Victoria had got hold of Persephone Hartwell, who’d then put in a call into Ottey as requested. She didn’t want to meet them in her flat – ‘it’s a tip,’ she’d said on the phone. But she was happy to come into the MCU and talk to Cross and Ottey, which she did after lunch that day.
‘Are you not going to call the hospital and check on Raymond?’ Ottey asked Cross just before the meeting.
Cross looked at his watch. ‘He’s still in surgery. Christine is going to call me when he comes round.’
Persephone was clearly still in shock from the previous evening’s events. She was shaking visibly, her face unnaturally pale.
‘Have you seen your doctor, or any doctor for that matter?’ Ottey began by asking.
‘No. I don’t want to be medicated. I’ll be okay. I imagine I’m just feeling what everyone else feels in these situations,’ she replied.
‘Can you talk us through exactly what happened last night, as best you can remember?’ Ottey went on.
‘I’d gone up to the kitchen to make Ed some coffee. He was waiting for Torquil,’ she began.
‘This is the kitchen on the top floor?’ asked Cross.
‘In Torquil’s flat, yes,’ she replied.
‘What time was this?’ Cross went on.
‘Around seven, I think. I was putting the kettle on when I heard the door buzzer go. Then the front door closing.’
‘So, someone came into the building? Ed let them in,’ asked Cross.
‘Yes, Ed has a door release next to his desk, as do I. I assumed it was Torquil, so thought nothing of it,’ she said.
‘Doesn’t he have his own key?’ asked Cross.
‘Yes, but he’s ninety years old. He does tend to forget things now and then,’ she replied.
‘So, Ed had let someone in?’ asked Ottey.
‘Yes. Then I heard shouting.’
‘Straight away?’ asked Ottey.
The young woman thought for a moment.
‘Yes, I think so. I was filling the cafetière. One cup of coffee was never enough for Ed.’ She smiled, then looked like she was about to lose her composure. ‘He likes a cafetière.’
‘There were three mugs,’ Cross commented.
‘I’m sorry?’ she said.
‘Three cups with the cafetière,’ he clarified.
‘Yes, one for Ed, one for me and one for Torquil, who I thought I heard come in,’ she explained.
‘What happened then?’ Cross asked.
‘I called down. There was more shouting. A commotion. Then Ed yelled like he was in pain. I went to the top of the stairs and saw a man run down and into the front room. I didn’t know what to do. I went down as quietly as I could. I think I cried out as soon as I saw Ed. I knew he was dead. His eyes. There was so much blood…’ She broke down. They let her compose herself, then she continued. ‘The man was still there. So, I ran back upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.’
‘Which means you were there for almost two hours,’ Cross commented.
‘Was that all? It felt much longer than that. I tried to listen for the front door, but couldn’t hear anything.’ She started to cry again.
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ asked Ottey.
‘I didn’t have my phone. I’d left it downstairs. How did he die?’ she asked.
‘He was stabbed multiple times in the chest. Death would have been swift,’ replied Cross. ‘This man you saw. Can you describe him?’
‘Not really. I mean, I was above him. He was walking away, and I was scared, to be honest.’
‘Try,’ Ottey encouraged her.
‘I’d just seen my uncle pretty much dying, for God’s sake,’ she said, suddenly animated and sounding just like her great-uncle earlier.
‘Was he big, small, average size?’ Cross continued.
‘Average.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘He had a grey woollen hat. A beanie. Jeans, I think.’ She began weeping. They waited till she gathered herself.
‘Colour?’ asked Ottey.
‘Blue. But I’m not sure.’
‘Coat?’ asked Cross.
‘A bomber jacket. The kind bouncers wear,’ she replied.
‘Why do you describe it like that?’ asked Cross, wondering if some detail had led her there. She thought for a moment.
‘Because it had a transparent, plastic pocket on one of the upper arms. You know, the ones they have their ID or licence, whatever it is, in.’
‘Do you go to clubs much?’ Cross asked.
‘Gosh, no,’ she laughed through her tears. ‘But I’ve walked past them. I mean, some pubs even have them now.’
The detectives made no comment.
‘There was one other thing. I mean, it may not be important. But when they were arguing I thought I heard an accent,’ Persephone said.
‘An accent?’ asked Ottey.
‘The man shouting had an accent. I think it may have been Russian.’
Cross made a note of this.
‘Had anything unusual happened in recent months?’ he asked.
‘How do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Any problems with customers? People coming into the shop?’ Cross went on.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Did Ed seem normal?’
‘Yes. I mean, he was a bookseller. We don’t, as a rule, have problems with customers. Our customers don’t tend to be those kinds of people,’ she said proudly.
‘Well, thanks for coming in,’ said Ottey, bringing the interview to an end.
‘When will we be able to reopen the shop?’ Persephone asked.
‘In the next few days, hopefully. It depends on the forensic investigators,’ said Ottey, who was left to reply as Cross had already exited the room.
*
Sam Taylor turned up to work that morning to find the normal oasis of quiet and calm cordoned off with police tape, police cars, a forensic investigator’s van, as well as Michael Swift’s SUV. No one had thought to call him the previous night to tell him what had happened. His resigned attitude seemed to imply there was nothing unusual in his being the last to know anything at Squire’s Rare Books. He sat on the kerb, just outside the tape, his feet in the cobbled gutter. A police officer went to a nearby café and bought him a cup of coffee laced with sugar. The same officer took him home when he had regained a modicum of composure. Ottey and Cross decided to go and see him the next day.