However, Clayton knew better than to question his boss’s methods. Trave was the best detective on the Oxford force when it came to getting results.

      ‘What about Osman’s study?’ Trave asked, looking up. ‘Are forensics still working in there?’

      ‘Yes. I told them to start downstairs so you and the doctor could see the deceased first. I hope that was right?’

      ‘Yes, no problem,’ said Trave distractedly. ‘But tell them to finish in the study before they go anywhere else. We’ll interview Claes and his sister in the drawing room, and then see Osman in the study when forensics are done in there. We may have to wait a bit but that doesn’t matter.’

      Franz Claes sat bolt upright on the edge of the sofa, facing Trave and Clayton, who sat side by side on the matching sofa opposite. The empty fireplace was between them. Claes was short, no higher than five foot two or three, and his forward position meant that he could at least keep his feet on the floor, although Clayton

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