Chapter Text
I was actually on my way to the lower Camera reading room, but my route took me past the Bodleian Divinity School, so I stepped in. Early morning sunshine streamed through the stained glass windows, the colorful slanting beams dancing with dust motes and making the air sparkle, highlighting the carved oaken benches and its lierne vaulted and filigreed ceiling. I no longer felt the ache of loss for my time in seminary, but this place was a prayer taken physical form and I paused to meditate on man's striving for the divine. It reminded me to keep faith in humanity, a reminder that I needed frequently.
A tour group passed and even though they kept their voices hushed, they disturbed my reverie, so I regretfully resumed my errand.
The Radcliffe was empty this early, not even a librarian seemed to be in residence. I circled around the central hub until I saw someone in one of the east bays. She was facing me, the table between us, her head bent over her work. I stopped a few feet away and said, "Excuse me." She looked up, and there all rational thought ended as I was pinned by the most arresting eyes I have ever seen.
They were a unique shade of gold-flecked amber which caught the light coming through the bay window, topped by a wave of salt and pepper hair that had once been the same color. A delicately arched brow rose as she said something that I couldn't hear over the roaring in my ears.
"I said, may I help you." The deep voice, honey smooth with the slightest rasp of velvet finally penetrated.
"Hathaw…" My voice broke like a damn teenager and I had to give myself a mental shake, clear my throat and start over. "Detective Inspector James Hathaway. I'm looking for Professor Forrester."
The russet eyebrow rose again. "Congratulations, you've found me. What can I do for you?"
I gave myself another stern mental rebuke. "I'm looking into a few cold cases, and the file on the death of Violet Forrester seems to be missing some information. I wondered if you might answer some questions for me."
A fleeting pain crossed the Professor's face as she looked at me appraisingly. Finally she said, "Let's talk about this outside, shall we?" She backed from the table smoothly with the faint whir of an electric motor and then rolled around to where I was standing.
I stared at the wheelchair momentarily dumbfounded. When I looked up to meet her eyes she said, "Apparently the second victim is also missing from your file."
* * *
After several fruitless questions that didn't seem to go anywhere, she said "Why don't you just let me see my sister's file and I'll tell you what's correct or not."
I handed the holder and its single page printout to her silently. I was sitting on the low stone base around the Radcliffe and could already feel the heat of the sun radiating off of the building. It was shaping up to be one of the warmer days of summer and I adjusted my collar while trying to watch her without being obvious.
Even sitting I'm tall enough to look down on most people, but those eyes were almost on a level with mine, so she must have been very tall for a woman. Her face was classically proportioned and slightly more feminine than strictly androgynous with a straight nose and just a hint of squareness in the jawline; her hair was a short utilitarian cut that could have been male or female. I clamped down on the faint tremor in my guts and longed to hear her voice again.
She obliged my wish. "Other than 'Violet' and 'Forrester' all of it is wrong." Amber eyes pierced me. "Date, location, cause of death, even her birthdate is wrong. Are you sure this is the correct file?"
I nodded. "There's no one else by that name. We had to go through city and council records to identify you as next of kin."
"Isn't everything in electronic databases these days? Surely you would have had that on record already."
"That's part of the problem," I said. "The attack occurred after we had already moved to completely computerized recording and evidence tracking, and everything should have been in the database, but this is all that's there." I thought about the empty audit trail, still puzzled.
The professor echoed my thought. "But there must be some kind of document security, a change record, right? I'm certain that the original police report was substantially correct."
"Yes," I admitted. "Every modification to a record is logged; time, date, what was changed and who made it." And if it's been hacked, the whole department is in trouble.
Again, she mirrored my thoughts. "If it's known that the log can be tampered with, wouldn't that put all your other cases at risk?" I opened my mouth to ask her to keep this quiet but she anticipated me. "You may of course rely on my discretion."
"Thank you, professor," I said weakly. Even Robbie, who knew me better than anyone alive, had never divined my thoughts so accurately on so short an acquaintance.
She checked her watch then rummaged in an organizer hung over the arm of her chair. "I have tutorials and coaching for most of the day, but I should be free this evening." She handed me a card. "Here's where you can find me. I think I have copies of the original police report. Any time after seven o'clock." she said briskly. She rolled away and was gone before I could squeeze out an intelligible reply.
* * *
I rang the bell at the professor's house at precisely 7:00 p.m. It was opened by a wiry woman with caramel colored skin and flashing dark eyes who looked me up and down suspiciously. When she spoke it was with a Caribbean lilt. "Madam said that a policeman may come."
I showed her my warrant card. "I am the policeman, yes."
She made no move to let me in. "It has been a long day, Madam is tired."
"I will try to not tire her further." I had to smile at the woman's protectiveness. A voice that set my insides trembling sounded from within and she finally stood aside and allowed me entry. "Thank you."
She led me back to a comfortable sitting room. "The policeman is here," she announced.
The professor was ensconced on a couch to one side, propped up on pillows against one arm with her legs outstretched and covered with a blanket. "Thank you, Opal. Bring tea in a few minutes won't you?"
