The police were waiting for me by the time I returned to the dorm.
I’d spent the whole walk back from the library convincing myself that Feathering knowing my name was innocent. I’d been there so much already this semester, and I supposed maybe my name flashed up on her screen whenever I signed in. Maybe she’d made a note of it after my altercation with the Chris lookalike.
When I saw the two detectives waiting outside my door, I inwardly sighed with relief. They obviously hadn’t secured a search warrant, or they’d already be rooting through my belongings. The blood-soaked shirt was suspicious, but perhaps not suspicious enough. The print-out of my library comings and goings should confirm my innocence without too much hassle.
I didn’t bother feigning surprise at the sight of them. Instead I smiled pleasantly – not long before realising that probably made me look even more sociopathic than usual. There had just been a murder. Any normal student would be fraught with worry, with fear that they might be next, with devastation over an innocent life lost. All I was doing was traipsing across campus in the small hours of the morning, trying to prove my own innocence with little regard for the victim or their family. And with no regard for my own safety, given that there was a killer still at large.
Not great, Wolfe.
‘Alice Wolfe?’ The taller of the two women asked. She had a severe widow’s peak and a hooked nose, with close-together brown eyes and crow’s feet.
I felt oddly calm. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m DCI Wilson, and this is DI Blenkinsopp.’ She nodded to her colleague; a young blonde woman shaped like a pigeon. ‘Do you mind if we have a quick chat?’
‘Do I mind?’ I asked, feigning another smile. ‘You make it seem like I have a choice.’
‘You do,’ said DI Wilson flatly. I couldn’t trace her accent. ‘This is entirely voluntary.’
I shrugged, as though I didn’t care either way and the entire thing was boring. More classically innocent behaviour. ‘Sure.’
‘We’re happy to conduct the interview in your room, if you’re comfortable with that.’
Interview. That sounded decidedly more formal than a ‘quick chat’.
‘Of course. I just need to check that my roommate is out.’ I had a vague mental image of Lottie standing on the other side of the door, ear pressed against the wood. For some reason, the Scooby Doo of it all made me want to laugh.
But the room was empty – and, now that I was seeing it through the eyes of two police officers, hideously untidy. My nose wrinkled against the tangy effluvia, and I hastily cracked the window open, propping it up with my fattest Nietzsche. The cold morning air was instantly sobering.
‘Would you like a seat?’ I asked, gesturing to the two desk chairs with their backs to each other as though partaking in private study.
‘That’s okay,’ DI Wilson said. ‘We’ll stand. But please, make yourself comfortable. As we say, this is a voluntary interview, and we’d like you to feel at ease.’
‘Sure,’ I said, turning my chair to face them. Blenkinsopp shifted awkwardly on her feet, arms crossed over her chest, while Wilson rooted around in her pocket for something.
‘We’ll be recording the interview for internal purposes,’ she said, pulling out a small black Dictaphone with a snarl of headphone cables wrapped around it. She unwound the wires and pressed a button that made a solid red light illuminate on the top.
‘As you may or may not be aware, a body was found at the base of the North Tower in the small hours of this morning. At present, the circumstances surrounding the death are still under investigation.’
‘I heard. That’s awful. Her poor family.’
I froze. Had I messed up already? They hadn’t mentioned that the victim was female. But the knowledge was already widespread, so this surely wasn’t a dubious thing to say in itself.
DI Wilson nodded. ‘Did you know the victim?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know her name. Are you allowed to tell me?’
‘Poppy Kerr.’
My gaze fixed on the red light of the tape recorder. ‘No, I don’t think I know her. My roommate said she was on the fine art programme?’
‘Yes. Now, your roommate. Ms Fitzwilliam alleged that last night you returned from the Refectory covered in blood. Is that true?’
The desk chair felt harder than usual; my spine pressed almost painfully into its curved wooden back. ‘Partially true, yeah. Iwascovered in blood, but I wasn’t at the Refectory. I was at the library.’ I unfastened my briefcase and pulled out the printed piece of paper detailing my sign in and sign out times. The Carvell logo stood proudly at the top of the letterhead.
DI Blenkinsopp reached out and scanned the page, then passed it to DI Wilson, whose face remained the picture of neutrality. ‘I see,’ said the latter. ‘And do you normally carry details of your sign-in times around with you?’
My stomach clenched into a fist. ‘No. I went there this morning, after I showered. I knew the fact I came home covered in blood looked bad, and I wanted to prove my whereabouts.’