Game of Bones

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Babbington had clearly got his mojo back during the short drive to the police station. The arrogance was back; so was the truculent stare. He fixed Rafferty with the latter as they sat either side of the scuffed table in Interview Room 2. He’d been advised of his rights but had insisted he didn’t need a solicitor.

Llewellyn placed the tapes in the recording machine, pressed the button, then sat back with a look that reminded Rafferty of his baby daughter before she started bawling.

Rafferty pursed his lips, but said nothing, bar his name, the date, time, and the name of their interviewee, for the tapes. Llewellyn followed suit.

‘Mr Babbington, you’re being interviewed in connection with the murder of Rupert Hunter-York. You’ve claimed you’re innocent, but we have proof—’

‘Professor.’

‘What?’

‘I’m Professor Babbington. I’m entitled to the courtesy of my title, so demand that you use it.’

Rafferty simmered quietly, furious with himself that he’d allowed the man to wrong-foot him. He counted to ten and started again. ‘Professor, as I said we have proof—’ He got no further before Babbington again interrupted him.

‘Proof? What proof can you possibly have?’ Babbington sat back, folded his arms, and fixed his piercing gaze on him as if he intended having a staring-out contest. Rafferty, with half a lifetime of such contests, easily won that round. But Babbington was clearly determined to deny his guilt even now, and Rafferty’s hopes of a quick confession and an early night began to fade.

Rafferty’s lips pursed at Babbington’s obstinacy. He laid out their forensic proofs, one by one. ‘Your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, Mr Hunter-York’s paper knife.’ He laid the paper knife in its protective plastic before Babbington.

Babbington unbent sufficiently to attempt a defence. ‘That thing? It wouldn’t slice through butter.’

‘It has been sharpened. I think you’ll find that it would slice through butter now. It certainly sliced through Mr Hunter-York’s neck. He was almost decapitated.’ It was more robust that the average paper-knife. Hunter-York had apparently picked it up on one of his exotic holidays.

The professor gave a moue of distaste. ‘Really Inspector—must you be so appallingly graphic?’ Babbington pulled a face that indicated his sensibilities were far too refined to listen to such unpleasantness.

Rafferty admired the man’s gall, if little else. ‘I don’t imagine Mr Hunter-York would have felt my description unpleasantly graphic. After all, it was his throat you cut, his life’s blood that spurted through his hands like a horror film victim. The least you can do is listen to the details.’

Babbington stared at Rafferty, stared at the paperknife, then his gaze narrowed, and he said, with a note of uncertainty, ‘it’s always been blunt, ever since I’ve been here. Who can possibly have sharpened it?’

‘Mr Hunter-York’s murderer, presumably. You, Mr Babbington.’ Rafferty cursed himself that he’d called the man ‘Mr’ for a second time, and awaited Babbington’s correction.

Babbington wasn’t slow to remind him. Strangely, he seemed more affronted by Rafferty’s lack of care for the dignity he felt that ‘Professor’ gave him. Even now he clung to the title, as if he refused to recognise that of ‘Murderer’. With flared nostrils, he added, ‘How can you say such a thing? It’s utterly preposterous.’

‘I can assure you it’s not.’ Rafferty laid the next two pieces of evidence in front of him. ‘Your DNA. Found on the victim’s clothes. The victim’s blood, found on your shirt.’

Babbington had by now fully recovered his composure. Although, to judge from the restlessness about his eyes, he was clearly rattled. He sat back and nodded dismissively at Rafferty’s carefully gathered evidence.

‘I missed my dress shirt when I went to get changed for the evening function. Clearly, somebody else helped themselves to the key to my room at some time, and made a copy, so they could borrow my dress shirt and wear it to kill Hunter-York. I always keep a clean shirt at the university for when I have an evening function to attend and know I won’t have time to get home. But this time the shirt was nowhere to be found. The blood proves nothing.’

‘The shirt had your sweat on it. Your aftershave. It proves that you wore it.’

‘But it doesn’t prove when, does it?’ Babbington, clearly pleased that he’d scored a point, looked smug. ‘I was running late, and when I came back to my room to change for the evening function, as I said, my clean evening shirt was nowhere to be seen. I had to wear the one I’d had all day.’

‘That doesn’t explain why the dress shirt had your sweat on it. Your aftershave.’