Opal turned to me. "I do not trust police," she said defiantly. "Only one policeman has been good to me ever. An English policeman found my husband's killer in Parham Town many years ago." She looked at me expectantly.
I was nonplussed at that. What sort of reply could she be looking for? Then the location clicked with her accent. "You must mean Robert Lewis."
There was sudden flash of white teeth as she smiled broadly. "Yes, Inspector Robert." She used the French pronunciation of his name.
"He used to be my boss. He taught me how to be a detective."
She nodded firmly. "It is good. Madam's case will be solved now." She spun on her heel and stalked out. "I will bring the tea."
There was soft chuckle behind me that made me shiver. "You've won her over, Inspector."
I ducked my head, unsure of how to respond. "Um, you said you had a copy of the original police report?"
* * *
The story on my altered report was a simple home invasion burglary gone wrong, single gunshot to a single victim, perpetrator never found.
The real story involved three men who went to the wrong address looking for a cache of drugs, and failing to find them, tried to beat their location out of the two sisters. The men's trail had led back to a house on a quiet residential street in London where two of them were caught trying to dismantle a drug lab in the basement. They claimed that the third man, whose real name they never knew and who was still at large, was responsible for Violet's death.
"I can confirm that it was only one of them that went berserk and killed Violet," Professor Forrester said in a tightly controlled voice. "It might very well have been the one that escaped, but I don't know that for certain."
The wall opposite the couch was a long bookcase and there was round table in between. I had pulled one of the upright ladder-backed chairs over to sit facing the professor next to the couch. "You can't describe him at all?" I looked up from my notebook.
"At that point I was only half conscious myself, so no." Her hands, folded together on her lap, tightened, but she gave no further indication of distress other than to look away from me.
"And your injuries?" I hated to upset her further, but I needed a clearer picture.
"There was a struggle and I tumbled down a flight of stairs." She paused. "I suppose I'm lucky that there was no spinal damage, so I'm not paralyzed, but the pelvic fracture damaged enough nerves that my mobility is limited." A tremor was barely audible in her voice now.
What would Robbie do? I put my hand over hers, feeling a tingle at the warmth of her skin. "I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I know this is difficult for you."
The room was lit by only two lamps and her eyes were ruddy and dark in the dim light and in them I could finally see the previously hidden anguish and memories of terror. I dealt with grieving and traumatized people on nearly a daily basis, but none affected me the way she did. I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Finally she blinked and the connection was gone.
To lower the intensity and because I was too close to crossing a line, I stood and went over to the table to look at the books scattered there. They were in Greek. "You teach Greek?" I asked, flipping through one.
"Linguistics." Her voice had resumed its normal timbre. "With an emphasis on Greek and Turkic dialects from the Hellenistic period through the first century."
I glanced back at her. The keen intelligence had returned to her gaze and masked any deeper emotions once again. I greatly wanted to see beneath the façade… partly because I knew how much the mask costs to maintain, and partly because knowing Robbie has taught me the importance of having one person you can lay the burden down for. Her pain didn't weigh on me like that of so many others; it was a gift, a rare glimpse into her soul. But I didn't know how to reestablish our brief connection. When at a social loss I either stiffen up, becoming what Robbie calls an 'awkward sod,' or I babble. Babbling it is then.
"Do you know Professor Gold?" I asked. "I had a run-in with her many years ago when we needed a clue translated from Greek. I had only managed part of it, and she immediately concluded from that that I must have gone to Cambridge because it would quote 'explain my limitations' unquote."
This earned me a laugh. "That sounds like Margaret. The rivalry between the universities was taken much more seriously in her day." She paused. "When did you study Greek?"
"I had two terms in seminary," I replied. "But her comment rather stung at the time so I started studying it again on my own." I turned back to her with a slight smile. "I didn't get very far I'm afraid."
Surprisingly, the professor made no comment, either direct or implied, about the fact that I had once trained as a priest. She accepted it at face value and asked, "What text did you start on?"
"Chysostom's Twelfth Discourse."
She raised her eyebrows at me. "Ambitious choice, but probably a bit beyond two terms in seminary. I have more suitable study materials, if you're still interested."
I wasn't really interested in studying Greek per se, but I leapt at the chance to interact with her on a different basis than the case. "Yes, absolutely."
She gestured to the wall of books behind me. "Third shelf center, blue binding with white lettering."
I pull out a soft-sided exercise book and resumed the chair next to her. She took it from my hands and flipped through it. She glanced up to judge my interest. "You're sure?"
Given her uncanny ability so far to track my thoughts, I was half afraid that she'd see right through me, but if she did, she ignored it. At my affirmative nod, she handed to book back open partway through.
"Try starting here. You can review earlier chapters if you need a refresher." She gave me a slight smile. "See how far you can get then bring it back in a week and I'll be able to recommend a text for you to work on that will be more interesting than the exercises."
I kept my face neutral even though I was grinning inside. "Thank you, Professor Forrester."
"Please, call me Evelyn."
"James."
