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buttons?’ Brook gave him a fleeting glance but didn’t answer. ‘I knew it,’ grinned Noble. ‘Did you like him for it?’
    ‘There is no it , John. And no, I didn’t like him for it. Roland Davison doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Not enough to commit murder.’
    ‘But someone that arrogant . . .’
    ‘Luckily for him, arrogance isn’t a crime.’ A second later, Brook added, ‘Lucky for me too, I guess.’
    ‘Ooh, self-analysis,’ teased Noble. ‘I’m trembling. Course you know where he gets his arrogance from.’
    ‘Should I?’
    ‘His father is Councillor Davison – upstanding member of the Police Liaison Committee.’
    ‘So that’s who Roland was threatening to unleash on me,’ said Brook.
    ‘I assumed you knew him.’
    ‘I’ve met him . . .’ Brook smiled suddenly, taking Noble’s meaning, ‘but he’s never sat on any of my disciplinary panels. He owned that derelict building on Whitaker Road where young Joshua Stapleton was murdered. Remember?’
    Noble lapsed into silence, his mind’s eye staring at the pathetic corpse of a boy, barely a teenager, humiliated and killed before life had begun, enduring pain he’d never known and suffering he didn’t deserve. ‘I remember,’ he mumbled, the memory lowering his voice. He roused himself to change the subject. ‘Well, sad to say, you’re right. Davison’s alibi checked out. March twentieth he was drinking with half a dozen friends and went back to student halls on Agard Street with a Miss Polly Cooke. Together all night. She confirmed it.’
    ‘You sound disappointed,’ said Brook.
    ‘I am. He treated me like something he’d wiped off his shoe.’
    ‘That I’m used to,’ said Brook. ‘What depressed me more was his total indifference towards someone with whom he’d recently had a relationship – someone who may be in trouble, even dead.’
    ‘So he got to you too.’
    Brook turned back to stare at the night. ‘People get to me, John. Especially the young. They seem to think it weakens them if they care for anyone but themselves. What about Laurie Teague’s alibi?’
    ‘Cast in bronze,’ said Noble, surprised. ‘She stayed at the pub until her boyfriend arrived, then took a cab to his place. Barman, boyfriend and cabbie confirm. You didn’t really . . .’
    ‘No,’ said Brook. ‘But now we don’t need to take it on trust, do we?’
    There was silence for a moment, natural on Brook’s part but not so comfortable for Noble.
    ‘So what’s next?’ said Noble. ‘We can scale up and put a team together, canvass the entire campus . . .’
    ‘It’s been a month,’ said Brook. ‘You know what comes next.’
    Noble was solemn. ‘We pass it along because there’s no mileage in it.’
    ‘Afraid so.’
    ‘There’d be mileage in it if she was from Derby and her family were sobbing on East Midlands Today every night.’
    ‘That’s unfair, John.’
    ‘Is it?’ Noble lowered his eyes. ‘Have you spoken to the Chief Super?’
    ‘I don’t need to. I know what he’d say.’
    ‘Since when did Charlton’s opinions carry any weight with you?’
    ‘When they agree with mine,’ replied Brook. He sighed and shook his flask. Empty. ‘John, Caitlin’s not local and the trail’s cold. All we can do is hope she’s gone walkabout and move on.’
    ‘And you a detective who closes fifty-year-old homicides.’
    ‘If she’d been murdered, I’d be all over it,’ argued Brook. ‘But Caitlin’s young, unattached and likes to travel – she could be anywhere.’
    ‘People who travel leave a trail,’ argued Noble. ‘You taught me that. And your text said she’d had an abortion. She could have been depressed, suicidal even.’
    ‘Then at least she’s making her own choices,’ said Brook.
    ‘Now who’s being unfair?’
    Brook nodded in acceptance of Noble’s rebuke. ‘You’re right.’
    Noble was suddenly quiet, and Brook knew what was coming. ‘What about the Deity killer?’
    ‘What about