‘Is that an accent I’m hearing? Australia, is it?’
‘England.’
‘Oh.’
The detective – he’d introduced himself as a Lieutenant Brendan Cassidy – seemed mildly surprised. Greg swallowed back his irritation. There was a certain type of American who found the idea of black men speaking with English accents wildly improbable. Unable to believe what they were hearing, they invariably plumped for Australia instead. And it was always Australia. Not South Africa, or New Zealand, or any other English-speaking country: Australia. One of life’s more annoying little mysteries.
‘My wife would love to go to England, one day. See Buckingham Palace and stuff. Maybe when we retire.’
Greg refused to be drawn. He was in the principal’s office, sitting across her desk from the detective. Crammed into Ellis’s chair, Cassidy seemed far too large for it. Ellis was slightly built. Cassidy, on the other hand, was big and powerful, though running to fat, with a distinct double chin, and close-cropped gray hair. Feeling the heat, he’d removed his overcoat and suit jacket, and was sitting in shirtsleeves, his tie loosely knotted beneath an unbuttoned collar. He was smiling – or trying to. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The smile faded away.
‘Can you tell me where you were last night between about seven p.m. and midnight?’
‘Home. Then I went to the movies. And then home again.’
‘And where’s home for you?’
‘Bloomfield. Two hundred and thirty-six Parkside Hill.’
‘Uh-huh. And you were there at seven?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when did you leave?’
‘About quarter past.’
‘Quarter past seven?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say you went to the movies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which theater?’
‘Row House Cinema, on Butler.’
‘And how did you get there?’
‘I drove.’
‘When did you get there?’
‘About half past.’
Cassidy raised an eyebrow.
‘So that would be seven thirty, then?’
‘It would.’
‘And where did you park?’
‘Forty-Fifth Street, between Butler and the railroad lines.’
‘Uh-huh. And what did you go see at the movie theater?’
‘Solaris.’
‘Not familiar with that one. Who’s in it?’
‘Donatas Banionis and Natalya Bondarchuk.’
‘Who?’ Cassidy gave him a doubtful look.
‘Donatas Banionis and Natalya Bondarchuk,’ Greg repeated. ‘It’s Russian. From 1972. No reason for anyone sensible to have heard of it.’
‘But you have?’
‘I teach Russian.’
‘Uh-huh. And you left, when?’
‘As soon as it finished. I don’t remember the precise time. I was home by around ten thirty, eleven.’
‘And did you stop anywhere on the way home?’
‘No.’
‘Do you live with anyone, Greg? Someone who can confirm you were home when you say you were?’
‘No.’
‘Uh-huh. Did you know Lindsay Delcade?’
‘I did.’
‘And what did you think of her?’
‘I thought she was a complete fucking cow.’
Cassidy paused a moment, then, swiveling the principal’s chair from side to side. Something that might have been amusement crinkled his eyes.
‘I understand she’d complained about you to Ms Ellis?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything come of that?’
‘Ms Ellis suggested that I be more diplomatic in my interactions.’
‘Anything more than that?’
‘No.’
‘And did you see or interact with Ms Delcade after you spoke to Ms Ellis?’
‘After?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then, no.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Cassidy stood up, handed over his card. ‘In case you think of anything that might be helpful. Thank you for your time, Mr Ab … ah, Greg. We’ll be in touch if we need anything more.’
Greg wandered out of the office. The school, understandably, had a very odd feel to it. Kids had been sent home wherever possible, the remainder warehoused wherever space and a supervising adult permitted. Most of the faculty were still penned up like cattle in the admin suite, waiting to be interviewed. The rest, he supposed, had gone either to their classrooms or the faculty lounge to await further instructions.
Greg didn’t feel much like company. He headed to his classroom, which was, in fact, the closest one to the principal’s office, being just down the corridor on the other side of the main stairs.
Its location was probably why it was occupied. He could hear voices coming through the not-quite-closed door. Curious, he walked past, stealing a glance through the door’s glass windowpane. There was nothing to see. Whoever was in there had to be seated at his desk, which was out of sight from the corridor. He started to step away but then stopped. He recognized one of the voices.
‘Between seven and midnight?’ Andrea Velasquez asked. She sounded strangely tentative.
‘Yes.’ A woman’s voice. Pittsburgh PD presumably.
‘I finished up here at maybe, five? Then I went home. I was there till maybe, seven? Then I went to school. Was there till eleven. Then I come home again.’
‘And where’s home?’
‘I live with my mom and dad on the North Shore, Oak Street.’
‘And what school did you go to?’
‘PCC.’
‘Pittsburgh Community College?’
‘Yeah. I’m taking my A.S. in Computer Information Science.’
‘Good for you! Maybe you can help out with the department’s computers when you’re done. Just between you and me, they suck.’
