Free The Yeare's Midnight by Ed O'Connor

call this morning at eight from a Dr Heather Stussman. She’s a lecturer at the university. She was pretty freaked out. She thinks the guy who killed Lucy Harrington telephoned her yesterday.’
    Dexter was shocked. ‘What makes her think it’s our bloke?’ She was finding it hard to concentrate on the road.
    ‘She got a letter in the post, a letter containing a line of poetry. Then yesterday afternoon some bloke called her, asked her if she’d received his letter and told her to watch the news. He didn’t mention Lucy Harrington but guess what the line of poetry was …’
    ‘Draw not up seas, to drowne me in thy spheare?’
    ‘Bingo.’
    ‘But the writing on the wall isn’t public knowledge yet. How did she know our man was talking about Lucy Harrington?’
    ‘That’s a very good point. I guess we’ll find out.’
    ‘Why did he call her? Who is she, anyway?’
    ‘She’s an expert. Fellow of Southwell College. She published a book on John Donne’s poems last year. She’s quite a big fish. American.’ Underwood frowned as the hulk of New Bolden power station loomed beside them. ‘He told her to watch the news and explain it to the police.’
    ‘Explain it to us?’
    ‘Fucked-up or what?’
     
    They approached Cambridge from the north, passing the entrance to Girton College then turning left onto Chesterton Road. The ring road slowly brought them around the city, with Dexter zigzagging energetically to avoid cyclists until they swung right at Parker’s Piece and crossed into Lensfield Road. Southwell College was at the southern end of the city, backing onto the river. On instructions from Underwood, Dexter parked outside the Fitzwilliam Museum and the two of them walked up to the Southwell porter’s lodge. Dexter shivered. It was always cold in Cambridge at this time of year, just as it had been in East London.
    Southwell College was a mish-mash of architectural styles reflecting the building’s spasmodic evolution through the centuries. The sixteenth-century first quad was lined with flower boxes and was far more attractive than the dark Victorian court that had grown up behind it. Like many of the colleges, the desire toexpand had also encouraged Southwell to build a monstrous, modern accommodation block. It sat uneasily next to the college gardens like an uninvited guest at a family reunion.
    The porter directed Underwood and Dexter to Stussman’s rooms in the second quad. Dexter slowed down diplomatically at the foot of the old wooden staircase and allowed Underwood to take the lead. She knew he was more likely to have difficulties with the ascent than her. Stussman heard them approaching and was waiting at the entrance to her rooms on the first-floor landing.
    ‘Inspector Underwood?’ She held out her hand.
    Underwood was impressed. Stussman had thick black shoulder-length hair and brilliant stone-blue eyes. She had a firm handshake, too.
    ‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Stussman.’ Underwood was trying not to gawp. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Dexter.’
    ‘Nice to meet you, sergeant,’ said Stussman. No hand was offered this time. Dexter didn’t mind: she was used to that. Stussman led them inside. The living room had the typically chaotic feel of an academic’s office. One wall was entirely dedicated to books, from floor to ceiling. Dexter ran her eye across the titles: lots of poetry books and biographies. She didn’t recognize many of them. On Stussman’s desk was a vast glacier of paper that was threatening to spill onto the carpet. Her computer was an old-fashioned Apple Mac that seemed to be feeling its age. There were two armchairs: Underwood fell gratefully into one. Dexter remained standing.
    Stussman was leaning against her desk. Underwood’s eyes moved along the firm lines of her legs. Julia had great legs too. Desire and despair ambushed him again: the double helix burned in his heart. He cleared his throat.
    ‘Dr Stussman. For Sergeant Dexter’s benefit and my own, could