“All right, then, let’s find out a bit about you lot.”
“Why do you want to know about us?” Sangeeta complained. “If something’s happened to Matt we’re not automatically suspects. The burden of proof can only be fulfilled by the provision of evidence.”
“Ah, we have a budding lawyer in our midst,” said Bryant cheerily. “You’re going to love this part. I’m going to fingerprint you.” He pulled out Banbury’s kit and set it up on the table amidst a chorus of complaint and disbelief.
“You can’t do that!” stormed Sangeeta.
“That’s the best part – I can do this. Because I may be about to transfer the burden of proof to one of you.”
“But for what?” asked Ruby.
“Murder, young lady. You see, one of the uniquely hand-coloured stickers you plaster over your bags was found on one of our corpses, and it contained a partial thumbprint.” Bryant was moving onto extremely shaky ground and knew it. But he was counting on peer pressure; every one of the students would be keen to clear themselves of blame. He looked around the room and waited for someone to turn him down. “I’m being overdramatic,” he explained, opening the ink pad. “We detectives are prone to that. We’ll probably have to test everyone who goes to the Karma Bar, but while we’re all here I thought you’d like to eliminate yourselves. Especially as I have an inducement. I’ll find Matthew Hillingdon for you, and I’ll keep your prints out of the national database.”
“What if I refuse?” asked Sangeeta, suddenly less aggressive.
“I think you know the answer to that one. Get a lawyer.”
“I’ll go first,” said Theo, breaking the deadlock.
“Excellent. And meanwhile – Toby, why don’t you tell me about yourself.” He needed to keep them talking. To do that, it made sense to start with the one who least wanted to join in the conversation.
“W-why me?” Toby stammered. “There’s nothing much to tell.”
Suddenly, Bryant realised, the subject of class had crept into the room. He had accidentally picked the working-class boy. Toby sounded as if he was from one of the rougher boroughs south of the river.
“Ah, a Londoner like myself.” Bryant deftly took the first set of prints, then passed Theo a tissue. “Whereabouts?”
“Deptford.”
“I caught the Deptford Demon there, you know. There was quite a hoo-ha at the time. Your parents probably told you about it.”
“No.”
Bryant was disappointed. He liked to think he’d achieved local fame, at least. The borough of Deptford had always been poor and troubled. The detective had spent many a night there as a kid, sitting on the steps of the Royal Albert pub, waiting with his sister Nell for his father to finish drinking. Most Saturday nights had ended with a fight.
Bryant studied each of them as they stepped up to the pad. One Indian, one Greek Cypriot, two from the Home Counties, one working-class Londoner – and one missing. Not exactly the dog-on-a-rope brigade.
“So, Toby, you’re also in the same field as – ” he glanced over at the piece of paper May had given him, “ – Mr Hillingdon and Mr Sangeeta. Social Engineering? It sounds rather alarming.”
“It’s more like learning confidence tricks,” replied Toby, examining his inky thumb nervously. “People have cognitive biases you can expose and use. The term is used a lot by hackers, but we’re studying it in conjunction with architectural urban planning.”
“How does that work?”
“At its most basic level, did you know people have a habit of unconsciously walking on the left side of a pavement because we drive on the left? When you’re designing entrances for a building you have to put them in places where everyone expects to find them.”
“As usual, Toby, you’re being hopelessly oversimplistic.” Theo sighed and made a show of sitting down and slumping in boredom. Clearly, he was used to owning the conversation.
“Please,” said Bryant, “go on.”
“Well, my point is, before you plan a building, you have to take into account the way people behave. A lot of our research is about pack mentality, leader establishment, group behaviour. For example, the distance you stand from someone is your way of establishing your relationship with them. There are several scientifically defined zones of proximity.”
“Such as?”
“Well, public space is an ideal measurement, placing you three metres from another person. It’s what you see on architects’ CAD plans of new buildings. And there’s a Social-Consultative Zone of between three metres and 1.2 metres. That’s ideal for bars, restaurants, recreation areas. You can talk in comfort but you still own your space. Personal space is the half-metre-to-1.2-metre zone that surrounds you, so when you’re designing an office this is your minimum space between chairs. And private space is when you’re less than half a metre from another person.”
Bryant pressed another young thumb into his pad. “But what about the London Underground? People are forced into much closer proximity during rush hour.”
“Which is why they get so uncomfortable,” Rajan cut in.
“The proximity thing is okay when the train is moving,” Toby continued, “because social convention dictates the necessity of this travel mode, but when the train stops and everything goes silent, we feel threatened. Our behaviour becomes more protective. That’s why train drivers now make frequent public announcements.”
“So, imagine you’re walking down a public staircase, and somebody near you slips and falls. What’s the reaction of the people standing nearby?”
“That would be dependent on a more practical problem,” answered Toby. “The people behind would see the accident but couldn’t physically help, because it’s taking place ahead of them, lower down, and those in front would have a similar problem because it’s happening behind their backs, and they’d receive no warning.”
“Interesting.” Bryant made a show of looking at everyone in the room, but while Toby seemed interested in the practicality of the question, no-one else showed any response.
“I suppose we’d better get to the subject in hand, your missing flatmate.” Bryant dug out a notepad and pen.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to keep anything on file,” objected Rajan.
“I won’t, Mr Sangeeta, these will be purely for personal use. It seems Mr Hillingdon boarded the train he told you he’d catch, Miss Cates, but he never alighted from it.”
“He must have,” insisted Ruby. “Where else could he have gone?” She shifted the weight of her plastic cast, trying to find a comfortable place to rest it while she had her thumb inked.
“We checked the camera footage at the station; we couldn’t find him. I thought perhaps he’d slipped and fallen between the carriage and the line, but we’ve had tube workers walk the entire length of the tunnel between King’s Cross and Russell Square, and they’ve found nothing. So it appears we have a rather peculiar mystery on our hands. Perhaps it would help if you told me a little more about the poor lad. Now, how did you all meet each other?” Bryant hoped he wasn’t laying the avuncular act on too thickly; he sounded fake even to himself. At least they had been distracted from worrying about the prints. He closed the lid of the pad and discreetly slipped it back into his pocket.
They were politely waiting for each other to speak. “Some of the stuff he’s studying crosses over with the others, but we all really met him when he moved in, about four months ago,” said Ruby finally.
“So when did you two start dating?”
“Around that time.”
Theo snorted. “She didn’t even let Matt get his coat off. You know how desperate some girls get.”
Ruby shot him a glance that could have cracked a wineglass. “I felt sorry for him. He didn’t know anyone. He’d just arrived here from Nottingham.”
“And you all got on with him, no problems, nothing at all unusual in the way he behaved?”
Silence, shrugging, vague looks of embarrassment.
“We advertised the room on one of the UCL student sites,” Rajan explained. “We interviewed him, then put it
