An Early Grave

by Robert McCracken

  *

  Callum couldn’t help looking forward to meeting up with old friends. At every turn, of course, he saw the sweet smiling face of Tilly. On the brief walk from the car park to the College he pictured her during those years after graduation when many of their friends had moved on, while he and Jian were busy with post-grad projects and Tilly wandered the city streets soaking up inspiration for her novels. She’d taken to some peculiar fashions in those days, gothic in some sense, then new age, a throwback to the sixties with long flowery dresses, floppy hats and flowing locks of brown hair. He wondered now if, in some mystical way, she had been laying down her image for his future, for the time when he possessed only memories of her. Once she was published, after Emily was born and they moved to Shiplake, plainer fashion returned; she wore her hair in a bob, and when at home dressed in jeans and T-shirts.

  He stood for a long time peering out of the small lattice window into the quad, watching all come and go. He recognised one or two of the dons, the head porter, Mr Winterburn, of course, and one of the old scouts, Mrs Simms. Several alumni arrived and found their rooms, and for a moment it felt like this was his first day here. How he longed to turn back the clock, to live it all again with no changes, bar the obvious, to have been on time for once, to have reached Tilly and Emily, for the three of them to have been far away when the killer came calling. He gazed at the Latimer Tower with its clock, the strangest part of the college buildings. It looked so quirky set against the traditional pale yellow stone of Oxford; didn’t lend itself to any particular style of architecture that he could identify. Designed through a competition among students, it was a deliberate attempt to set Latimer apart from neighbouring colleges. In this they had been successful, and Tilly had used it as her inspiration for the time-travelling portal in her novels. A determined knock on his door interrupted his reminiscing. When he opened it, Tara stood in a brown half-length raincoat, woollen hat, jeans and high-heeled boots.

  ‘Fancy a walk?’

  Eager for the company, he grabbed his new anorak and joined her downstairs in the quad. She smiled warmly at him, and for the second time that day took him by the arm as they walked, the sound of her heels reverberating around the paved yard.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, wondering if, by taking his arm, they were to behave as a couple on this weekend with her again trying to suppress the appearance of policewoman.

  ‘Anywhere you like. I had to get out of that room for a while. Started to feel depressed.’

  ‘Not reliving good old memories of the place?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was doing, but my memories of Latimer are not like yours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They aren’t all pleasant.’

  They passed by Corpus Christi and Oriel on their way into High Street. She seemed content to walk in silence, but he couldn’t help pondering her agenda. In the few weeks since their first meeting, he’d never known her to do something without having set an objective. He surmised it was the way of a detective’s mind, to have a reason for every action and for every question asked. He couldn’t know that she was merely searching for comfort in the city where she’d endured so much grief, on the very day they parted company.

  ‘Have a good look around,’ she said at last. ‘See if you can spot anyone you know. Someone who’s been missing for a long time. That’s why we’re here.’

  They strolled through the streets, browsing the shops, the city throbbing as always with tourists and only a couple of weeks from the student invasion. When they reached Broad Street, she pinched his arm.

  ‘Why don’t you take me to one of your old haunts? I’ve heard all about the fun and games you had; why don’t you show me where it all happened?’

  He stopped and turned to face her. To all passers-by they appeared a natural couple, she dangling on his arm, smiling upwards at his roguish yet handsome face.

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ he said. ‘What did you get up to in Oxford that was so bad you never want to talk about it?’

  She maintained hold of his arm, her eyes darting nervously as he waited for an answer. Neither one had mentioned the kiss in the park, and now they seemed to be revisiting the situation. For a second she considered telling him her story, but a cool breeze suddenly flowed between them proving a sufficient distraction.

  ‘Let’s go for a drink,’ she said. ‘I’ll choose the pub if you can’t be bothered.’

  She pulled on his arm, and he followed obediently. They headed off towards New College Lane, turned left down a narrow alley, and a couple of minutes later sat comfortably in the Turf Tavern, both of them sampling pints of special cask ales. Callum chose a pint of Broadside, while she self-deprecatingly ordered a pint of Bitter and Twisted. The bar was busy with a lunchtime rush, the aroma of sizzling beef and garlic constantly wafting towards them. They sat on low stools facing each other over a small table. Tara removed her hat and coat; Callum seemed comfortable to remain as he was. It was tempting to slip into a holiday mood, to pretend they were away together, getting to know each other, working towards the moment when they hurry back to her room, pull off their clothes and jump into bed. Each time the mood lightened, she reminded herself of Callum’s circumstances, of what they must achieve on this visit, of the dangers one or both of them might face in finding a murderer and bringing him to justice. It had the same effect as the cold rush of air that passed between them earlier. Warm, cosy feelings needed dousing with a bucket of cold water. Visions of murder had the same effect.