‘Ahem.’ The professor looked annoyed that he was forced to admit, ‘I’d worn it before at a previous evening function.’ Babbington looked as embarrassed at the admission, as if he’d farted before the Queen, and he hurried to defend himself. ‘It was perfectly clean. I’d only worn it for a few hours, after all. I’d forgotten to take it home after the previous function, and I judged it would stand another wear. But, of course, when I looked for it in my desk drawer, it had vanished. Taken by the real murderer.’

‘Convenient.’

Babbington ignored Rafferty’ comment and addressed his next remark to Lewellyn. ‘I find between my lectures here, the various functions, and so on, I’m not as organised about the laundry as my wife used to be. She’s only been dead a year. Cancer.’ He closed his eyes briefly.

Going for the sympathy vote, Rafferty concluded, even as he felt obliged to offer his perfunctory condolences. They were waved away.

‘Naturally, I didn’t think anything of the missing shirt, as it’s been known for me to neglect my laundry.’ Babbington shook his head. ‘It’s funny, though, as I could have sworn there should have been a shirt in the drawer.’

‘But who would have a key to your room?’

‘I don’t know, dammit.’

Rafferty was pleased to see that Babbington had gone red. He was starting to lose his cool. Good. It gave a fair chance that he would make even more elementary mistakes than he’d made in commission of the murder.

‘Perhaps someone copied it before I started work at the university. Who knows? But whoever did have a key, also helped himself to my aftershave. I remember the lid was on the bottle. I always leave it off, to save time. Find that key, Rafferty, and you find your murderer.’

Babbington folded his arms complacently, as if he somehow expected Rafferty to conjure up this key and absolve him of his guilt. ‘At what time do you estimate that Hunter-York was killed?’

‘The post-mortem puts it at between seven and nine that evening.’

‘I last saw him alive at six-thirty.’ Babbington sat back, as if that one item of evidence was conclusive. ‘I trust I will receive your apology, Rafferty, in due course.’ He made as if to push the chair back and get up.

‘Sit down, please, Professor Babbington. I haven’t finished interviewing you yet.’

Babbington mouth opened as though he would protest. But he clamped his lips shut, and sat down again with ill-grace, making his heavy jowls wobble. But, once seated, he fixed Rafferty with a haughty look and said, ‘This is quite intolerable. You have clearly investigated Hunter-York’s murder with a degree of class prejudice. Even your sergeant disagrees with you.’

Llewellyn said nothing, though his entire demeanor shouted confirmation, and Rafferty fixed him with a look that dared him to open his mouth, despite his earlier insistence that he would take his part in the interview.

Rafferty turned back to Babbington. He felt his anger stoking, and took a few deep breaths, till he felt the red mist evaporate. He wouldn’t allow the bastard to rile him. That was what he wanted, and it gave Rafferty a smidgeon of pleasure to deny him the satisfaction.

‘I assure you that isn’t the case. My sergeant agrees with me that the evidence against you is overwhelming.’ He looked pointedly at Llewellyn, and said, ‘Don’t you?’

Llewellyn looked at the floor, and said, ‘Yes, but—’

‘So, there you have it.’ Rafferty cut his sergeant off before he could voice his objections. ‘Even a thoroughly educated man like my sergeant, a Classics man, like yourself, agrees that you’re guilty. What can I say?’

Babbington was getting progressively redder in the face. ‘I demand to see your senior officer. I’m sure I’ll get more satisfaction from a man of my own class. As I said, I feel your accusations stem from the class divide, and I’ll not be subjected to these insinuations by an officer so clearly more bent on winning the class war than investigating this case properly.’

Rafferty by now had his temper on a choke chain. He gave the chain a jerk, and said, ‘As you wish. The superintendent is away. But I can arrange for Chief Inspector Yearsley to see you. I can assure you, that he will say the same as me.’

‘I doubt it. I know Mr Yearsley. He’s a university man. He will not tolerate this persecution.’

Rafferty gathered together the evidence bags, handed them to Llewellyn, and stood up. ‘Interview suspended at six forty-five pm.’ He looked at Babbington. ‘You’ll be taken to a cell until I can locate Chief Inspector Yearsley.’

‘What? You’re going to treat me like a common criminal?’

Rafferty met his stare with one of his own. ‘From where I’m standing, Professor Babbington, that’s exactly what you are. A murderer. One of the lowest of the low. As I intend to prove. By rights, I should charge you now. But as you have demanded to see someone more senior that me, I’ll respect your right to do so.’

Babbington didn’t rise to the bait. But the look he gave Rafferty would have shrivelled a lesser man. All he said was, ‘Certainly, I’ll wait for Chief Inspector Yearsley. He will be prepared to listen to reason. He’ll believe I’m innocent of this...this thing of which you accuse me.’

