by S J Bolton
‘Had one. Dog ate it. What can I do for you?’
‘How would you feel about releasing information on suicide attempts over the last five years?’
Nick slipped the key into the ignition. ‘You mean amongst patients at the practice?’ he asked.
‘I know you can’t give me names, but numbers of cases and a rough idea of the dates would help.’
‘It’s still bothering you, then?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Let me run it past the partners. I’ll get back to you. Now are you sure you’re OK? You don’t sound too …’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Nick. Talk to you later.’
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON AT most UK universities is set aside for sports and Cambridge was no exception. After lunch, students emerged from their residential blocks and courts dressed in sports kit of various kinds and went off to be athletic. I spent the first couple of hours in a quiet corner of St John’s library. Slowly, the invisible list of twenty students was beginning to assume substance.
I’d run a Google search of student suicides at Cambridge and had found news coverage of several. I knew about law student Kate George, who’d dropped a plugged-in hairdryer into her bath, and about Nina Hatton, who’d been studying zoology until she’d slashed her femoral artery. Photographs accompanying the stories showed attractive, happy girls.
Peter Roberts had found the demands of his mathematics course too much to deal with and had hanged himself in 2005. That same year the grieving mother of another student suicide, Helen Stott, told reporters that she had had no hint of her daughter’s despair. Along with Nicole, Bryony, Jackie and Jake I now had eight names, twelve blanks remaining.
At three o’clock I’d had enough. So far I’d worked non-stop on the case; now I was going to find time for a small personal vendetta. I got my coat, hat, scarf and gloves and went out in search of the Ninja turtles.
Oh, I knew I was being unprofessional, allowing my focus to be distracted away from my main reason for being here, but what had happened the previous night had knocked me for six. Most would see it as an unpleasant but harmless prank. To me it had been one of the worst things I could imagine.
There was an incident when I was younger (which even now I can’t bear to think about) that pretty much shaped who I am. Being set upon, finding myself helpless in the hands of an adrenalin-fuelled gang, had brought it all back. If I was going to function here, I had to wrestle back some sense of control and that meant I had to know who those boys were.
All three had been big blokes. As they’d been half naked, I’d got a pretty good look at their physiques. None had had the wide-shouldered, slim-hipped build of swimmers, or the lean strength of soccer players. They certainly weren’t track and field athletes. If I’d had to put money on it, I’d have said rugby. One of them had a mass of black curly hair. He’d be the easiest to spot.
I asked George the porter where I was most likely to find rugby matches and he directed me to three different sports fields. I went on my bike and was at the first pitch in minutes. Concentrating on the Cambridge squad, I figured perhaps there were two possibilities. I took photographs of both men then cycled to the next pitch.
This game took longer because it was an inter-college match: Magdalene versus King’s. By the time I’d finished I had three possibilities. I took photographs and moved on.
The game on the third pitch was just finishing when I arrived and it wasn’t so easy to get a good look at the players. By the time they started walking back to the changing rooms I’d spotted four vague possibilities, but taking photos would have made me very conspicuous.
It would be Saturday before I got another chance to stake out any more matches, and if the temperature continued to fall the pitches were likely to be too frozen for play. Ah well, they do say revenge is a dish best served cold.
I took the long way home, following the trail of one of the more popular walks in Cambridge. Once over the Cam I turned south to make my way around the Backs. The sun sank lower in the sky and the taller of the old buildings to my left began to gleam as though lit from within.
The Backs is the land between the Queen’s Road and the riverside colleges: St John’s, Trinity, Clare, Trinity Hall, King’s and Queens’. Some of it is laid out to elegant lawns or formal parkland, some is grazing land for cattle, other stretches are wildflower meadows.
Pushing the bike now, I walked on, relishing the quiet but getting lonelier by the second. Three days here and already my sense of well-being, not especially robust at the best of times, had sunk. The case Joesbury and I had worked on just a few months ago had been as bad as they come. A serial killer had struck London fast and hard, barely giving us time to blink before each new victim was found. That would have been bad enough, but as the crimes multiplied they seemed to be getting closer, until it looked as though I was the fat, juicy fly the intricate and bloody web was being spun around.