Nervous laughter.
‘And what classes did you take last night?’
‘Just the one. Informatics with Professor Carbone.’
‘For three hours?’
‘It’s night school. It’s the only way to get in the credits.’
‘Got it. I admire you for doing that. Me? I’d be way too tired. How many took the class last night?’
‘Oh, about five or six.’
‘Can you give me their names?’
‘I don’t really know them. Just faces I see.’
‘Got it. But Professor Carbone taught the class? And he knows your name, I take it?’
‘Sure.’
‘And you left when, you said?’
‘Eleven. I went straight home.’
‘And how’d you travel to PCC?’
‘I drove. I have an old beater Chevy, but it gets me where I need to go.’
‘And did you park in the PCC parking lot?’
‘I did.’
‘So, I guess you used your student keycard to get in?’
‘Uh … Sure.’
‘And you didn’t stop anywhere on the way home? For gas, or Twinkies, or anything?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you know a Lindsay Delcade?’
‘I know she was a parent and that she’s dead. That’s about it.’
‘If you’re the assistant custodian, you must use the custodian’s room?’
‘Is that where she died?’ The shock in Andrea’s voice was palpable.
‘I can’t talk about that right now. But you use the custodian’s room?’
‘Every day.’
‘And when were you last in there yesterday?’
‘At five. I stashed some equipment, mops and stuff, and headed out.’
‘Anyone else there?’
‘Just Vern.’
‘I see. And did you notice anything unusual?’
‘No way. Everything was, like, totally normal.’
‘Understood. Well, that’s about it. Just one last thing. We’ll need your prints to eliminate them from anything we find at the crime scene. That OK by you?’
‘Sure.’
‘Awesome, thanks.’ There was a sound of chairs being scraped back. ‘Here’s my card, in case you remember anything you think might be useful. Come down to the station after work for the fingerprint stuff – it won’t take but a few minutes – and we’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.’
Greg stepped away from the door just as Andrea stepped out, looking thoughtful.
‘Oh! Hi there, Mr Bimbo. How are you today?’ She plastered on a quick smile, but her voice was high and strained.
‘Better than you, I suspect.’
Andrea shrugged, glancing back at the classroom door.
‘Yeah, well. It’s over now.’
Greg placed a gentle hand on her elbow, edging her out of earshot of whoever was in his room.
‘Why’d you lie to them, Andrea? Do you think that was wise?’
Andrea wrenched her arm out of Greg’s grip.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do.’ Greg smiled at her, sadly. ‘The officer that interviewed you, what was she wearing?’
‘Er … dark suit. What’s it to you?’
‘Mine was in shirt sleeves. Between you and me, I think he’s a doughnut or six heavier than he should be.’
‘So?’ Andrea refused to smile.
‘So … neither of them were wearing overcoats, were they? Because it’s warm in here today, not freezing, like yesterday. Which means you fixed the furnace, just like Szymanski asked you to. Which means you were here half the night. Which means you did not go to PCC like you just told the police.’
‘You were listening?’
‘Couldn’t help it. Your voice carries.’
‘How dare you!’ Andrea’s dark eyes flashed with anger. ‘That was a private conversation!’
‘Andrea, I just …’ He stepped forward, tried to lay a calming hand on her shoulder. The young woman moved sharply to avoid him.
‘Leave me alone! Creep!’
Andrea stormed off, her gleaming Doc Martens raising tiny little squeaks from the polished hardwood floor.
Greg sighed. He spared Andrea’s retreating figure a worried glance before turning back toward the stairs.
And almost ran into someone.
‘So sorry,’ he said, stopping abruptly. ‘Should have been looking where I was going.’
It had to be the policewoman who’d questioned Andrea, he decided. She must have stepped out from his classroom while he’d been distracted. She was mid-to-late thirties and tall, maybe five-seven or eight, in sensible flats and a dark, slightly scuffed pantsuit. Thoughtful, intelligent eyes stared up at him from either side of a prominent, no-nonsense nose. How much had she seen, Greg wondered. Or, worse still, heard?
‘No worries,’ she said, sticking out her hand. ‘I’m Sergeant Lev. Rachel Lev. Pleased to meet you, Mr …?’
‘Abimbola. Greg Abimbola. I teach Russian.’ He shook her hand, forced himself to smile. ‘In that room, actually.’
‘Oh. Sorry about that, Mr Abimbola. I don’t think you’ll be able to use it for the rest of the morning. Interviews and all.’ She allowed her hand to drop away. ‘Trouble with Ms Velasquez?’
‘I hope not,’ Greg replied.
‘So do I, sir. She’s a bit young for you.’
She turned and headed to the admin suite without giving him a chance to reply. Greg swore under his breath.
He’d rather have been suspected of murder.