Catcher Told Me I Was Rotten

>Seven:

"Collins? Collins, get over here, I need to know what the state of play is."

Almost as soon as Liam leaves the room, the old man is on him like a particularly hungry dog with a bone – coffee clenched in one hand, a plethora of reports and files in the other. Liam catches the name on one of the tabs, -- Enright – and knows that that must be only a small selection of the rap sheets that the legal system must hold on the young man sitting in the waiting area with his thumb up his arse. He's been boning up on the guy. Maybe, that will make him easier to convince of Beauchamp's guilt.

"Superintendent. Great to see you. Listen, I'm going to get right to it – we have a strong suspect in August Beauchamp. The kid can't answer a straight question to save his life, no alibi, and he failed his drug test." Although, that must not have come as much of a surprise. "The chap with him – Molloy or something – he's a tricky one, though. Lucky that the guy is so stubborn that he won't listen to a word his lawyer says."

"Yes." His senior looks at him, wearily, as though his complete assurance is something that tires him. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about, Collins. Come with me."

And he is taken by the elbow, like a child, and led away from the examination room. The Haughton boy is still sat in there, under the watchful eye of one of his patrolmen, but Liam can't help but find himself just a little bit antsy at being removed from the situation. It suddenly feels like the control he was certain he had has been snatched away from him. "What can I do for you, superintendent?"

"Beauchamp. There's a little bit of an issue with him. We're going to have to tread quite carefully, do you understand?" The superintendent – James, his name is, Edward James – leans a little closer, his voice dipping. "His father and I happen to rub shoulders quite often, and as you'll imagine, he's not best happy that my men have taken his son in for questioning over a murder charge."

"Superintendent..." Liam would like to say that this news is unexpected, or shocking, but it isn't. He's been taken aside like this before, whispered to like this before, and he hates it; but it's a fact of the job. "He's a brilliant suspect, if you'll just take an objective look at the evidence."

"That might be so, but I'm just... telling you to have a look in some other directions before you decide to double down on him." James clears his throat. Behind him, the grind is going on – policemen and sergeants treading through the hallways; sometimes together or sometimes, with members of the public, but none of them catching any wind of the conversation that was occurring between the two men, just beside the water cooler. "Have you checked out the ex-boyfriend, the – "

The black kid? Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Liam presses his lips together in irritation, but nods. It was a loose end that they had to look into, after August mentioned it casually. "Yeah, but his alibi is rock solid. We've got a few more persons of interest lined up."

"Like?" The prompt is annoying.

"The friend."

Okay, so next, she had philosophy, and then a French lecture after lunch. Lottie's mind was already moving at a million miles an hour, and she was trying to recall which books she'd need, whether or not she'd have to stop back home for more supplies, if she'd have time to grab something to eat before choir at seven, while Professor Stewart was still trying to fit in those last thirty seconds of copyright law that no one had any desire to register.

Lottie had become just a tad more... well, relaxed about classes in recent weeks. It wasn't as though she had designs on throwing her whole degree out the window after losing out on the Bentham internship, but she was no longer hanging on every word that came from her lecturer's mouth, like she'd been before. It had been a case of wondering if anything he said might come up as part of the interview questions, but now – well, that wasn't so much of a concern for her, not at that moment in time. Maybe, just a little of it was ill placed resentment; but for the most part, she was being reasonable.