For the Sake of Elena

most of all he was disgusted with her behaviour. For he thought he’d understood her intentions in involving herself with Victor Troughton. And he saw those intentions as an attempt to attach herself to a hearing world that would never fully accept or understand her. She was acting deaf. She wasn’t acting Deaf. They’d argued violently. He’d left her in the street.

Never saw her again, he fi nished.

“Doesn’t look good to me, sir,” Havers said.

Where were you Monday morning? Lynley typed.

When she was killed? Here. In bed.

But no one, of course, could verify that. He had been alone. And it would not have been an impossibility for Gareth simply to have failed to return to Queens’ College that night, going instead to Crusoe’s Island to lie in wait for Elena Weaver and to put a permanent end to the dispute between them.

“We need those boxing gloves, Inspector,” Havers said as she snapped her notebook closed. “He’s got motive. He’s got means. He’s got opportunity. He’s got a temper as well and the talent to channel it right through his fi sts.”

Lynley had to admit that a blue in boxing could not be overlooked when the murder victim had been beaten before she was strangled.

He typed, Did you know Georgina Higgins-Hart? And after Gareth nodded, Where were you yesterday morning? Between six and half past.

Here. Asleep.

Can someone verify that?

He shook his head.

We need your boxing gloves, Gareth. We need to give them to the forensic lab. Will you let us take them?

The boy gave a slow howl. Didn’t kill her didn’t kill her didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t did-

Gently, Lynley moved the boy’s hands to one side. Do you know who did?

Gareth shook his head once, but he kept his hands in his lap, balled into fists, as if they might betray him of their own volition should he raise them to the keyboard and allow them to type again.

“He’s lying.” Havers paused in the doorway to drape Gareth’s boxing gloves round the strap of her shoulder bag. “Because if anyone ever had a motive to bag her, he’s the one, Inspector.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” Lynley said.

She pulled her cap firmly down over her forehead and drew up the hood of her coat. “But you can-and no doubt will-disagree with something else. I’ve heard that tone of yours before. What?”

“I think he knows who killed her. Or thinks he knows.”

“Of course he does. Because he did it himself. Directly after he pounded her face in with these.” She flipped the gloves in his direction. “What have we been looking for as a weapon all along? Something smooth? Have a feel of this leather. Something heavy? Imagine being on the receiving end of a boxer’s punch. Something capable of infl icting face-shattering damage? Look at a few post-prize-fight photos for the proof if you want it.”

He couldn’t disagree. The boy had all the necessary requirements. Save one.

“And the gun, Sergeant?”

“What?”

“The shotgun used on Georgina Higgins-Hart. What about that?”

“You said yourself that the University probably has a gun club. To which, I have no doubt, Gareth Randolph belongs.”

“So why follow her?”

She frowned, jabbing the toe of her shoe against the icy stone fl oor.

“Havers, I can understand why he would lie in wait at Crusoe’s Island for Elena Weaver. He was in love with her. She’d rejected him. She’d made it plain that their lovemaking was just a bit of sweaty frolic on her mother’s kitchen floor. She’d declared her attachment to another man. She’d teased and humiliated and made him feel a perfect fool. I agree with all that.”

“So?”

“What about Georgina?”

“George…” Havers only stumbled over the thought for a moment before going on stoutly. “Perhaps it’s what we thought before. Symbolically killing Elena Weaver again and again by seeking out all the young women who resemble her.”

“If that’s the case, why not go to her room, Havers? Why not kill her in the college? Why follow her all the way out past Madingley? And how did he follow her?”

“How…”

“Havers, he’s deaf.”

That stopped her.

Lynley pressed his advantage. “It’s the country, Havers. It was pitch dark out there. Even if he got a car and followed her at a distance until they were safely out of town and then drove beyond her to lie in wait in that field, wouldn’t he have had to hear something-her footfalls, her breathing, anything, Havers-in order to know exactly when to shoot? Are you going to argue that he went out there before dawn on Wednesday morning and blithely relied upon there being adequate starlight in this weather-which, frankly, would have been a fairly bad bet-to see a running girl well enough and soon enough to aim at her, discharge the weapon, and kill her? That’s not premeditated murder. That’s pure serendipity.”

She lifted one of the boxing gloves with the palm of her hand. “So what’re we doing with these, Inspector?”

“Making St. James work for his money this morning. As well as hedging our bets.”

She pushed open the door with a weary grin. “I just love a man who keeps his options open.”

They were heading towards the turreted passage and Queens’ Lane beyond it when a voice called out to them. They turned back into the court. A slender fi gure was coming along the path, the mist breaking before her like a curtain as she jogged in their direction.

She was tall and fair, with long silky hair that was held back from her face by two tortoise shell combs. These glittered with damp in the light that shone from one of the buildings. Beads of moisture clung to her eyelashes and skin. She was wearing only an unmatched sweatsuit whose shirt, like Georgina’s, was emblazoned with the name of the college. She looked terribly cold.

“I was in the dining hall,” she told them. “I saw you come for Gareth. You’re the police.”

“And you’re…?”

“Rosalyn Simpson.” Her eyes fell to the boxing gloves, and her brow furrowed in consternation. “You don’t think Gareth’s had anything to do with this?”

Lynley said nothing. Havers crossed her arms. The girl continued.

“I would have come to you sooner, but I was in Oxford until Tuesday evening. And then… Well, it gets a bit complicated.” She cast a glance in the direction of Gareth Randolph’s room.

“You have some information?” Lynley asked.

“I went to see Gareth at first. It was the DeaStu handout he’d printed, you see. I saw it when I got back, so it seemed logical to talk to him. I thought he’d pass the information on. Besides, there were other considerations at the time that…Oh, what does it matter now? I’m here. I’m telling you.”

“What, exactly?”

Like Sergeant Havers, Rosalyn too crossed her arms, although it seemed more in a need to keep warm than a desire to project implacability. She said, “I was running along the river Monday morning. I went by Crusoe’s Island round half past six. I think I saw the killer.”

Glyn Weaver edged part way down the stairs, just far enough to hear the conversation between her former husband and his current wife. They were still in the morning room-although it had been some hours since breakfast-and their voices were just polite and formal enough to give a clear indication of the state of things between them. Cool, Glyn decided, frosting over into glacial. She smiled.

“Terence Cuff wants to give some sort of eulogy,” Anthony was saying. He spoke without any evident feeling, the information given like a recitation. “I’ve talked to two of her supervisors. They’ll also speak, and Adam’s said