  Callum found the bar crowded, noisy and growing warmer. He wanted out. He wanted to touch her again, to feel her soft face, to have her body entwined in his. So long since he felt such desire, so long since he felt inclined to want another woman. Maybe this quest for Tilly and Emily’s killer wasn’t going to lead him to that end but to the point where he might find happiness once again. Maybe events had conspired to bring Tara and him together. Still, he knew little about her, apart from the few lines he’d read in the Alumni magazine that said, she came from The Wirral, had gone to Latimer and became a detective with the Merseyside Police. Tara had told him nothing. Maybe when this weekend was over, and perhaps old heartaches had gained some closure, he could ask to hear her story. For now, she was only interested in discussing how they would track down a murderer.

  ‘Do you know if Ollie Rutherford is likely to show?’ she asked as he set down another pint for each of them.

  ‘I wasn’t able to contact him. I left a message on his answer-phone. Does it matter? As long as Kingsley shows up and we catch him, we’ll have our killer.’

  ‘If he is the killer he will only appear if he has business to attend to.’

  ‘You mean if he intends to kill again?’

  ‘I mean if he needs to kill again. These murders, Callum, are all born out of necessity. There can be no other logical reason. Why kill Tilly seven years after most of you left Oxford, and then wait nearly three more before killing Peter Ramsey? Then we have two in quick succession. The killer is beginning to panic, to lash out.’

  ‘Exactly why I think Kingsley will turn up in Oxford. He aims to finish us off.’

  ‘And what if it’s not Kingsley?’

  ‘I know, you’ve said that before. You really think an MP, a government minister, is going to kill somebody to hide the fact that he once had a gay affair? There’s no longer a scandal in being gay.’

  ‘Tell me again, who knew that we were going to visit Charlotte? Certainly not Kingsley?’

  CHAPTER 45

  Around eight o’clock the alumni of several Oxford Colleges began to arrive at The Head of the River for an informal evening of drinks and buffet food. Tara and Callum were eager to discover who, if any, of their old friends and classmates would show up. Both were to be disappointed. Yes, each was recognised by one or two of the academic staff from their days at Latimer, but Tara did not see anyone who was a student during her years. Callum only seemed interested in whether Geor
gina would show up.

  ‘She’s not likely to appear until it’s time for her talk, and that’s tomorrow night at College,’ said Tara. ‘Georgina and Anthony are far too busy, I’m sure, to spare two nights from their diary for the likes of this.’ She used her hand and wine glass to indicate the gathering. Most of the sixty people appeared old enough to be her parents, or at least graduates from thirty years ago. One or two others, she guessed, were recent alumni, or perhaps post-grads, working through the summer and not likely to miss a free bash. What were they to do if none of that ill-fated bunch put in an appearance?

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this.’ He held his glass up for her to see. ‘Don’t like wine very much these days. Fancy a pint?’

  ‘I’m with you,’ she said. After three pints at lunch and two glasses of poor wine her head felt woozy. Callum disappeared to fetch the beers, while she sat alone beneath the awning on the terrace by the river. She felt the cool of the evening descend, and with it the hopelessness of their situation. Then someone spoke from behind her.

  ‘Hello, Tara.’

  ‘Hi, there,’ Tara replied, startled and trying desperately to recall the girl’s name. ‘Stephanie?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the pale girl with chopped brown hair. She stood by the table in a short black skirt, black cropped leggings and sandals with block heels. Her black and white hooped T-shirt, gathered in at the waist with a broad belt, was overly large on her bony shoulders. Tara invited her to sit.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were a Latimer alumna.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not. I went to Surrey. Ollie dragged me along.’ She looked inside the building towards the bar. ‘He’s just met up with Callum.’

  ‘Did Ollie get Callum’s message then?’

  ‘Mmm. Freaked him out a bit. He didn’t want to come, but I told him he must. Do you really think this Kingsley chap will show up?’

  Surprised that Stephanie was even aware of the reason for the visit, never mind recalling her name and that of Kingsley, Tara tried her best to explain the situation, as she understood it.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Tara. It all seems very creepy to me. I’m frightened by the whole thing, but you sounded quite at ease when we last met.’

  Tara didn’t think Stephanie had taken much notice of the conversation she and Callum had with Ollie in London. She’d seemed too engrossed in her mobile phone.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I was at ease. Callum believes the answers to why his family and friends were murdered are to be found here, this weekend. I came along to help him.’

  Stephanie rubbed her bare arms. It was growing colder, and the bar staff were lighting the patio heaters as the place began to fill with former students.

