University campuses always evoked strange feelings in Evan. He had certainly been bright enough to win a university place, even before universities sprouted up everywhere like mushrooms. But he had been the dutiful son and did what was expected of him by following his father into the police force. In truth, in those days his only passion had been rugby, and he had no great desire to prolong his academic studies. But every time he crossed a quadrangle like this one, and saw young people deep in discussion, clutching armfuls of books, he felt a gnawing sense of regret that he had missed out on that carefree step in his life. He had also missed out on expanding his horizons. Bronwen, who had gone to Cambridge, could talk easily on almost any subject and throw in words like Descartes and Kant, making Evan realize just how well-read she was. He found himself thinking that he should start reading again, maybe even check out night school classes.

"Lazy lot of unshaven buggers, aren't they?" DI Bragg brought Evan out of his reverie. "It's too bad they did away with conscription. I'd love to get this lot into uniform and shape them up." He shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked around him. "Do you know your way around this place? Any idea where we'd find Rogers's colleagues? Some kind of faculty building?"

"He was a professor in the History Department," Evan said. "I'm sure one of the students can direct us there."

He stopped a pair of young girls, who seemed remarkably underdressed for the chill of early autumn, with bare midriffs and low-slung jeans. They pointed to a smaller building set in its own grounds, as the wind whipped their long hair across their faces. One of them gave Evans a flirtatious smile as they continued on their way.

"History," Bragg commented, setting off in the new direction toward the building that housed the department, "now that's a bloody waste of time for a start. Ten sixty-six and all that. Magna Carta. Lot of useless dates. What's the point in it, Evans? We never seem to learn from history, do we?"

"We can always hope, sir," Evan said.

"You're too much of a bloody optimist, boyo," Bragg said, but in not unfriendly fashion.

Inside the building they located an office and were told they'd probably find Dr. Skinner in his office, if he wasn't in the SCR.

"SCR?" Bragg asked.

"Senior common room. Where the professors hang out," the girl said. "But I think I saw him going down the hall to his office, and he's got a lecture at four."

Evan led the way and passed an office door with Professor Martin Rogers, Ph.D., written on it in neat script. They found the next door half open and a man sitting at a desk.

"Enter!" he called in theatrical tones, in response to their knock. Then he registered surprise at two strange faces. "Yes, gentlemen? What can I do for you?"

"North Wales Police." DI Bragg produced a warrant card. "I'm Detective Inspector Bragg, and this is Detective Constable Evans. And your name, sir?"

"Dr. Skinner."

"How do you do, Dr. Skinner. We'd like to talk to you about Professor Rogers."

"Rogers? What's he done?" The look on his face was half astonishment, half joy. He was, Evan thought, a caricature of the absentminded professor-old tweed jacket, frayed cuffs, tartan tie with various things spilled on it, hair not properly combed, and thick-lensed glasses. But a second glance at him made Evan realize that he wasn't quite as old as he had first thought. A relatively young man still, in fact.

"I'm afraid he was found dead this morning," Bragg said.

"Good God." Skinner lapsed into silence, staring down at the papers in front of him. "I presume he didn't die of natural causes, or you wouldn't be here," he said at last.

"You don't think he'd have killed himself?" Bragg asked.

"Martin Rogers kill himself? Good God, no. Last person on earth to do that. He had a very high opinion of himself, Inspector. No, I'd be most surprised if you told me that Martin had killed himself."

"But not surprised if I told you that somebody else had killed him?" Bragg asked.

"Well, yes, actually I would be surprised. We all had our differences with Martin. He wasn't always easy to get along with, but he could be highly entertaining, too. And as for someone killing him-was it some kind of home invasion, some kind of young thug? There have been too many of those around town these days."

"We can't tell yet, sir. Our forensic team is still working on the crime scene. We're just here asking preliminary questions, trying to get some idea of the man's life and whether anyone might have had a motive for wanting him out of the way. You worked closely with him, did you?"

"Yes, we're a tightly knit bunch in the History Department. We work closely together."

"And do I understand correctly that Professor Rogers was head of the department?"

"Yes, he was. Not to everyone's satisfaction, I might say."

"Meaning what? He wasn't good at his job?"

"Oh no, he was a first-rate historian. Meticulous researcher. Really knew his stuff. But our department is now called the School of History and Welsh History. Professor Rogers isn't a native Welsh speaker, you see. He's quite fluent, but it's different if you're not born to it, isn't it?"

"And you are a native Welsh speaker?" Evan couldn't resist asking.

"Bitter enough to want him out of the way?"

Dr. Skinner gave an embarrassed chuckle. "No, I don't see Gwyneth as the killing sort. How was he killed, by the way?"

"Shot through an open kitchen window."

"I see." He paused, considering. "So anyone could have done it. It would be easy enough to slink into that large garden, hide out in the bushes, and wait for the perfect chance. If one believes the papers, some young people do it for sport these days, just for the fun of watching someone die." He looked up as if the thought had just crossed his mind. "Presumably Missy knows he's been killed. How is she taking it?"

"Very calmly so far," Bragg said.

"Yes, she would. What a trouper. She's a saint, that woman."

"What makes you say that, sir?" Bragg was quick to ask.

