The Genesis Inquiry

by Olly Jarvis

  ‘Bit of a loner, was he?’

  They moved to the side of the corridor to let a group of cleaners with mops and buckets pass by. ‘Verging on creepy if you ask me, but then you don’t get here by being a party animal, do you?’

  Ella laughed. ‘I suppose not.’

  They walked on and then he stopped. ‘This is it,’ he said, touching the highest lock on the door. ‘The two silver ones at the top, brown at the bottom.’

  ‘Bit over the top, isn’t it?’ she said, getting the keys out of her bag. ‘He was paranoid, wasn’t he?’ She went through the locks, finally managing to open the door. A damp, unlived-in smell filled her nostrils. She instinctively put a hand over her nose.

  ‘It’s been left pretty much as it was,’ Bartlett explained, seeming unaffected by the musty smell. ‘Maybe once you’re done, we can tidy up, move his stuff.’ He scratched his head. ‘God knows where to though.’

  The main room was full of books, on floor-to-ceiling shelves and piled around the floor. The wallpaper had a seventies pattern of dots and lines. A huge desk and chair dominated the room, and there were a couple of gas rings on a trunk in the corner. She could see through an open door on the other side of the room that there was a tiny, sparse bedroom off the main area and small bathroom with shower and toilet. ‘He lived like an undergrad,’ she said, taking photos with her phone.

  ‘It was all about his work, wasn’t it? No need for anything else. We’d see his light on from the courtyard. Stayed on for days at a time.’ He gave the room a cursory glance. ‘For years he lived here. Years and years, but he was only young.’

  She opened the file. ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Young to me,’ he scoffed.

  ‘And me.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, ma’am,’ he said on his way out of the door.

  ‘Thanks for all your help, Mr Bartlett, appreciate it.’

  He touched his forehead.

  Ella shut the door behind him, then, beginning to acclimatise, stood, hands on hips, taking in her task. On impulse, she opened the mini-fridge and was greeted by another stench, forcing her backwards, more powerful than the last. She slammed it shut as she caught sight of a carton of milk and some green cheese. She moved a stack of books off a three-legged stool in the corner of the room and sat down to recover.

  There was something curiously familiar about her surroundings. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Who was this man? Had he been as unhappy as her? Maybe it was suicide. An involuntary tear caught her by surprise. She chastised herself and stood up, instinctively dusting herself down before beginning a systematic scouring of the shelves and piles of reading material stacked up like some bizarre rock formation. No order to anything. Books on every subject: all aspects of science, the natural world, history, religion, and countless biographies on the life and works of all the greats – Newton, Einstein, Plato, Confucius and many others.

  In one corner, piled on the floor, one particular stack caught her eye. Desmond had been right – all were about the ancient Greeks. She picked one up. It was a translation of Aristotle’s On The Heavens. She flicked through, marvelling that his thoughts had travelled across several millennia. She put the book in her handbag.

  After the laborious process of locking up, Ella headed back down through the courtyards, weaving her way around groups of students laughing and chatting or staring at their phones. She waved at Bartlett as she passed the porter’s lodge then went out onto Trumpington Street.

  She walked down to King’s Parade, wondering whether it was too early for a drink, but, stiffening her resolve, decided to get back to the Gonville so she could study the file and formulate a plan of action.

  Bikes streamed up and down King’s Parade with bells ringing as pedestrians shimmied across the road. Ella loitered outside a newsagent for a few minutes, then finally succumbed to her craving, going in to buy a pack of B & H Silver and a lighter. She stuck her card on the contactless terminal, distracted momentarily by a muffled radio broadcast from behind the counter.

  Another American Navy frigate has been sent to the Gulf as tensions escalate between Iran and the USA.

  She raced for the exit and sparked up. A long drag was followed by a rare moment of calm, then, furious with herself, she flicked the cigarette in the gutter and used a foot to stub it. She scrunched up the packet and tossed it in the bin, then went on her way, gazing into the windows of the coffee shops, captivated by the enthusiastic young faces, bursting with chatter.