  ‘Do we have to do anything?’ Stephanie asked. ‘Or do we lie in our beds and wait for the killer to strike again?’

  It was a fair question, and one for which Tara could not provide a practical answer. Callum returned with the promised beer, closely followed by Ollie Rutherford, casually dressed in an olive-green sweatshirt and blue jeans.

  ‘Hello, Tara. Nice to see you again. I gather we’re on a for a real-life murder mystery weekend?’

  Considering what Stephanie had just told her, she knew it was false bravado from Rutherford. He and Callum sat down at the table, and a rather inappropriate toast was proposed.

  ‘Here’s to nailing the sucker,’ said Rutherford in a freakish American accent. Tara didn’t think she could bear a whole night of his quips, but fortunately conversations soon paired off, Ollie talking to Callum, while Tara chatted with Stephanie. It became clear after a few minutes that everyone was now aware of Tara’s background as a police detective. This knowledge implied that the group expected her to take the lead if anything were to happen. She hadn’t a clue how to react if they were to encounter Justin Kingsley, although she, and, it seemed, she alone continued to harbour doubts about him making an appearance.

  ‘What does this Justin Kingsley look like?’ Stephanie asked.

  ‘Nobody’s seen him in ten years,’ said Rutherford.

  Tara opened her bag and pulled out Callum’s well studied photograph of the skiing party.

  ‘That’s him.’ She pointed out the young man seated, his arm resting on the back of another chair.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ said Stephanie. ‘Doesn’t look like a murderer.’

  ‘And what does a murderer look like to you?’ Rutherford asked.

  Tara cut them both off.

  ‘That’s the trouble, isn’t it? There’s no set face for a murderer. They won’t necessarily stand out from a crowd.’

  ‘Or even a small group like ours,’ said Callum.

  ‘I see you’ve been teaching him well, Tara,’ said Rutherford, who continued to look bemused by the situation.

  ‘The reason I asked,’ said Stephanie, ‘Was that I thought someone was watching us just now.’ The other three glanced around the terrace and inside towards the bar.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Rutherford nervously, taking a hefty gulp of his wine.

  ‘I don’t think it was him,’ said Stephanie. ‘He didn’t look like the guy in this photo.’

  ‘Might have changed his appearance since that was taken,’ said Callum.

  ‘Looked nothing like him, but he definitely seemed interested in us. Can’t believe you lot didn’t notice. He was standing on the steps.’ She pointed to where three steps separated an upper terrace from the lower in which they sat. ‘Watched us for about ten minutes. Soon as I made eye contact, and gave him a look…’ She made a not unattractive pout then winked playfully. ‘He upped and left.’

  *

  They parted company around eleven. Tara and Callum walked along St Aldates towards Latimer, but Stephanie and Rutherford called for a taxi to take them to their room at the Randolph. Ollie Rutherford, despite his nonchalance, Tara thought, was clearly spooked by the idea of hunting a murderer, and wouldn’t consider walking back to his hotel. At his suggestion, however, they agreed to meet for lunch the following day. In fact, Rutherford was intent on not being alone in Oxford for the entire weekend.

  Tara wondered if his unease was merely down to a spineless disposition, or did he perhaps have something more to worry about if they were to bump into Justin Kingsley.

  She took Callum’s arm again on the walk back to college. Neither one said much, too many mixed emotions for Tara, thinking about the case, about how to move things forward, wondering what she really meant to Callum and whether she had become his plaything? To be discarded when this sorry mess was behind them? Wouldn’t be the first time it happened to her in this city. What could she tell Kate and Aisling about this developing relationship? Why on earth did she even regard it as such? She hoped that when they reached her staircase she could release his arm. Let him go.

  They passed through the porter’s lodge and bid the night porter, whom neither of them recognised from their student days, a pleasant good evening. A portion of moon appeared in a clearing sky, adding an aspect of shadow to the dim quadrangle, its fountain silent, the spire of the monument thrusting upwards phallic-like from the dark mass of its stone base. The yellow light from the clock face in the tower glowed feebly against the vastness of space above, the hands reading eleven-twenty five. They should have parted there, by the fountain. They should have bid each other goodnight and walked to opposite corners, to separate staircases. But she didn’t release his arm.

  He didn’t step away from her, as he knew he should. For somehow he believed he would only get one chance. He’d pulled down the screens from his windows, cleaned himself up, made plans for his future, and had begun to embrace life once more. But Tara, he realised, would only give him one more chance. They walked to her staircase in silence.

  Reaching the entrance, she dropped her hand behind her, taking hold of his, leading him up the narrow stairwell. Kiss him goodnight. Send him on his way. She couldn’t do it. He pressed her against the door of the room, bending slightly at the
knee for his mouth to meet with hers. One kiss, long, probing, hopeful and bold. Somehow she freed herself from his grip, sufficient only to unlock the door and tug him inside with her.

