New Zealand, the supermarket by Castle Marina had had an offer on Highland Park. There wasn't a great deal left, but there was enough. Pouring herself a good glass, she carried it over to the small two-seater settee and stretched out, feet over the edge, flicking through the TV channels with the remote. Sky News had the mother of the young Nottingham soldier killed in Iraq breaking down on camera; so did Five and the rolling news on BBC News 24.
Too much grief.
Lesley switched off and fetched the DVD she'd bought for just a fiver in Fopp.
Bringing Up Baby.
Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. One of Stephen's favourites, he'd given it to her once on video.
Fast and funny as it was, it couldn't totally dispel her mood and, finally, it couldn't keep her eyes from closing. When she woke a little after one, the film had long finished, the heating had switched itself off, and she took herself, cold, to bed.
Chapter 7
THE LIST OF NAMES MARK MCKUSICK HAD PROVIDED FOR the police was hardly extensive. A dozen in all. Whether that marked Stephen Bryan out as gregarious or reclusive, Helen wasn't sure. It depended, she thought, not just on personality, but the demands of whatever job you did, the circles in which you mixed. She would have found it difficult to come up with the names of twelve friends herself she might describe as close. Shit, she thought, make that six.
Of those McKusick had mentioned, three had addresses in the Clarendon Park area of Leicester where Bryan had previously lived, one in nearby Stoneygate, four were fellow academics from the years spent teaching at De Montfort University, and just one from Bryan's new post at Anglia Ruskin. Alongside two of names, one with an address in Warwick, the other in Norwich, McKusick had added a note describing them as film writers/historians. The last name, also annotated, and the only woman, was Siobhan Banham, an old school friend, apparently, who lived in London.
Helen had talked to most of these herself, either in person or on the telephone; detectives had interviewed all but three. None, so far, had provided anything to shake the image of Stephen Bryan as someone who was hard-working and enthusiastic, dedicated to his subject, generous to his friends, good-humoured and generally well-liked. Nor had anyone, gay or straight, given support to the idea that Bryan had been sexually promiscuous. His relationship with Mark McKusick they had characterized as comfortable and relaxed; the occasional disagreement, naturally, but, all in all, they had seemed content in one another's company. A bit like an old married couple, someone had remarked. Helen's ears had pricked up at that: in her experience most happily married couples were less happily married than they seemed.
The lecturer from Anglia Ruskin had asked if she had spoken to Jack Rouse, who also taught there and was, apparently, someone who knew Bryan quite well.
Helen had not: his name had not been on the original list.
She had tried contacting Rouse several times in the last couple of days, but there had never been any reply on the number she'd been given and the university hadn't been able to track him down. Without any great hope, she dialed the number again and this time it was answered almost right away.
"Hello?"
"Jack Rouse? I'd like to speak to Jack Rouse."
"This is he." The voice was quite deep and smooth.
"This is D. S. Walker, Cambridgeshire Police."
"I see. How can I be of help?" A hint of an accent. American?
"You knew Stephen Bryan, I believe?"
"Ah, yes."
"You were friends?"
"I'd say so. At least, we were beginning to be. It was monstrous, what happened. I liked him a great deal."
"I wonder, could we talk?"
"About Stephen?"
"Yes."
"Certainly. Only it will have to be soon. The day after tomorrow I leave for Chicago."
"When would be best? I could probably manage most times."
"Today, then. How about today?"
"Fine."
"You know the Fitzwilliam?"
"Of course." The museum was no more than a
Too much grief.
Lesley switched off and fetched the DVD she'd bought for just a fiver in Fopp.
Bringing Up Baby.
Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. One of Stephen's favourites, he'd given it to her once on video.
Fast and funny as it was, it couldn't totally dispel her mood and, finally, it couldn't keep her eyes from closing. When she woke a little after one, the film had long finished, the heating had switched itself off, and she took herself, cold, to bed.
Chapter 7
THE LIST OF NAMES MARK MCKUSICK HAD PROVIDED FOR the police was hardly extensive. A dozen in all. Whether that marked Stephen Bryan out as gregarious or reclusive, Helen wasn't sure. It depended, she thought, not just on personality, but the demands of whatever job you did, the circles in which you mixed. She would have found it difficult to come up with the names of twelve friends herself she might describe as close. Shit, she thought, make that six.
Of those McKusick had mentioned, three had addresses in the Clarendon Park area of Leicester where Bryan had previously lived, one in nearby Stoneygate, four were fellow academics from the years spent teaching at De Montfort University, and just one from Bryan's new post at Anglia Ruskin. Alongside two of names, one with an address in Warwick, the other in Norwich, McKusick had added a note describing them as film writers/historians. The last name, also annotated, and the only woman, was Siobhan Banham, an old school friend, apparently, who lived in London.
Helen had talked to most of these herself, either in person or on the telephone; detectives had interviewed all but three. None, so far, had provided anything to shake the image of Stephen Bryan as someone who was hard-working and enthusiastic, dedicated to his subject, generous to his friends, good-humoured and generally well-liked. Nor had anyone, gay or straight, given support to the idea that Bryan had been sexually promiscuous. His relationship with Mark McKusick they had characterized as comfortable and relaxed; the occasional disagreement, naturally, but, all in all, they had seemed content in one another's company. A bit like an old married couple, someone had remarked. Helen's ears had pricked up at that: in her experience most happily married couples were less happily married than they seemed.
The lecturer from Anglia Ruskin had asked if she had spoken to Jack Rouse, who also taught there and was, apparently, someone who knew Bryan quite well.
Helen had not: his name had not been on the original list.
She had tried contacting Rouse several times in the last couple of days, but there had never been any reply on the number she'd been given and the university hadn't been able to track him down. Without any great hope, she dialed the number again and this time it was answered almost right away.
"Hello?"
"Jack Rouse? I'd like to speak to Jack Rouse."
"This is he." The voice was quite deep and smooth.
"This is D. S. Walker, Cambridgeshire Police."
"I see. How can I be of help?" A hint of an accent. American?
"You knew Stephen Bryan, I believe?"
"Ah, yes."
"You were friends?"
"I'd say so. At least, we were beginning to be. It was monstrous, what happened. I liked him a great deal."
"I wonder, could we talk?"
"About Stephen?"
"Yes."
"Certainly. Only it will have to be soon. The day after tomorrow I leave for Chicago."
"When would be best? I could probably manage most times."
"Today, then. How about today?"
"Fine."
"You know the Fitzwilliam?"
"Of course." The museum was no more than a
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