  Then something, someone, caught her eye – it made her jolt – Lizzie, deep in conversation with a man. Transfixed by the sight of this young woman, her only child, Ella began to well up. She moved towards the door, then stopped, impulse overruled.

  ‘Ella?’ A voice from behind interrupted her thoughts.

  She spun around. ‘Simon!’

  She stood motionless for a split second, a thousand memories flooding back, followed by an awkward embrace.

  ‘I’m so pleased I caught you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to come to the meeting, but you know how it is?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, recovering from the momentary intimacy. ‘I should thank you for getting me the gig.’

  He gave a nonchalant wave. ‘I know it’s way beneath your usual—’

  She cut him off, suddenly realising the motive. ‘But it gives me a chance to catch up with Lizzie.’ She felt a tenderness for him.

  He raised his arms in surrender. ‘Guilty.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m glad, thank you. I saw her last night.’

  He looked surprised. ‘That’s great.’

  Preliminaries over, there was an embarrassing silence. Too much had gone unsaid.

  ‘Simon, I’m sorry about not being in touch, I—’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He touched her arm. ‘You’ve had a lot to deal with, and anyway, I get it, I was more Tom’s friend, you didn’t need reminding.’

  She was glad he understood. Any remaining tension dissipated. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose it’s far too early for a drink?’ he asked. ‘I’d love to hear what you make of the assignment?’

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ she replied, putting an arm through his. ‘I’m hooked! Did you know Matthew Shepherd?’

  ‘Drink first.’ He guided her towards The Eagle on Bene’t Street. ‘Still on the Sauvignon?’

  She chuckled. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

  The stone slabs in the entrance had been smoothed over time by a million feet, including Ella’s. She found a table and watched Simon order at the bar. The walls were dark, wood panelled to shoulder height with old brick above. She gazed up at the old wooden oar on a dado rail, a trophy from some long-forgotten race.

  ‘You always did like this spot,’ he said, arriving with the drinks. ‘Bet you haven’t been here for a while?’

  ‘At least twenty years,’ she replied, still taking it all in. ‘Hasn’t changed a bit.’

  ‘Cambridge doesn’t,’ he said, having to raise his voice above the chatter. ‘It’s timeless. Only the ideas move on.’

  She could see how much he loved the place. She envied him his life of stress-free academia.

  He sat down and swigged at his pint, leaving a white moustache which he wiped off. ‘In answer to your question, yes, I met Matthew a few times. Seems ridiculous when he’d been here years, but he was a recluse, living in that little room, never spoke to anyone.’

  She took a sip, careful not to glug, then put the glass on the table, using her forefinger and thumb to rotate the stem. ‘Is he really a genius?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘That’s what they say. I really don’t know anything about him. I have a couple of friends who knew him vaguely at Yale, when he was a bit more forthcoming.’

  ‘And?’ She took another sip.

  ‘They said he believed the answers were already out there, in history.’

  Her nose creased up. ‘Answers to what? What does that mean?’

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘He was a theorist,’ Simon explained. ‘Big concepts. It’s a different way of thinking.’

  She watched him down his pint. ‘This is all too wishy-washy for me. I’m a good old-fashioned lawyer, I like straightforward facts.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘You always loved history. I never understood why you switched to law, that was always my thing.’

  She sighed. ‘I often think about that.’

  ‘Nobody knew more about the Anglo-Saxons than you.’

  ‘Yeah well, I needed to earn a living and it quickly became clear Tom wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Yeah, he was a real one-off,’ he replied, without humour. ‘And how we loved him.’

  Their eyes met.

  Chapter Nine

  Lizzie cycled back after her tutorial and padlocked her bike outside the Stephen Hawking Building, engrossed in thoughts of what to wear for her date with Greg. He’d suggested they meet up again that evening and, though she was determined not to try too hard, she couldn’t wait.

