by Phil Hogan
I could sense her coming now. I darted back to the door and peered out. The front end of the trolley was visible at the end of M–Z. It was motionless, but even as I watched it started to move. I closed the door. If I came out now, she would see me. I thought for a moment, then reopened her favourites page, found her number for the library (helpfully marked ‘Work’), keyed it into my own phone and hit ‘Call’. The loud trilling started up again outside. I knew she would respond more quickly this time, hopeful, expectant. I stepped away from the door and waited for her to answer on the other side, my lips close to the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that the library?’
‘Yes, this is the library.’
‘Ah. I’m so sorry to bother you, but please tell me I left my jacket there. It’s a sort of brownish tweedy jacket. I was sitting just outside the microfiche cubicles. I just got out of the car and realized.’
‘One moment, I’ll just check.’
I replaced her phone on the table, opened the door and walked out, her hairband squeezed in one fist, my phone in the other. I saw Abigail out of the corner of my eye just re-emerging to the left. I pushed through the swing doors and clapped the phone to my ear just as she spoke.
‘Hello? Hello? Yes, it’s here. I have it.’
She sounded so pleased to be helping me, I fell in love with her all over again.
‘You’ve saved my life,’ I told her. ‘I’ll come straight down.’
‘No problem at all. It’ll be behind the desk.’
Sweat poured off me. The taste of the bitter chocolate lingered in my mouth. I waited. After ten or fifteen minutes Abigail’s assistant rounded the corner carrying a striped paper bag. I waited till she’d gone in then watched for the switchover. They spoke briefly as she handed the bag to Abigail, who then vanished into the room marked ‘Private’.
Now I walked into the library and retrieved the jacket.
And I was gone, across the road, up the hill, walking quickly until I reached my flat. I changed my clothes and drove to Raistrick Road. This was as good a time as any, with Abigail safely at the library for the rest of the day. I parked as near as I dared to the house, though the chances of being challenged were slim. There was no Neighbourhood Watch. It was a main road populated mainly by students, who came and went and minded their own business. My heart was booming. But as I approached the door I felt the fear. Perhaps the fear was there all along and I had pushed it to the back of my mind in the rush of triumph and escape. But now it rose again. The fear, of course, was that this was not the key. That the key to this house would never have been hidden away in Abigail’s backpack – that the key to this house had been in her purse, which I had seen with my own eyes when she gave her assistant money for a sandwich. I knew now as I had then that this was not the key. I inserted it into the mounting plate and tried to turn it, hoping to feel the mechanism shift and fall.
It might have been set in stone.
I AWOKE ON MY COUCH at first light with Abigail’s velveteen hairband curled in my hand, strands of her dark wiry hair twisted into the fabric. I fell in and out of sleep, as if in the grip of a fever, images of Abigail and Sharp rising and falling in my mind. At nine I forced myself to get up. I shaved and showered and called Wendy to say I would be out for the day.
But doing what? There was no point following Sharp to and from work. It would only end in my sitting outside the house in Raistrick Road simmering with desire and hatred. For a while I sat among the cabinets and drawers in my back room. I had neglected my filing and maps – the work that was so vital to the smooth running of things, and which always gave me so much satisfaction. I collated photographs and notes. I downloaded files from my phone, used the printer. I loved the effort of having everything on paper, tied up, tangible, accessible, classified. But I couldn’t hold focus. What I needed was another strategy, I thought. I needed Abigail to see for herself what kind of man had cheated his way into her bed. He was no Cambridge lecturer, that was for sure. That was the place to start. I thought of the card the woman in Warninck’s had read out and after some deliberation called the university’s faculty office.
The woman who answered had no knowledge of a Dr Sharp. ‘Let me just check our records.’ I heard her in the background consulting colleagues, then she came back on to the phone. ‘There was a chap called Douglas Sharp, two or three years ago, but he wasn’t on staff, he was a postgraduate student.’ She paused as if looking further. ‘It’s possible he taught one or two classes.’