* * *
The week was frustrating with one dead end after another. Since our systems are hardened against external threats and individual access was strictly controlled, I had to assume it was someone on the inside; a cop. And to forestall any rumors I couldn't take it outside the department. For example I'd ordinarily just ask Dr. Hobson about the missing medical reports, because Laura always knows what's going on or can find out, but I didn't dare now. Not that she can't keep a secret, but merely asking the questions tells people what you're looking for, and I didn't want her asking on my behalf and maybe becoming a target.
All right that was a little on the paranoid side. But in my career so far Jack Cornish was the only corrupt policeman I'd ever encountered. He wasn't a killer, but he was involved with people who were, and the thought was frankly making me... well, paranoid.
Still, after exhausting all the searches that I could think of that might wring a little more information from our systems, I had to enlist Gurdip. I'd worked with him long enough to trust his discretion and integrity, and at least it kept it in the department. I wasn't sure I wanted to know just yet if the tampering extended to the pathology department.
On the day of my appointment with Professor Forrester, he barged into my office. Maddox had already left for a dinner date with Tony, and I was preparing to close up shop.
Gurdip plopped noisily into a chair and announced, "Man, you are going to owe me big for this."
"Why, what did you find?" I braced myself for the answer.
"Sod all about the person who did it," he said with a disgusted snort. He handed me a printout. "I did find the original autopsy report in a non-indexed location that made it invisible to the database. Do you know how many backup archives I had to trawl through? I had to create a program to practically search sector by sector, bit by bit." He made another disgusted huff.
I glanced through the report. "Thanks, Gurdip." The information on it correlated with what Professor Forrester had been able to tell me.
He must have seen something in my face. "That bad?" he asked.
"Might be," I admitted. "Let me know if you find anything else."
He gave a soundless whistle and left without another word.
* * *
The autopsy report did get me one thing; it had on it the name of the uniformed officer that had answered the 999 call. I found her in the personnel records, but she had been transferred to Londonderry only weeks after the attack.
A half a dozen phone calls later, I had determined that Police Constable Eirene Atkins had been forwarded on from Londonderry's Strand Road Station, and that no, they would not transfer my call to Coleraine Station where she was now posted. Once I finally reached her, I also learned that PC Atkins remembered the scene of the attack perfectly because it was the first dead body she'd ever seen and she really didn’t handle the sight of blood very well and had nearly fainted and she still had nightmares about it and the next door neighbor that she'd talked to first was so dishy that she almost fainted a second time and she was really sorry she hadn't gotten his phone number because he really could have been on telly but he hadn't seen or heard anything because he'd been at work and had only got home at the same time that she herself had arrived but she didn't get to talk to him very long anyway because the emergency response team were remarkably quick in arriving…
Out of the long stream of rapid fire irrelevancies (how did she breathe?) I finally managed to extract the name Detective Inspector Trent Dirkson.
I put his name into the system and there he was. Or had been; he'd resigned the force the same time that the uniform had been transferred. A little digging further showed that he had signed her transfer order.
It was looking more and more like an inside job.
* * *
I put the case resolutely out of my mind when I went for my tutorial with Evelyn. Thankfully she didn't allude to it either; if she was curious she kept it to herself.
This evening she was in her wheelchair at the table, which was scattered with numerous books and papers. "James!" She greeted me with a bright smile and twinkling amber eyes. "Ready for your grilling, are you?" My stomach turned over at her smile, but I pushed that aside.
We spent an hour going through the exercises and I found her to be both brilliant and exacting. But she was also patient and had a gently teasing sense of humor. Still, I felt my brain had been scrubbed, rinsed, and wrung out to dry when she was finished with me.
Opal came in and placed a tea tray on the table. I shuffled things around while Evelyn poured. In the process, I knocked her pen onto the floor. "Sorry, I'll get that."
But before I could reach, she taken an extendable grabber from her chair organizer and had picked it up herself. "I've got it, thanks."
I hid my disappointment at not being able to help behind my tea. I drank it quickly, surprised at how thirsty I was.
"Didn't think Greek was this much work, did you?" Evelyn chuckled.
"I feel like I've run a marathon."
She smiled. "I'll give you one extra point for the Greek reference but minus one point for such an obvious one. Here's a text for you to start on." She handed me a densely printed page. "You can use any of the reference materials on the selves."
It took me a minute to refocus but I dutifully dove into it. For a long time there was no sound but our respective pens on paper, as she took the opportunity to do some work of her own.
After a quarter hour's work I exclaimed, "This is Susanna and the Elders."
"I thought you might appreciate that as a former seminarian," she said without any implied judgement in her tone. "I have the rest of the Septuagint as well, but this in one of the easier chapters to start on. Mind you, I expect your own translation, not something based on the Vulgate. I probably haven't had as much Latin as you, but I know enough to tell."
I had been just about to ask if she also knew Latin, but by this time was unsurprised that she had followed my thoughts. As if reading that as well she smiled at me, the lamp light catching the gold flecks in her eyes and making them sparkle. "I do actually prefer attending Mass when it's in Latin." I said, smiling back.
"I would have expected no less from you," she said gravely, but I could tell there was still a twinkle behind it.