Death of an Old Goat by Robert Barnard Page A

to let the room tonight.’
    â€˜Christ, woman,’ said Royle, throwing off his majesty-of-the-law pose, and reverting to his usual self in the surprise of finding someone more stupid and insensitive than himself. ‘Are you off your rocker? You won’t be letting that little slaughter-house for quite some time to come, I can tell you that.’
    â€˜There’s no need to blaspheme,’ said the girl. ‘I don’t know what the manager will say, I’m sure. I mean, who is going to pay for the room?’
    â€˜That’s not my bloody look-out, is it? Now, I’ve got some questions I want answered.’
    â€˜I was off-duty, Inspector, so I saw nothing at all,’ she said, looking as if he had made an improper suggestion.
    â€˜Would you mind just answering the questions?’ saidRoyle heavily, ‘then we’ll be through much quicker.’
    â€˜Well, you’d better come through to the manager’s sitting-room,’ she said. ‘Police in the reception room would not make a nice impression on our clientele.’
    She led the way into a bright little room with mauve easy chairs and a big bowl of plastic gladioli. Royle remembered it from the case of the manager and that young lass, which he had thought was a very nice type of case indeed.
    â€˜Now, then,’ he said, taking out his notebook and making laborious preparations for writing in it. ‘Who was he?’
    â€˜His name was Belville-Smith, and he was a Professor,’ said the girl rather sullenly. She had decided she did not like Royle’s type.
    â€˜What of?’ asked Royle.
    â€˜What of? What do you mean, what of?’
    â€˜If you’re a Professor, you’re always a Professor of something,’ said Royle, who had learnt that much since coming to Drummondale.
    â€˜How should I know?’ said the girl, doubly resentful for the lecture. ‘Something educational, I suppose.’
    â€˜Who booked him in, then?’
    â€˜Professor Wickham booked the room by phone a fortnight ago, and he drove him here on Monday.’
    Professor Wickham. Royle knew Professor Wickham. Prominent Country Party supporter, him and his wife. The better sort of Professor, in other words. Took a sticker for his car when they had a ‘Support Your Local Bobby’ campaign a year or so ago. Had a cheeky bastard of a son. Still, could be worse.
    â€˜English, then, I suppose,’ he muttered.
    â€˜Oh yes, the old man was English,’ said the girl, not understanding. ‘You could tell that by his voice. Very old-fashioned-sounding, if you know what I mean.’
    â€˜You met him and spoke to him, then?’
    â€˜I spoke to him on the phone. I can’t say I met him,really, because he didn’t get out of the car when he booked in. Professor Wickham did all that.’
    â€˜What did you talk to him about on the phone?’
    â€˜The silly old b . . . The old gentleman was a little annoyed on the night he arrived over the fact that we do not serve dinner. Got quite worked up about it, he did. Some people expect the moon, really they do. And he was quite nasty when I suggested he might like to eat Chinese.’
    â€˜He didn’t eat at Professor Wickham’s on the night he arrived here, then?’
    â€˜Oh no. Professor Wickham drove off again just a few minutes after he brought him here.’
    â€˜Where did he eat that night?’
    â€˜How should I know?’
    â€˜Anyway, that was Monday. What about yesterday? Did he go anywhere yesterday?’
    â€˜How should I know? This is a motel, not a YWCA. We don’t keep a check on our visitors. We have a very nice class of customer, so we don’t need to. Look, why don’t you go and talk to Professor Wickham? He was his host, after all.’
    â€˜Don’t try and teach me my job, young lady,’ said Royle as he lumbered to the door.
    But Wickham it is, he thought, getting into his