A Death of Distinction by Marjorie Eccles

lugubrious, plodding and patient as ever. ‘And not started up again, as far as I can find out.’
    â€˜Let’s hope so. But by the very nature of the crime we can’t overlook terrorist involvement, local or otherwise. In the absence of any sort of claim, it’s beginning to look remote. But we need a result on this one, quick, always bearing in mind it could be the start of a series of attacks directed against specific targets. There’s been a lot of call lately for stiffer sentencing for young offenders, for instance, we all know that, and this might have been some loony sort of opposition to it. So regarding Conyhall, how’re we doing on the interviewing there. Inspector Moon?’
    â€˜Still going on. Every inmate’s being questioned, all the prison officers, and the civilian staff. Any recent releases will be seen, plus any earlier ones, if any look like being worth checking on. Especially Derek Davis, when we find him, known to have made specific, personal threats against the governor.’
    â€˜Davis. Yes, but he’s a long way from being the only one who felt he’d a score to settle.’
    Though it had to be said, that of all those so far interviewed, nobody had evinced a particular hatred of Jack Lilburne. Not that there hadn’t been a few who had the obvious if unexpressed wish to see off all persons of authority – the filth, judges, magistrates, screws in general. But shock, genuine or otherwise, had been expressed at the attack on the governor.
    â€˜The general consensus of opinion among the Young Offenders’ Institution population,’ Mayo said drily, ‘seems to be that he was “all right”. Which I suppose means he was probably held in fairly high esteem. We can’t take it for granted, though. And this brings me to the next thing – that from now on, we concentrate on Lilburne himself ...’
    â€˜Sir,’ Jenny Platt put in diffidently, her face pink under her curly brown hair. Mayo always expected her to put her hand up before speaking out at these meetings, which was odd, because she was neither shy nor incompetent; on the contrary, though young, she was one of his best officers. ‘What about that scrap of paper, sir? The one we found in Lilburne’s breast pocket?’
    â€˜Glad you mentioned that, Jenny. I was coming to it later, but we can just as well talk about it now.’
    Scattered among the macabre bits of Lilburne’s person had been shreds of clothing, and at the bottom of what had once been the breast pocket of his suit had been found a scrap of crumpled paper, folded and creased, as though it had been pushed down by his wallet. It could have been there some time and was probably of no importance now, though presumably it had meant something to Jack Lilburne when he put it there in the first place. All the same, it had been subjected to the usual tests. It comprised the last few lines of a page of typing – typed, not produced on a daisy wheel, dot-matrix, bubble-jet or laser printer, which was of itself significant. In this age of computers, typewriters were fast becoming as obsolete as LPs and treadle sewing machines. It wasn’t even typed on an electric typewriter.
    â€˜Anything else, Dave?’
    Dexter, the Scenes-of-Crime sergeant, never overoptimistic, said economically, ‘It was a very old portable, manual Olympia 66. Flaw in the alignment, and the shift lock doesn’t depress properly so that the caps are above the line. Several worn or damaged keys – distinctive, if we find the original to compare it with. The paper was good quality typing paper, eighty-gramme bond.’
    The typing had read:
    ...what you said. You might at least see me. I’ll be in the coffee shop at the Hurstfield Post House at eleven on November the 20th, if you can bring yourself to admit that I’m right, though I don’t expect ...
    The page ended at that point, and a question mark