‘Do you have a forwarding address?’
‘Just one moment.’
Off she went again, but then after a minute a man picked up the phone. ‘I gather you’re asking about Douglas Sharp. May I ask what this is about?’
‘Yes, of course, thank you. This is his brother. I’m trying to track him down. I’m afraid there’s an illness in the family and I need to let him know.’
‘I see. But I’m afraid he left the college some time ago. I really have no idea where he might be now.’
‘But he was studying there?’
‘He was a PhD student. What did you say your name was?’
‘Sharp.’
‘Of course. Brothers, you say?’
‘We’re not very close. He doesn’t keep in touch. But our mother is seriously ill. You said he left some time ago.’
‘Perhaps I could ask his supervisor to call you.’
‘That would be kind. What’s his name?’
‘Her name. Greening. Professor Greening.’
‘Obviously, it is quite urgent …’
‘Of course.’
I gave the man a fictitious number and then hung up.
Something was afoot. I waited an hour then called the porter’s lodge and asked to be put through to Professor Greening’s office. ‘She might have been trying to call me,’ I said. ‘The name’s Sharp.’
There was a beat of uncertainty. ‘Douglas Sharp?’
‘This is his brother.’
‘I see. One moment, sir.’
I was in luck. She was busy, but on a break. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help. Your brother had rooms here at the college, but left no forwarding address. I sympathize, of course, but as you may know, he left under a cloud – and, I might add, in a hurry.’
‘So he didn’t finish his doctorate?’
‘I should say not. You might conclude, if only from the newspaper reports, that that was very much a diminishing option. And we do have discretionary powers. He brought the college a great deal of unwanted media publicity. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘But what happened?’
She paused and then sighed. ‘If you don’t know, I have probably already said too much.’
‘The porter’s lodge seemed to remember him.’
‘As well they might.’
‘And this would be what – two years ago?’
‘Just over three years ago. I really can’t add more. But good luck with your search.’
I didn’t yet know what I was looking for, but I had an inkling where to look, and within half a minute was logging into the Cambridge News online archive. A search for ‘Douglas + Sharp’ produced zero results, but after five minutes the name of the college served up a feast worth waiting for: ‘Brawl at College Dinner over Don’s Sex Trysts with Student’.
The ‘don’ description was over-egging it, but this seemed to be the report in question: in a nutshell, the story of a furious Muslim father who arrived late in the day all the way from Glasgow with two equally furious companions, possibly brothers, demanding to speak with the man – an English adult in a position of trust – who had made his daughter, an undergraduate under the man’s tutelage, pregnant in her first term at Cambridge. It was not made clear whether the wrongdoer – unnamed and downgraded to a junior lecturer in the story – was actually available to meet his accusers. It transpired only that there was a fierce argument between these men and the head porter and his assistant that quickly flared into a
scuffle, drawing in a number of academic staff arriving at that hour in full regalia for a college dinner. Their intervention, intended to calm matters, understandably made things worse, the suspicion being that one of their number was actually the defiler himself, though there was no evidence that he was even in the city. Fists flew, blood was spilt, a crowd gathered (several witnesses were quick enough with their camera-phones to capture one of the dons bleeding vividly down his white frontage, possibly from a punched nose), the police were called, arrests were made and a ‘long-bladed weapon’ was recovered at the scene. Charges were made and, reportedly at the behest of the university authorities, dropped.
The outrage of the violence was compounded with lurid details gleaned from the girl’s acquaintances, revealing twice-daily lovemaking sessions between the ‘thirtysomething Don Juan’ and the eighteen-year-old he had met and seduced at a literary reading at a bookstore in town. The man, thought to be studying for a doctorate in English, had taken the girl, a teetotaller, to a wine bar. Once, the couple had been seen together in a punt on the Cam.