It was over, the killer caught and locked away, but as any officer who deals with violent crime will tell you, emotional closure doesn’t happen overnight.
I’d thought I was coping. The truth was I’d kept myself so busy I hadn’t had time to think of it. I’d been staying up late, only risking sleep when I was exhausted; I’d been exercising hard because being in control of my body had given me the illusion of being in control of my life. Now, the support structure of routine and familiarity had been stripped away and I was drifting in a sea of vague concerns and half-formed problems. I was getting too much time with no company but the contents of my own head.
I was starting to get seriously cold by this time and decided to head back. I turned round and stared, almost in awe.
The day had been cold and the sky clear, and the sunset was the dark orange of ripe fruit, an unbroken wash of colour that stretched as far as I could see. The river in front of me shimmered like light on a polished old sovereign. Breaking the two swathes of gold were the silhouettes of the trees on the far bank, layer upon layer of deep brown, glossy black and soft charcoal. Beyond the trees and directly ahead of me, like a castle from a fairy tale, were the four pinnacles of King’s College Chapel.
As I watched, a boat drew up alongside me; a long, narrow sheaf of fibreglass that couldn’t possibly be strong enough to support the two men perched on top of it but somehow was managing to do so. The oarsmen – they had two oars each so I guess, strictly, they were scullers – slowed the boat and then, with the grace and precision of a ballerina, turned it on the spot. They barely disturbed the water.
And I remembered. Rough, calloused hands on my bare shoulders. Hit it, he’d said, meaning let’s go and then swing it, meaning we’ve come to a bend and have to turn. Both were rowing terms. The long-haired bloke from last night was an oarsman.
I’d have to hurry. I cycled back towards college and found my car. Ten minutes later I was making my way on foot down to the St John’s boathouse. Only one crew, the women’s coxed fours, had returned.
The men’s coxed fours came back next, glowing pink with the cold and the exertion. They drifted to the bank, climbed out and lifted the boat from the river. None of them was the man I was looking for.
The women’s eight came back and then the men’s appeared from round the river’s bend. They came at a fast pace, only letting up at the last second, and the boat struck the bank hard. One by one they climbed out, visibly tired, hair dank with sweat. I got up and slipped away to the front of the boathouse where I knew that, eventually, after showering and changing, they’d emerge.
I’d found him. The hair, even slick with sweat and river water, was unmissable. He’d rowed in stroke position, at the front of the boat, the team member who was traditionally the strongest and who set the pace for the entire boat.
Twenty minutes later, when I’d spent so much time clenched up and shivering I was in pain, he came out. He was wearing jeans, suede boots and a thick hooded sweater. His hair was dry now and looked exactly how I remembered. What I hadn’t realized the previous
night was that he almost certainly wasn’t an undergraduate student. This man was in his mid to late thirties, a post-graduate, possibly, more likely a tutor or a lecturer. I watched him walk up the road, climb inside a red Saab convertible and drive away.
I followed, allowing at least two cars to stay between us. In the city, I had to concentrate hard to keep up with him but once we left town it became easier.
Would a lecturer really dress up like Zorro, break into student accommodation and assault a young female just for fun? Somehow, that didn’t strike me as too likely.
We were heading east out of Cambridge along an A road and I was just starting to wonder how long I could reasonably tail him when he indicated left and turned off the main road. I followed and, a few minutes later, saw the red Saab turn into the main road of an industrial estate.
It was early evening by now and I pulled over by a large sign listing the various units housed on the estate. A quick count told me there were around fifty or so. The Saab had turned into a smaller side road a couple of hundred yards ahead.