  ‘How was your day?’ It was Jay, pushing a wheelbarrow full of leaves. Was it coincidence that he was always there?

  ‘Good thanks,’ she replied, without stopping.

  ‘Lizzie?’ He put down the barrow and called after her. ‘I was wondering if…’ he shifted nervously from one foot to the other, ‘…could I ask a favour?’

  ‘In a bit of a rush,’ she replied. ‘Can we talk tomorrow?’ The question didn’t require a response.

  Jay picked up the handles and walked on.

  By the time Lizzie got to her room, the tiny pang of guilt about snubbing him had grown. It was an emotion she knew well. She shook it off and started to go through her wardrobe, taking out a blouse and holding it against herself in front of the mirror. She turned and gazed out of the window, scanning the gardens for Jay. She couldn’t see him.

  Chapter Ten

  Ella tapped in the number she’d found in the file, then paced up and down her hotel room.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, is that Cameron Shepherd?’

  ‘Yeah, who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Ella Blake, I’m chairing the De Jure College Inquiry into your brother’s disappearance.’ She gave him a few seconds to digest. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about Matthew?’ She waited.

  ‘I guess they hired you to shut me up?’

  She could hear his Arizona accent. ‘You guessed right, but it won’t work. I’m going to find out what happened to him.’

  There was no response. Ella waited.

  ‘Not on the phone. I’ll come as soon as I can get a flight.’

  ‘From Arizona?’ Her heart sank. Desmond had been right; this man was going to make a nuisance of himself.

  ‘There’s a red-eye from Phoenix – it gets into Heathrow Friday morning. I’ll get a train from there.’

  ‘Great,’ Ella replied with fake enthusiasm.

  ‘But let’s not meet at the university.’

  ‘OK…’ she replied. ‘Come to the Gonville Hotel.’

  ‘Sounds good. I’m googling you right now, a hot shot lawyer, I like it.’

  Ella began to relax. ‘It’s a while since I’ve been called that.’

  ‘You got anything yet?’

  ‘No, but I’ve only just started. I’d appreciate any input, from one lawyer to another?’

  ‘Plenty. Find out who kept breaking into his room?’

  She sat down on the bed. ‘When? That’s not in anything I’ve seen.’

  ‘There was no evidence, no forced locks, real pros. He knew he couldn’t stop it; he was scared. I told that guy Desmond – after Matthew went missing.’ She could hear his frustration. ‘They think he was paranoid, nuts.’

  ‘I’ve heard phrases like aspergic and autistic,’ Ella recalled. ‘Lacking empathy.’

  Cameron huffed. ‘Bullshit. Labels don’t work with a guy like Matthew, he’s different because he is an outstanding mind, that’s hard to live with.’ A pause. ‘To me he’s just my little bro.’

  Before she had a chance to ask, he answered. ‘He wouldn’t just vanish for this long without making contact. I know my brother.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what he was working on?’

  A slight pause. ‘No. All I know is that it was important. There was this one time he phoned me, few months ago, all fired up. Said he’d found a new way of looking at it.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘I don’t know. He said he got the idea from the case of some British serial killer from the eighties.’

  Ella thought for a moment. ‘Peter Sutcliffe?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it… The Yorkshire Ripper?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she replied.

  ‘He kept saying, elementary my dear Watson, repeating it over and over.’

  Ella made a note.

  ‘I said to him, sounds like you got it, Sherlock. He found that real funny.’ Cameron laughed, but it quickly began to sound more like a sob.

  ‘Let’s save the rest for Friday,’ Ella said. Her heart went out to him. She knew all about loss. ‘Oh, one last thing, if you’ve got any video recordings of Matthew, I’d love to see them. I have no real sense of who he was.’

  ‘See what I can find,’ he replied, sounding more composed. ‘And Miss Blake, be careful.’ He ended the call.

