Emma heard a motorbike roaring to a halt and looked round in case it was Jag’s, but the couple who dismounted and pulled off their helmets were strange to her.
There were only two other people with Bonmotte when she got to his rooms: Ralph Fairoak and Fran Tixall, the social worker who was to read the paper. They both nodded to Emma in a perfectly amicable way and carried on with their conversation. Bonmotte, a short stout man in his early forties, got to his feet to greet her.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked quietly, when he had moved out of the way of the other two.
‘Not so badly. I’m following your excellent advice and not giving up, even though my latest hope has just refused to talk to me.’
‘That’s the death-by-driving man, is it?’
‘Yes. A friend of mine has talked to his wife and been given some useful background information. It doesn’t get me very far, but it is a start; and I’ve decided that I must carry on for a while longer even though he won’t talk.’
‘Good. Anything I can do yet?’
‘I don’t think so. Unless… I think I’ve got to talk to the original investigating officers, and I’m not sure how best to approach them. I thought of asking Janet Ranton for help.’ As she saw Bonmotte’s eyebrows arch up into his forehead, Emma added, ‘D’you think that’s completely mad?’
‘Not completely.’ He laughed. ‘I just wonder why you don’t try an easier target. One of the men. They’re much better disposed towards you, as you very well know.’
‘Are they?’
‘Yes.’ Bonmotte’s dry voice and private smile were lost on Emma, who had no very high opinion of her physical attractions. ‘Ben Wrexham told me he’s planning to come this afternoon. Why not have a word with him?’
‘OK, I will,’ said Emma. ‘Thanks.’
‘Pleasure. There’s tea over there. Help yourself,’ he said as the door opened to admit one of Emma’s least favourite colleagues.
She collected a cup of tea and a small handful of biscuits and sat down, listening to the conversation between Ralph and Fran, which was beginning to sound acrimonious. Feeling a hand on her shoulder a little later, she looked up and back to see the dark, laughing face of Ben Wrexham.
‘The prof said you wanted a word.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ said Emma, smiling up at him. ‘He’s absolutely right I did actually want to ask you something.’
Seeing Wrexham’s deepening amusement, she stiffened her emotional sinews and went on less fluffily, ‘I need some advice about the best way of getting hold of two police officers who interviewed a man who was later convicted of causing death by dangerous driving.’
‘What’s your interest in the case?’ Wrexham searched her face. ‘D’you know the driver?’
‘Certainly not. It’s for my thesis on lie detection. This is a man who confessed and then withdrew his confession. Luckily the trial went ahead all right and the jury convicted him. But from everything I’ve heard—and read in the transcript—it’s pretty clear that they wouldn’t have produced a guilty verdict if there’d been no confession. I want to find out first what made him confess and then why he started lying.’
‘To get the conviction quashed as unsafe?’ Wrexham was still frowning, as though quite unimpressed by Emma’s carefully dropped hints of sympathy for the police and prosecution. She shook her head.
‘God forbid! I’m wholly disinterested. I just want to know what happened. In any case, this man hasn’t got an appeal going. He’s coming up for parole: this week, I think. It’s academic now.’
‘And if he doesn’t get parole?’
Emma shrugged. ‘He’ll be out in a relatively short time anyway. Don’t they automatically get out when they’ve done two-thirds of the sentence?’
‘If they’re in for four years or more.’
‘There you are then. He was given exactly four. I really am not trying to rubbish any of your colleagues. I just want to find a case I can use for my thesis: one in which I can find out what questions the police asked him and what he said to them and what it was that made them so sure he was guilty.’
‘Whatever it was, it’ll have been real. They’d never have charged him otherwise,’ said Wrexham firmly.
Emma raised her eyebrows. Wrexham shook his head, adding, ‘It’s hard enough getting a conviction for someone you yourself saw do something serious, without inviting grief by trying to push a weak case on the CPS.’
‘Yes, I suppose it must be. How’s your thesis going, by the way? I should have asked.’
‘So-so.’
‘I ought to remember what it is, but I’m afraid I can’t.’
‘If you ever knew,’ said Wrexham, laughing at her again, but more pleasantly than usual. ‘I’m working on the applications of more widespread DNA testing and the design of a much bigger multi-force database.’
‘Like what? Testing the entire population at birth and establishing a national register?’ suggested Emma in much the same tone he had used to suggest that she wanted to gather information for an appeal.
‘I wish. Oh, how I wish. But the civil-liberties crowd would never wear that. We can’t even do it with fingerprints.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Emma before she remembered that she wanted him on her side. ‘Although I wouldn’t mind giving prints and a DNA sample. Would you?’
‘Nope. Looks like we’re ready to start.’
Having found him more friendly than she had expected, Emma hoped that he had felt something similar enough to give her the help she needed. She smiled warmly at him. He looked rather surprised, but Fran got up just then to read her paper and neither of them had time to say anything more.
Emma tried to concentrate, but she could not help thinking more about Andrew Lutterworth and his lies than about any of Fran’s sex offenders. One particularly sickening case broke through her preoccupations for a time and she found herself more in sympathy with Wrexham’s wish for a national DNA register than she had been before.