Most of the units I could see around me had been constructed in the last ten years. They were warehouse-type spaces mainly, with corrugated steel walls and gently sloping apex roofs. Most had massive cargo doors. Several had windows at second-storey level, indicating office space or possibly showrooms. Some of the units were brick-built, shabby and obviously much older. Peeling paintwork and faded fascia signs told me a few were probably vacant.
I set off again, turned into the side road and slowed to a crawl. The Saab was parked at the far end. I watched the long-haired oarsman stride the few steps to the front door of the unit and let himself inside. I turned the car and drove back to the sign at the estate’s entrance. My quarry had gone into Unit 33, JST Vision.
There was a small cul de sac just a few yards away, one used for turning lorries, I guessed. I reversed my car into it and was almost hidden from the bigger road by some overhanging trees. Behind me was a sign leading to a riverside public footpath. I waited thirty minutes and decided, personal vendetta or not, I couldn’t really justify spending my evening in the car. So I pulled out my phone.
‘DC Stenning,’ said the voice that could always bring a smile to my face.
‘Pete, it’s Lacey.’
‘Good God, Flint, what are you doing? We were told you’d gone deep, deep, deep.’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘I need a favour. No questions asked. Can you help?’
‘Go on,’ he drawled and I knew he wasn’t sure. The case we’d worked on last autumn had got me the reputation of something of a wild card. Pete Stenning, on the other hand, was as straight as they came. I could practically hear him wondering what I was getting him into.
‘Romeo Echo Five Nine,’ I said. ‘Golf Tango Lima. Red Saab convertible. I need to find out who it’s registered to and where he lives.’
Silence for a second, just as I’d expected. The system records all such enquiries. If Stenning traced any vehicle without good reason, he could find himself in trouble.
‘Do it with my details,’ I said, giving him my log-in name and password.
‘It’ll cost you.’
‘Are we talking beer or sexual favours?’
‘Oh, like I’m going to mess with Joesbury,’ came back Stenning. ‘How is he, by the way?’
‘On sick leave as far as I know,’ I said. ‘Will you do it?’
‘Hold on, system’s a bit slow today. OK, here we go. Nice car, by the way. Registered to a Scott Thornton. 108 St Clement’s Road, Cambridge. You’re in Cambridge?’
‘If you tell anyone we had this conversation, it’ll be shit that I’m deep in, Pete.’
‘I won’t. Now, whatever you’re up to, be bloody careful.’
TWENTY-TWO MINUTES AFTER getting home from work, Evi could no longer resist the temptation that had been nagging away at her for days. She opened up Facebook, typed Harry Laycock into the search engine and waited. The system churned and … of course he was on Facebook, anyone as hip as Harry was bound to be.
Harry Laycock, Anglican minister, with 207 friends. His birthday was 7 April. She hadn’t known that. The photograph was one she hadn’t seen before: outdoor clothes, mountains in the background. The system invited her to send him a message. Evi closed the page down.
She opened up her mail account and the email message she’d received earlier from the policewoman. She wanted details of students who’d attempted suicide in the last five years. Easier said than done. Nick hadn’t exactly been encouraging that afternoon. And his was one of twenty GP surgeries in Cambridge, each of which was likely to have a number of the 22,000 student population on its patient base. Each surgery operated independently. Data was rarely shared and patient confidentiality was sacrosanct. Anything she did find, she couldn’t pass on to the policewoman without risking her entire career.
The phone on her desk was ringing. Evi reached out and put it to her ear. ‘Evi Oliver,’ she announced. To silence. ‘Hello,’ she tried. No response. She put the phone down.
The girl with the fake name, Laura Farrow, talked tough but looked brittle. The way she held her face when she wasn’t speaking had made Evi think of glass blown almost to breaking point. The way it hovers, fragile and beautiful, a split second before it shatters. The phone was ringing again.
‘Evi Oliver.’
No response.
‘Hello.’ Not even trying to sound patient this time.
Evi put the phone down, telling herself not to overreact. It could simply be a genuine caller with line problems. It was ringing again. She picked it up and put it to her ear without speaking. Silence on the line. Not even the sound of breathing. Very strong, the temptation to say something. She resisted, just put the phone softly down.