  Cameron Shepherd puffed out his cheeks and leaned back in his chair. The Arizona sun sliced through the slats on the blind, making yellow lines across his office. He had a view of the rest of the firm through the glass walls that sectioned off his workspace. His desk was covered in papers. He hadn’t been able to concentrate for some time, or sleep. It would all just have to wait.

  He watched the other lawyers and their staff bustling around to a background noise of ringing phones. He tapped his fingers on the desk and looked down at the drawer. Maybe he should’ve actually told her about the letter? Maybe he should’ve given it to Desmond or that English policeman weeks ago, but his instincts said not to. It wasn’t like he understood it.

  He slid the key out of his pocket, unlocked the drawer and took out the envelope, date stamped three weeks ago. The paper was creased from handling it so much. He opened it and read the contents for the hundredth time.

  Bro, if anything happens, trust your instincts – you’ll know when and who to give this to. He and I are the inverse of here and there.

  It still made no sense to him.

  He and I are the inverse of here and there?

  He was oblivious to the phone on his desk ringing out.

  ‘Sir?’ His secretary was leaning through the half open door. ‘Sir?’

  Still miles away he looked up. ‘Sorry, what is it?’

  ‘Your meeting’s here, the Stupskis?’ She leaned her head forward. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, gathering himself. ‘Rough night.’

  He put the letter back in the drawer and waited for her to leave before locking it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lizzie rolled over onto her front and rested on her elbows, playing with the hairs on Greg’s chest. ‘You do realise…?’ She gazed into his eyes daring to wonder if they were on the same wavelength.

  He played with her hair. ‘That we only met today?’

  She gave a coy smile. ‘How did you know I was going to say that?’

  He rolled onto his side and kissed her nose. ‘Great minds.’

  She kissed him back. ‘You don’t think it’s happening too quickly.’

  He ran his hand down her bare back and rested it on her bottom. ‘When you know, you know.’

  She felt her body flush.

  ‘Does that scare you?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied, wanting to reassure him. ‘There’s just so much going on at the moment.’

  The faint lines on his forehead formed into ridges. ‘Like what?’

  For a split second Jay passed through the back of her mind. ‘My mum’s in town.’

  ‘I s
ense that’s a bad thing?’ he asked, sitting up against the headboard.

  She did the same and pulled the sheet up over their naked bodies. ‘No… yes, maybe. It’s complicated.’

  He picked up the wine glasses on the bedside table and handed her one. ‘You’re not close?’

  She took a sip. ‘We were, once.’

  ‘Families, it’s never easy.’

  She leaned across and kissed his lips, then pulled back and examined his face, the contours, his easy smile.

  He returned her gaze. ‘What?’

  She had to look away. ‘I’ve got to have dinner with her tomorrow night.’

  ‘Do you want me to come?’

  She looked at him again. ‘I don’t want to freak you out.’ She slapped her forehead. ‘Forget I said anything, it’s too soon.’ She covered her eyes.

  He pulled her hand away. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Really?’ She beamed.

  ‘Course. I could just come as your friend, right? Not your special friend.’ He winked.

  She giggled.

  ‘What does she do, anyway?’

  ‘Not much.’ She leaned back against the headboard. ‘Used to be a top barrister.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Not Ella Blake?’

  She looked at him again. ‘You’ve heard of her?’

  ‘Of course. Wait a minute, she’s not here about that polymath from De Jure?’

  ‘I don’t know, what do you mean?’

  ‘Everyone’s talking about it. Some super-secret academic went missing. They’ve hired a QC to chair some sort of inquiry about it. It’s got to be her.’

  She found herself resenting his interest in her mother. Always second fiddle. ‘Sounds like it, I know it’s at De Jure.’

  ‘That’s a big job,’ he said, stroking her leg under the duvet. ‘You know what that means?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your mum’s going to be here for a while.’

  She had a feeling of dread.