The rapist Fran was describing had committed at least five serious assaults before he had been caught, and it turned out that he had a history of lesser offences, dating back to a conviction for the theft of a woman’s underclothes from a washing line when he was fourteen. If his DNA had been included in a register that could have been consulted by the police, he would have been caught, if not before any of the rapes then at least after the first. And the fifth of his victims would still be alive. As it was, he had strangled her.
Turning to see how Wrexham was taking the account, Emma caught his eye and exchanged another smile with him.
‘See what I mean?’ he said afterwards, while Fran was arguing hotly with one of the psychologists about the fundamental causes of violence towards women.
‘I see exactly what you mean,’ said Emma, ‘and I agree with it as much as I always did. Look, how should I set about contacting your colleagues?’
‘D’you know the names of the officers?’ Emma nodded. ‘OK. Give me details of them, their station, and the case, and I’ll give them a bell. Is it urgent?’
‘It’s not exactly life and death,’ she said, ripping a sheet out of her notebook and writing down the names of the Buckinghamshire officers who had taken charge of Lutterworth after his arrest by the City police. ‘But the sooner I talk to them, the sooner I can sort myself out and get going on some useful work.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said as she handed him the page. ‘Be in touch.’
‘Thanks, Ben.’ Emma saw the time and remembered Jag. ‘I’m going to be late. I must go. But you’ve been really kind. Thank you. ’ Bye.’
As she emerged from the building at a run, she saw Jag waiting outside. He was leaning peacefully against the bike, reading, and he seemed quite unworried that Emma was fifteen minutes later than she had said she would be. Once again the enormous contrast between him and Anthony delighted her. If anyone had kept Anthony waiting for a quarter of an hour, he would have made the rest of the day hell for them.
He had completely ruined one Christmas for everyone by savaging Emma for arriving at her mother’s house two hours late. The fact that there had been a blizzard that day and the roads to Gloucestershire had been clogged with traffic had seemed to her a reasonable excuse, but apparently it was not good enough for Anthony. He had laid into her verbally when she arrived and spent the rest of the time sulking. Emma, who had already apologised to her mother and been instantly forgiven, had been furious to see how everyone else in the house had spent the time coaxing Anthony out of his sulks instead of telling him to behave himself.
Jag could not have been more different. As Emma apologised profusely for her lateness, he looked at her as though she were mad. That made her feel so safe she could have kissed him.
‘It’s a nice day,’ he said. ‘I’d have been reading this wherever I was. You were doing something else. No skin off my nose, Sunshine. Let’s go.’
He handed her the spare helmet. As she was buckling it on, she saw Ben Wrexham coming out of the building still arguing with Fran. He noticed Emma and she almost laughed to see the surprise in his eyes as he saw her straddling the huge bike. Jag saw it too and Emma thought he was enjoying it as much as she. He revved the engine even more noisily than usual and set off with panache.
Well, why not? she asked herself.
There was nothing she could say while the engine was filling the space between them with sound, but as soon as they reached the house where he lodged and were able to communicate again, she put a hand on Jag’s arm and said, ‘My friend Willow keeps urging me to go and see her again. If I went this weekend, would you come with me?’
‘Sure. I’d like to see her in the flesh.’
‘You won’t be disappointed. At least I hope not. I’ll ring her to fix it as soon as I get back. I suppose she might be busy, but she did…I’ll let you know.’
‘Great. Look, are you really sold on this movie?’
‘Why?’
‘Someone said it was overrated and I thought maybe we should just eat and talk instead. But I don’t mind. Whatever you want.’
‘Eat and talk sounds good to me. Where?’
‘I’ve got plenty of food here,’ he said casually. ‘I thought it would be good to be on our own, but if you’d rather go out somewhere, just say.’
‘No. I’d like to stay here,’ she said with unusual emphasis. She slipped her hand between his elbow and his ribs.
He looked down at her quickly, seriously, and then he smiled as though his facial muscles would stretch for ever.
‘Good. That makes two of us. Come on up.’
She had always liked his room, which was much bigger and better proportioned than any of the ones on campus, but she had never seen it looking so tidy. There were white narcissi in a green jug on the table, every surface looked newly dusted, and there were no piles of sports clothes by the door awaiting his next visit to the local launderette.
‘It looks lovely,’ she said, smiling at him and holding out her arms.
For a dreadful second he did nothing. She thought she must have misinterpreted all his signals and wondered how she was going to retrieve the situation. Then he leaned towards her and let her hug him. After a while, he began very gently to kiss her neck. At first she felt only relief that he seemed to want her as much as she wanted him, but then other sensations began to take over. As though he could feel them, he pulled back a little way to say, ‘Let’s go to bed, Emma.’
Neither of them said anything else for a while, but then they had no need to talk. He seemed to have an almost miraculous knowledge of her and responded to everything she did as though she, too, knew precisely what he needed.
‘Jag,’ she said urgently much later. ‘Jag.’
‘I’m here,’ he said, as breathless as she.