  She didn’t bother with the light; the curtains open, affording them the privilege of each other’s silhouette. She pulled off her raincoat then reached for the buttons on his shirt as he removed his jacket. The shirt gave way to a smooth chest; he pulled her jumper upwards over her head, and she raised her arms to help. He drew her to him, kissing her bare shoulder then covering her mouth with his. She coiled her arms around his neck, coaxing him down to her height, trying desperately to push her body closer to feel his skin against hers. Breaking free suddenly, she lifted her case from the bed, swiping books and papers to the floor. She landed on her back upon the dull mattress, her arms reaching out for him. Briefly he obliged, leaning over her but touching only as their lips met. She tried to search his eyes for what was to come, but saw nothing in the darkness. He tugged at her boots; she giggled, reached for the zippers to help him, and he slid them from her legs. She unfastened her jeans, and gently he eased them down her legs tossing them to the floor with the boots. Before taking to the bed he removed his trousers, and in a more fluid action, lowered his body on top of her, kissing her neck, weaving his hands into the strands of her hair. She felt his weight, powerful, much too heavy for her. She pushed upwards from her hips, but he seemed to take it as an act of provocation and thrust himself downwards. She felt him hard between her legs.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Not like this.’ He paused above her and she, already breathless, slid from beneath him at the same time directing him down upon the bed. Somehow, in the manoeuvring, he’d caught hold of her pants and slid them to her knees. Violently, in reply, she tugged at his shorts and saw him ready for her. With both hands, and requiring some strength at first, she pressed him to the bed, removed her pants and climbed astride him. Already moist, she cooed as he slipped deep inside her. His hands struggled at her bra; quickly she reached for the catch, and the garment flew to the far side of the room. For a moment she merely sat upon him, feeling him inside her, feeling hands, too strong, too urgent clutching at her tiny mounds, painfully squeezing her nipples. Her hands pressed on his chest, her nails threatening his bare flesh, she slid herself forward, then dropped back, the first few movements taken slowly then with gradual vigour. Her body rasped against him; he moaned and sighed. A cool veil descended on her, and with each movement she felt less able to control anything. Callum thrust upwards several times, lifting her off the bed, her slight body indeed a plaything in his burly hands. She didn’t want the throbbing between her legs to end, but then a new feeling engulfed her, a light head, and an inclination to lean forward and suck at his nipples. She felt his excitement now, their bodies rising and falling raucously upon the single bed. She knew he would soon be done. But much too soon for her. She climbed off him, allowing him time, but desperate not to lose her own ambition. He seemed to sense her concern, raised himself, and pushed her face down on the bed. She groaned in disappointment that it might be over, but he was still for taking her. Straddling her left leg, he leaned forward and placed both hands with all his weight down upon her narrow shoulders, squeezing his intent. His hands felt soft and smoother than she had imagined as they slid down her back, warm and searching every muscle, every crevice, every rise and fall in her fine body. He squeezed at her taut buttocks, slipping his fingers between them, and she gave a start as they forced their way inside, probing and searching her. They felt good, and she moaned her appreciation. With both hands he took hold at the top of her waist, lifting her from the bed on to her hands and knees. She couldn’t help the loud gasp as he pushed inside her, missing at first then plunging deep within her, his hands holding her rigid at the waist. Her head rocked forward at each thrust; she placed her palms on the wall above the bed to steady them both. He continued pounding her, finding a rhythm, and she followed his recoil with her hips, relishing his size within her. This time she knew he’d lost control; a few more rapid throws and she heard his sigh. But it couldn’t end there. It mustn’t, not for her. Somehow she knew this would never happen again. She had no way of telling what lay beyond this moment, and yet she knew in her heart this pleasure would never be revisited. She rolled him to his back, and once again sat astride him. Only selfish desire remained in her; soon he would be spent. She forced him inside her once more, wasting no time in getting the rhythm she needed. His hands reached again for her breasts. Rough and violent kneading, but now she needed it; she wanted him to do it. She rode him, her legs quivering to jelly, waves of pleasure coursing to her thighs, to the places that slid over his body rubbing against his flesh. Her breath came in short gasps. He sat upright, his mouth on her left nipple, biting hard. She held him tight as if to force his entire frame inside her, to be one with him. The bed shook violently; sweat broke on her face. Muscles, for so long unused, unwanted, tightened then relaxed as even now he slipped from within her, warm pulses flowing through her, taking her breath, soothing all aches and all longing. She’d fought for her moment. Now she could rest.