There were links to subsequent opinion pieces on the dangers for first-year female students, the university’s failure to screen casual teaching staff with access to vulnerable young adults (though in fact he had not been the girl’s lecturer at all) and the general betrayal of ethnic and working-class undergraduates by ‘unthinking and unrepresentative elites’. Final mention of the scandal consisted of a brief report that the miscreant had been removed, reportedly for some ancient but occasionally revived offence of ‘moral turpitude’, and the supervision agreement on his research thesis formally rescinded. The fate of the disgraced girl was not divulged.
So how did it end? Had she been put to death by concerned relatives as punishment for dishonouring the family name? Were her father and brothers still theoretically in pursuit of Sharp? It occurred to me that I could tip them off if only I knew who they were. But perhaps they had let bygones be bygones. The girl might still be at Cambridge right now, foetus long aborted, happily ensconced in a higher-rated college with full no-strings bursary and furiously revising for her finals having learned a valuable lesson in life and moved on.
Don’t we all do that?
I HAD ERRANDS TO run that I’d been neglecting: rubbish for the recycling bins, shirts for the laundry, a suit for the dry cleaner’s. I drove to Fairley, a sprawling neighbourhood at the edge of town where I sometimes had keys cut. Here was an estate of affordable housing, a big supermarket and parade of local shops – newsagent, pharmacy, bookie, aquatic supplies, hairdresser, fried chicken franchise. I deposited my garbage and laundry and sat in the supermarket café with coffee, juice and toast. The events of the previous day – its high adrenalin rush and crashing disappointment – were only now swimming back into focus. All I had to show was the trophy of Abigail’s hairband, a memento to hold close to my cheek like a saint’s relic.
I took out my phone and ran through the video I had made of her phone’s contents at the library. The light was dim, but most of the numbers in her directory were legible. ‘D’ for Douglas, of course. Home – her landline at Raistrick Road – Mum, Solicitor, Work. Other London numbers, mainly girls’ names, were probably friends. Her photographs included a series from what looked like a girls’ night out, two or three of an older woman – her mother, I guessed – holding an old ginger teddy bear, and there was one of the author she had admired at the reading at Warninck’s. There were two of Sharp: one with a chalkboard menu behind him and the other, presumably at Abigail’s house – which of course made me want to kill him even more – with the ginger teddy in his lap. Disappointingly, there were none of Abigail herself.
I paused on her calendar: here was a string of entries, mainly marked ‘D’, one of them last Tuesday, the day they drove off in Sharp’s car. It was Tuesday today, but there was no entry for it. But now her reminders file came up, and here he was again: today’s date, ‘D. 2 Swans Ebb 1.30’ – clearly a reference to the Two Swans at Ebbidge, a thatched pub five or six miles out of town. I hadn’t been there, but like everyone I’d seen its restaurant get three stars in a Sunday newspaper. A date, then, which seemed out of kilter with my perception of things. What sort of furtive extramarital fling was it that suddenly bathed itself in the aura of romance? Was love the new price of sex? Did Abigail want more than a casual involvement with a married man (if she knew he was married)? Was Sharp playing along to keep her sweet? I found myself growing hot with indignation at his clumsy subterfuge, this attempt to make the sordid resemble something tender and real.
The temptation to watch the two of them together was strong, but was it worth the risk? I’d spent too long in the library recently. No one notices a stranger in the street, but how many times do you see a passing face before it becomes familiar? Anonymity was my strength. Once lost, it was impossible to get back. Sharp had chosen this out-of-the-way pub to reduce their chances of being seen. If Abigail recognized me there, even as a local from the library, it was likely that she would notice me elsewhere in the future. I couldn’t be confident, either, that Sharp wouldn’t remember my face from our dispute at the gate to the Common if I were suddenly pointed out to him. And then what would they be thinking? Who is that guy? A private detective?
And what was there to discover? That the two of them had a mutual fondness for sea bass?