Later, when they had showered and dressed, he led her with rather more ceremony to the round table in the corner and invited her to sit down while he fetched their food. She noticed belatedly that as well as the narcissi, which were smelling glorious, there were sparklingly polished wine glasses, plates and cutlery neatly laid for two on the green-and-white checked cloth.
He had bought a crisp New Zealand Sauvignon for them to drink and a selection of good charcuterie with a big mixed salad. Those were followed by an apple flan that must have come from a serious French patisserie. It was very good and very simple, and Emma enjoyed it all. She realised that she felt utterly at home.
Chapter Eight
On the way back to campus the next morning, Emma found herself wishing that she was not committed to dinner with Hal Marstall. After what she and Jag had just shared, it seemed absurd to be going out with someone else and, in some way she did not quite understand, almost wrong.
When they got to her room she switched on the kettle for coffee and started to tell Jag about Hal’s invitation. She need not have worried. All Jag said was that he hoped she would enjoy herself and that, if she felt like calling him when she got in after dinner, he would be dead chuffed.
Dead chuffed herself that he was such an unpossessive lover, she spent most of the day in the university library, reviewing all the published literature on false confessions in search of support for some of her own ideas. When she went back to her room to change for dinner with Hal, she was amazed to find a note from Ben Wrexham in her pigeonhole. He had already contacted Detective Inspector Joe Podley, one of the officers who had interviewed Andrew Lutterworth, and discovered that Podley had been promoted and moved to the Met. According to Ben’s note, Podley was prepared to talk to Emma if she could get herself to London. The best time for him was around 5.30 in the afternoon, and the best day of the week was Friday.
Hardly able to believe that it could be so easy, Emma rang the telephone number Ben had added at the bottom of his note and was quickly put through to DI Podley himself. He told her that he could not talk for long, but would certainly meet her for a drink the following day. Sounding efficient and very busy, he gave her the address of a pub near his station and rang off.
Emma went out in a satisfactorily cheerful mood to meet Hal in the restaurant his friend had recommended. The food proved to be good. Hal was as charming as she remembered, and he did not seem to be probing her for any information about anyone except herself, and that only in a friendly way. Even so, she could not forget the warning Willow had passed on from Jane and thought carefully about everything she said, always countering Hal’s questions with others of her own. He answered them so freely and amusingly that by the end of the evening she had almost acquitted him of an ulterior motive.
She politely declined his offer to escort her back to her room, thanked him for giving her such a good dinner, and vaguely agreed to see him again in London some time. He kissed her cheek and waited with her until the bus arrived. As it lurched away, she looked back and saw him standing under a streetlamp, waving, and wondered what on earth he could possibly want from her.
Back in her own room, she went straight to the telephone and rang Willow to find out whether the invitation to take Jag to stay at the Mews was still open.
‘Of course it is,’ said Willow. ‘When d’you want to come?’
‘Well, I was wondering whether there was any chance of this weekend? I know it’s almost no notice, and do please say if it’s inconvenient, but there’s a man I’ve got to talk to about the Lutterworth case, and he could see me tomorrow afternoon and so it seems silly not to take advantage of it. But if—’
‘Calm down,’ said Willow, obviously smiling. ‘It’ll be lovely to see you both and this weekend’s fine. I’ll expect you in time for dinner. OK?’
‘More than OK,’ said Emma, deeply ashamed of her resentment at Willow’s attempt to interfere in her work. ‘It’s really generous of you. Thank you. I can’t wait to see you.’
‘Me, too. I’m so glad you rang.’
When they had said goodbye, Emma dialled Jag’s number.
‘Hello, Sunshine,’ he said, sounding as easily friendly as he had always done.
‘Good meal?’
‘Amazing actually. And quite fun, too.’
‘Great. Did you get anything useful about Lutterworth?’
‘Not really, no. We mostly talked about quite other things.’
‘Oh, you mean you were flirting. I see.’ Jag was not quite laughing, but it was clear from the sound of his voice that he was amused.
‘Some of the time,’ Emma said lightly. ‘It’s so much easier than real talk when you don’t know someone very well.’
‘Ah, you’re a rare creature.’
‘Why?’
‘Much honester than most women I’ve known.’
‘Well, that seems only fair. You’re much more straightforward than any man I’ve ever been out with before. It’s wonderful, so much easier even than flirting. Less exhausting, too.’
There was a short pause and then Jag said seriously: ‘I’m not always. Don’t…’
‘Don’t what?’ she said, suddenly worried.
‘Don’t go thinking I’m something I’m not. I’m as mixed up as everyone else.’
‘Jag, what are you talking about?’
‘You said I was straightforward. I’m not, Emma, however much I try to be. No one is.’
‘I’d have said you got closer to it than most,’ she said, devoutly hoping that she was right. ‘And you don’t go in for winding people up or punishing them for things they don’t know they’ve done or mocking them or making them feel uncomfortable—which are all the things I really hate.’
‘No, I don’t do any of those. At least I hope not. But I do plenty else, often things that I’m not completely aware of until a long time later. Don’t make me out to be some kind of hero.’
‘Without wanting to be too sentimental,’ she said, trying to sound like Mrs Rusham, which was difficult, ‘you do seem a bit heroic just at the moment.’
Sour Grapes Page 10