Rafferty didn’t respond, but just told the uniformed officer to escort Professor Babbington to a cell and left the interview room with Llewellyn behind him. He made it as far as his office, before he gave vent to his feelings. ‘Jesus, that man! Speaking to me like that. Who the hell does he think he is?’ He drew himself up. ‘I might be only half-educated compared to him, but at least I’ve got some common sense. At least I’m not a common murderer.’

‘He’s very distinguished, so one can understand—’

‘Oh, can one?’ Rafferty stared at his sergeant, from the top of his stylish haircut, through his bandbox-smart suit, to his gleaming shoes, and the resentment he’d felt at their first time working together, rose up in waves till it threatened to choke him. ‘And you could have supported me when—’

‘He’s extremely eminent,’ Llewellyn said, interrupting Rafferty’s accusation. ‘You can’t expect him to take this easily. He’s—’

‘I don’t care what he is. As far as I’m concerned he’s a murderer.’ Rafferty judged a few hours in the cells would make him less combative. He turned away, so irritated by Llewellyn that he couldn’t even look at him, as he said, ‘Try to track down Yearsley. Once Babbington’s spoken to someone senior, he might start to face facts, admit his guilt, and then we can go home.’ Home to Abra, and his little daughter, Neeve.

But it was already almost 7 p m; Babbington’s intransigence had ensured he’d missed her bath-time, with her ducks and her squeals of laughter. If he got the wretched Anthony Babbington squared away, tomorrow he might be home in time to see his daughter awake.

Llewellyn sat down at his desk, and picked up the phone, his stiff posture a mark of affront.

Rafferty glowered at his back. It had come to something when his own sergeant was still defending Babbington. It was true—university men stuck together. But it felt strange that Llewellyn was so obviously not with him. And when Llewellyn told him that Chief Inspector Yearsley would return to the station in the next half-hour, Rafferty just gave a nod in acknowledgment, and took himself off to the canteen to await his arrival; anything but spend the next thirty minutes in the frigid atmosphere. Though he was irritated that he’d felt hounded out of his own office. Llewellyn could always stand any amount of ‘atmosphere’, and calmly ignore it as if it wasn’t there. Rafferty couldn’t.

It’s evidence of your sensitive side, Rafferty assured himself crossly, half-wishing Babbington was able to see it. But he was a detective, and to allow a suspect to witness any weakness would be a basic error, only forgiven in the lowliest probationer. Besides, Babbington was the sort of man who would seize on weakness and shake it till his teeth rattled.

The canteen didn’t provide anything much by way of solace at this time of night. Rafferty got himself a cup of machine coffee – a marginable improvement on the machine tea – found himself an empty table and slumped in a chair. Mentally, he reviewed the evidence, prepared to justify himself to Yearsley, getting progressively more aggravated that he was forced to do so at all. Babbington had disputed the evidence of his blood-stained shirt, disputed the evidence of his fingerprints on the murder weapon.

But Babbington’s shirt had been locked in his office. The other staff had told him Babbington always locked his office door, even when he was in there. Of course, with his drink problem, he wouldn’t want to be found boozing. Rafferty gave a snort, which made a bunch of uniforms taking their refs at the next table look strangely at him. He directed a hard stare in their direction, and they turned back so hastily that Rafferty almost gave another snort.

Did Babbington think his colleagues couldn’t smell the drink on him? Did he think his shambling walk wasn’t another giveaway?

And then there was the knife, with Babbington’s fingerprints all over it. Let him try to explain that away to the chief inspector.

He hadn’t even got to the fact that Babbington and the dead man had history. According to others on the staff, who had all been delighted at the opportunity to dish the dirt during the investigation, they detested one another; such detestation could be traced back to Babbington being overlooked for a plum job. He always swore the Administrator, Hunter-York, had a hand in that. It must have rankled. Rafferty could easily see that a man like Babbington would brood on the imagined wrong. But what did he expect? A man with a drink problem, no matter how eminent, would hardly be a good image for the university. It was a wonder he’d clung on to his job. But he was safe enough, apart from the murder, of course. What was it people said? That you’d have to commit murder to be in danger of losing your position when you had a job in the public sector.

Well, he’d make Yearsley see that Babbington had committed murder. Rafferty swilled back the last of his coffee, pulled a face at the bitter dregs, and took himself down to the car park entrance to await the chief inspector, determined to nab him before Llewellyn got to him and poisoned the well.

***