I put it out of my mind, finished my breakfast and thought about going into the office. I could catch up on some work and return fresh to the problem of Sharp in the evening. I might look again at his online gambling. Or maybe there was some harder evidence – something I hadn’t spotted in his correspondence maybe – concerning the blow-up in Cambridge. Life is full of hope.
Katya was manning the office. Her eyes lit up when I walked in.
‘Aha,’ she said. ‘O’Deay’s!’
‘Success?’
‘I think so. They’re asking for another quarter point, we’re asking for another ten properties. I think they will agree. In the meantime, there’s some more of their blurb to look at when you have a minute.’
‘I’ll do it right now,’ I said. ‘Any more news?’
‘I spoke to Mr Cookson, but he just seemed cross when I suggested we try to get some buyers in while they’re away. Didn’t you tell me they were cool about it?’
‘Cool? I may have said cordial.’
‘Cordial – what is that? All they’ve done is given us permission, after months of hassle, to put a sign up on the approach road.’
‘Well, then,’ I said. ‘That’s a start.’
‘How many starts do we give them?’
I went to the back office and buried myself in the O’Deay’s project. Wendy made tea and gave me my messages. It was turning into a bright spring day. It really would be foolhardy to go out to the Two Swans. But by noon I could stand it no longer.
‘I’m just popping out,’ I told Katya. ‘I thought I might cast an eye over the O’Deay’s site on this lovely day. See how things are.’
She glanced up in surprise but I was gone before she could say anything.
Twenty minutes later I pulled into the Two Swans’ car park. The pub hadn’t been open long but two of the smaller outdoor tables overlooking the river were occupied by lone drinkers smoking and reading the paper. Inside there were no customers yet, just staff busying themselves polishing glasses or setting tables in the bar. I walked through to the restaurant. It was reassuringly large, the original low-ceilinged room with exposed beams leading to an extended sun lounge with waterside view and exit to the garden. I was greeted by the manager.
‘Table for lunch, sir?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking of it,’ I said. ‘But later – about one-fifteen?’
‘Let me just see what we have.’
I followed her to a counter, where she opened a folder showing a chart and reservations. I cast an eye over the list. No Sharp, but there was a Douglas. Table three. The last in a row close to where we were standing.
&nbs
p; ‘Any chance of a table in the sun?’
‘Ah, I’m afraid not. They’re always the first to go. But I can put you by the window. Table for two, was it?’
‘Just one, I’m afraid.’ I smiled.
‘That’s fine then, Mr …?’
‘Williams. Thank you.’
I went back out to the car and called Zoe’s mobile number.
‘Hello?’
‘Zoe, it’s me.’
‘Mr Heming, is something wrong?’
‘On the contrary. I was thinking, if you’re not busy, you might come out and meet me at the O’Deay’s development. See what you think of it.’
‘Well, no, I’m not. Busy, that is. I could, of course, but my car’s in for a service and wax.’
‘Ask Wendy to get you a taxi.’
She paused. ‘But what about Katya?’
‘Don’t worry about that. I was just thinking it might give you some insight into this sort of development. Move you up a little. You don’t have to mention it to Katya.’
‘Move me up?’ she trilled. ‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’
When I arrived at O’Deay’s, Zoe was waiting with her eager smile. We didn’t spend long on site. We surprised the sales manager, who checked with his superiors and then took us on a short tour. The show house wasn’t quite finished, but we got an idea of the layout and concept. I nodded and asked questions that I already knew the answers to. Zoe followed my lead in looking alternately fascinated and enthusiastic but didn’t say much. Frankly, there wasn’t much to say. Once or twice I caught her eyeing me curiously. It was true that I had spent very little time alone in her company – perhaps the occasional drive to see a client – since our ‘romantic’ interlude came to a difficult end two or more years before. She looked thrilled when I suggested lunch afterwards. ‘It gets more and more intriguing.’ Her voice was low.
