Victor Hart Volume #2

Victor Hart: Case #6 Chapter 7

The flat-fronted block was gridded with windows and the bottom floor was painted white, the rest of the building's raw brick rose like a wrist from a cuff. Victor and Caughlin found entry easy as someone, presumably a resident, was exiting the front and let them in. Victor noted that this must mean that the people in the building didn't know each other even by sight, and that it was perfectly normal to pass complete strangers and allow them access to the building.

They climbed the narrow flight of stairs up towards Professor Curry's room. As they gained ground through the floor's hallway they could see a number of boxes piled outside the room and a man wearing a white shirt, braces and a pencil behind his ear organising a number of boys into lifting the boxes out of the room.

Victor and Caughlin exchanged glances then approached the activity.

“You're the landlord?” Victor guessed.

“That's right,” the man took the pencil from behind his ear and wrote on the box the word 'books', “are you here to fix the pipes?”

“No, I'm afraid not,” Victor offered a hand, “we're here to investigate Professor Curry's death. What's inside these boxes?”

“It's Mr. Curry's personal effects,” the landlord explained, “we're taking them to a charity shop to sort through.”

“Nobody came to collect them?” Caughlin looked surprised.

“Didn't even have a funeral,” the landlord said, “sad, isn't it? We need the room though, so his stuff's got to go.”

“What can you tell me about Curry?” Victor asked the landlord.

“Not much,” he shrugged, “didn't really know him. Seemed like an affable enough chap if a little lonely. Always paid his rent on time, never complained about anything. The ideal tenant really...”

“Mind if we take a quick look around?” Victor started to move towards the door.

“As long as you don't get in our way,” the landlord shrugged, “there's not much left to see though...”

Victor and Caughlin entered the room. The landlord had been right; there was nearly nothing left of the man in the room at all. It was odd to imagine a whole life of one man, barely making ripples after he was gone, all evidence he ever existed packed into a few cardboard boxes by strangers and given to charity. The things that were left in the room were conservative, modest. Nothing that made a design statement, all functional and dull. On his desk were nothing but school exercise books that were divided into two piles. Victor looked between them, one pile had been marked, the other not.

Before he could put down the book it was whisked from his hands by one of the packing boys and tossed into a box.

“Do you think the school he worked in would want these back?” the boy asked the landlord, who was still writing labels on boxes.

“Probably,” the landlord didn't look up, “I would send them a telegram, but I don't know which school he worked at.”

“It was East Buchal Primary,” Victor told them, “it's printed on the back of the books.”

“Right,” said the landlord non-committally.

Victor and Caughlin stood in the now almost completely empty room.

“What do you think?” Caughlin asked.

“It's hard to imagine him being connected to anybody, to be honest,” Victor shrugged, looking at the emptiness around them.

“So what are we going to do next?”

“I suppose we should head to the school and see if we might get a staff list and a list of his current and ex students,” Victor started walking to the stairs. “If he knew the killer, the name is likely to be amongst them.”