It rang again immediately.
OK, this wasn’t going to scare her. This was going to piss her off. She picked up the receiver and put it softly down on her desk. A few seconds later, her mobile began ringing. She reached into her bag and pulled it out. Number withheld. Evi answered the call.
‘Hello.’
Just empty air. Five seconds later it was ringing again. Evi switched the mobile off, replaced the receiver on the desk phone and unplugged it at the wall. Then she got up and walked round the ground floor. There were three more handsets to be unplugged.
She wasn’t going to overreact. It would be someone pissing about. They’d get bored and move on to someone else. When she got back to her desk she had a new email. She clicked it open.
I can see you, it said.
I stood just inside the front door of my block, taking in the chaos. ‘So did the boys with the buckets come back?’ I asked a slim girl with dark curly hair who’d made me tea the previous night.
The girl with the mop gave me a quick smile. ‘Plumbing problems,’ she said. ‘Sounds a bit gynaecological, doesn’t it? Second time this year. Your room’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. I think it might have been your pipe that burst. Maintenance are still in there.’
The day was just getting better. I opened my door to find no sign of Talaith, plenty of water on the floor and a man in my bedroom. A tall man, with dark hair and kind eyes.
‘Hello, Tom,’ I called to him, before turning back to the corridor. ‘Yell when you’ve finished with the mop,’ I told the girl with black curls. Then I squelched my way across to my bedroom.
‘What happened?’ I asked, pausing in the doorway. There wasn’t really room for two people in these tiny rooms, unless you wanted to get very cosy.
Tom looked up from whatever he’d been doing under the sink. ‘Frost damage,’ he told me. ‘This is the fourth we’ve had this year. You know, we hardly ever have problems in the old buildings. There’s pipes in there hundreds of years old and they just keep going. Crap in the new blocks hardly lasts five minutes.’
‘Guess they don’t make poisonous lead piping like they used to,’ I said, looking round. There was no damage to speak of, just a damp and muddy floor and small piles of dust
where Tom had been drilling. The cupboard beneath the basin had seen plumbing activity, as had the pipes that ran round the mirror. A fairly complicated metal junction looked new.
‘Chipped your mirror,’ I’m afraid,’ Tom said to me, nodding to where a tiny fraction of the glass was missing. ‘I’ll report it, should be able to get it replaced without much trouble.’
I thanked him and went to find the cleaning cupboard.
Evi’s hands were shaking but if anything she felt better. She hadn’t been phoning herself for the past half hour, nor had she sent herself the email. Which almost certainly meant she hadn’t poured red dye into her header tank and she probably hadn’t bought the skeleton toy either. She wasn’t losing her marbles, she was being stalked. By someone who had had access to her house. Thank God she’d had the locks changed.
And emails could be traced. Even if it had been sent from somewhere anonymous like an internet café or a public library, there would still be a record of it on her computer. She resisted the temptation to reply to it and carried on working.
Another email had arrived in her inbox. Great, more evidence. Evi flicked it open.
Purple makes you look sallow. Try another colour.
Evi stood up and walked as quickly as she could to the window. The curtains were drawn, no gaps through which anyone could see, but she pulled them a little closer all the same. She didn’t need to look down at what she was wearing. The cashmere sweater, the colour of lavender in bud, had belonged to her grandmother. Keep it from moths and cashmere lasts for ever, Granny had told her. It wasn’t quite true. It was looking worn and bobbly in places and she only ever wore it at home. She’d changed after the police had left. No one could have known that she was wearing purple right now.
Cracks in the mullioned windows might have been made by stray arrows, centuries ago, and the enclosed stone staircase looked old enough to have ivy growing on the inside. As I climbed, I left behind the smell of woodsmoke and cooked food, to have it replaced by that of fresh laundry and used towels, cosmetics and damp sports equipment. It was the smell of youth, with feminine undertones.
