o’clock in the morning. A Caesar family representative came in with him: Neill Heller Caesar. Younger than Francis, dressed in a very expensive grey 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 behaviour 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 Heller 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 concern economic matters — inevitable given the way the whole world is hurtling headfirst into scientific industrialisation.
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 damn sure the police caught whoever killed one of us. While Neill Heller 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 Heller 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 Heller Caesar sat down next to Antony, giving the young man a reassuring smile. Antony needed the gesture. He had obviously had quite a night; his tie was unknotted, hanging round 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 Heller 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. Nobody. Justin was genuinely a great guy.’
The detective leant 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 Heller 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 enquired.
‘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 catalogue 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 Heller 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 Heller 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 Heller Caesar elected to stay in the interview room. Maloney didn’t have any family representative sit in with him. Not that the Maloneys 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