"As I said before, Martin wasn't the easiest man in the world. He liked everything his way, all the time, and heaven help the person who upset him. I don't imagine that Missy had an easy life with him. In many ways he was like an overgrown child. Hewas sent off to boarding school at seven, you know. It's my personal belief that they stunt one's emotional growth. Martin was emotionally frozen at seven. If he didn't get his own way, he'd have a temper tantrum. But from what I saw, Missy was quite good at handling him-like an efficient nanny, you know."

Evan had been watching Skinner's face as he spoke. He was making a supreme attempt to stay calm, casual, and disinterested. He's sweet on her, Evan decided. And if she was secretly sweet on him, they'd have a perfect motive for doing away with Martin Rogers right there in front of them.

"Did you have much chance to observe Professor Rogers at home?" Bragg was asking.

"We went round there quite often, as a matter of fact. Martin liked to hold faculty meetings there. Most of the rest of us aren't married, you see, and Rhys Thomas's wife is a God-awful cook, so it made sense. Missy always puts on a wonderful spread for us, and Martin likes to hold court in his own castle. We call him "God" behind his back. You know, God has spoken, let no one contradict. Only joking, you understand, the way one does."

Bragg nodded. "The way one does. You say that Professor Rogers wasn't easy to get along with, that he wanted his own way. That sort of attitude leads to conflict, doesn't it? Had there been any major clashes recently?"

"Life with Martin is a series of ups and downs," Skinner said. "The amazing thing is that when everything is going smoothly, he's the most amiable chap in the world. Entertaining, witty. One can go out for a pint with him and have the best of evenings. Then something goes wrong, and you realize that you can't stand the bastard."

"Where would I find the rest of the History Department faculty?" Bragg asked.

"The rest of the department? What time is it? Oh my God, quarter to four. I'm due to lecture in fifteen minutes so I'm afraid I have to get going. Dr. Humphries will be coming back to her office from a tutorial. Rhys Thomas has already gone home, I think. The office will have his address. Jenkins and Sloan-they'll probably be having a cup of tea in the common room. And Badger is out with a group of students at a dig."

"Badger?"

"Yes. Badger Brock. He's our historical anthropologist. Very dedicated, almost obsessed. He was furious when Martin slashed his budget for-"

He broke off, realizing what he was saying. "I'm not telling tales out of school," he said. "I'm late for my lecture, and think you'd better talk to them all yourselves."

Skinner had only just left when Dr. Gwyneth Humphries came flying down the hall, with various loose garments trailing out behind her. She wore a stole of Welsh tartan, clasped with a Celtic knot, and Birkenstocks on her feet. Her hair was twisted into a bun and held in place with a stick pin, also finished with a Celtic knot. She may have been close to fifty but looked younger, with a makeup-free, unlined face and clear blue eyes.

She expressed horror and shock at the news. She couldn't think of anyone who might want to kill Martin Rogers. He could be damned annoying, she admitted, but every faculty had its academic differences. It was part of living in a closed community like a university. Personally she admired Professor Rogers's dedication to scholarship. Try as Bragg might, he couldn't get her to say anything negative nor to offer any opinions on who might have wanted Rogers dead.

"Just one last question, Dr. Humphries," Bragg said, as they prepared to leave. "Where were you between seven and nine this morning?"

"What a ridiculous question," she said, her fair Celtic face flushing red. "If you must know, I was at home, breakfasting with my two cats until seven thirty, then I walked to work because I live here in town only ten minutes away. I was here, in my office, by eight thirty because I had an appointment at eight forty-five with a student who is having academic problems."

"She would have been cutting it fine if she was in her office by eight thirty," Bragg muttered, as they came out of the dark building into late afternoon sunlight. The bank of clouds had crept in and was threatening to swallow the setting sun at any moment. "But if she had nothing to hide, then why did she go red when I asked her?"

"Maybe one does not talk to a spinster lady about her morning toilette," Evan said.

"Breakfast with her cats-you don't think they'd vouch for her, do you?"

"You should have asked her if she owned a car," Evan said. "The Rogers's house is quite a distance from the town center."

"Are there really people in the world who don't own cars these days?"

"There are plenty of old ladies up in the villages where I live who have never learned to drive," Evan said. "Then their husbands die, and they have to rely on public transportation. I just thought that Dr. Humphries looked like the sort of woman who'd get around on a bicycle."

Bragg grinned. "Yes, she does look the type, doesn't she? I should have had you interview her in Welsh. She might have opened up more. In fact, why don't you go back tomorrow for a chat with her. Go and ask her the car question and take it from there. Let's go and find that common room and see if the other faculty members are there. I could do with a cup of tea myself."

It was a first confession of weakness from him.

The common room contained the two younger lecturers, Paul Jenkins and Olive Sloan. They answered the rapid questions fired at them politely enough, but both were newly arrived at the university and seemed to know little about their department chair, except that Rogers seemed a pleasant enough chap and their colleagues also pleasant enough people. They both looked surprised at being asked to say where they were that morning. Jenkins had a live-in girlfriend who breakfasted with him at eight, and Olive Sloan was dropped off by her husband on his way to work at the hospital in Prestatyn.

Owen Rhys Thomas hadn't arrived home when they called at his house nearby. His wife said he often stopped off at the fitness center after a long day. As to what time he left the house in the morning, Ann Rhys Thomas said that he did the morning school run, leaving the house at seven forty-five to drop off two children at two different schools.

This seemed to rule out all three of them, and Evan was glad when Bragg finally admitted he'd had enough for one day.