by Jane Casey
‘That’s very interesting,’ I said feebly, trying to take a grip on the interview, though conversation with the vice-principal was like manhandling an eel. ‘I understand that Adam’s body wasn’t found immediately.’
‘Indeed not. The Isis flows swiftly here.’ He squinted at me. ‘That’s the local name for the Thames, my dear. From the Latin, Tamesis. I find it a much more beautiful nomenclature for such an important body of water.’
‘It must have been a difficult time for the college,’ I persisted. ‘Very unsettling for the students.’
‘And the SCR. It was a tremendous shock.’ He stood up and beckoned me over to a window on the other side of the room. ‘This is the Garden side of the college. That sweep, from the bridge over to the willow on the right, all belongs to Latimer. It’s quite lovely for nine months of the year, but you can’t expect to see it at its best in December.’
I agreed, staring out at the dark river oozing between sodden banks, overhung with bare branches and defeated-looking shrubs. The flowerbeds that would bring the scene to life later in the year were standing empty, dark-brown cut-outs from yet another impeccable lawn. A fence ran along the edge of the river from the bridge to the tree the professor had indicated. It was made of narrow palings about six feet high.
‘The fence was added following Mr Rowley’s tragic death. I must say, it seemed a shame to me that we couldn’t simply learn from what happened to him, rather than defacing one of the loveliest outlooks in Oxford. But of course the implications for our insurance couldn’t be ignored; the bursar was most persuasive. And it formed part of the coroner’s recommendations, which we followed to the letter.’
He sat down again and waited for me to return to my armchair. ‘We also conducted our own investigation to find out if he had acquired the drugs he had taken within these walls. He had spent the evening in the college bar, you see, and we were suspicious that there might be someone distributing drugs within the student body. The dean and I found to our great sadness that there was a graduate student – a chemist, perhaps unsurprisingly – who had been manufacturing certain hallucinogens, and although he hadn’t sold them to Adam Rowley as far as we knew, he was sent down immediately. We couldn’t tolerate that sort of behaviour. The college is quite clear on that front in the material it provides to matriculating students.’
‘Adam had taken sedatives,’ I said. ‘That’s not what you’d go for if you wanted to have a good time.’
He spread his hands. ‘I am unfamiliar with the pastime of taking illegal substances, my dear. But I am led to believe that you can’t always be sure what it is you are taking. I’m afraid that Mr Rowley was misled about the pills he took. But there was no suggestion that he obtained them from a member of Latimer.’
‘Do you know anything about what happened with Rebecca Haworth?’ I said, changing tack. ‘She dropped out for a year – had a nervous breakdown, I believe.’
‘I remember her,’ Professor Westcott said, nodding. ‘She was a very pretty girl. Of course, they are very young, the undergraduates, and getting younger all the time.’ He allowed himself a little chesty laugh. ‘They feel things terribly deeply. One understood that she wasn’t in a position to tackle Schools.’
I looked quizzical.
‘Schools is another term for the final examinations that the undergraduates sit. Also known as Finals.’
So why, I found myself thinking, didn’t you just say her final exams?
‘Of course the college was concerned that she shouldn’t suffer simply because of what had occurred with her fellow undergraduate. On the other hand, we were reluctant to allow her to avoid Finals because there was the danger that others would take the same route, and we couldn’t allow the entire year to defer. She was fortunate that she had a champion in the senior common room – her tutor was very persuasive.’
‘Her tutor being …’
‘Dr Faraday. He’s no longer a fellow here.’
It was not my imagination that a dark look came over the professor’s face at the mention of Caspian Faraday.
‘You don’t seem to be a fan of his.’
‘Not at all,’ Professor Westcott said blandly. ‘A most able historian.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Oh, it must have been five years ago. Maybe six. He’s based in London now, I understand.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be able to track him down.’
The professor raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? You think it’s necessary?’
‘I’d like to hear what he has to say, yes.’ I decided to push my luck. ‘Do you mind me asking why he left Oxford?’
‘You may certainly ask.’
There was a small, awkward pause. Professor Westcott gave a shallow cough.
‘I do apologise. Force of habit. It’s one of the turns of phrase I encourage my students to drop.’
‘I’ll try to avoid it in future.’ I leaned forward. ‘I do still want to know why Caspian Faraday left Latimer College, Professor Westcott. From what I understand, he would have needed a pretty good reason to leave.’ And I also had a fair idea what might have happened courtesy of Rebecca’s university friends. I wondered if he would confirm what they’d told me – that the friendly relationship between student and tutor had gone a bit too far.
Professor Westcott stared past my right ear for a long moment before replying, and when he did, he managed not to answer my question directly. ‘You know, when Adam Rowley died, it was a difficult time. With the guidance of the principal, we embarked on a close examination of this institution and its members. We were satisfied, when we had finished, that Latimer College could stand up to any amount of scrutiny. We were sure that we had nothing to hide. So while I am enjoying this conversation tremendously, I’m afraid that I can’t think how I might provide you with any further assistance.’
I could take a hint. The interview was drawing to a close, whether I liked it or not. Before leaving the professor to his books, though, there was something I wanted to know. ‘Do you remember Rebecca’s best friend? Louise North. She studied law.’
The professor thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, but no. If she was a lawyer, she probably spent most of her time in the law faculty or the college library. I doubt she was seen in the hours of daylight. Jurisprudence is a most demanding degree.’
And Louise had not been a very pretty undergraduate with a nice line in handwringing, it went without saying. Poor Louise, always in Rebecca’s shadow. I might have been bitter about that, if it had been me.
Professor Westcott had got to his feet and was replacing the chair he’d been sitting on against a wall. ‘I apologise if I’m rushing you, but I do have a tutorial in five minutes.’
‘No, I’m sorry for delaying you. Thank you for seeing me.’ I gathered my things together in a hurry, shook his hand, then turned to go. At the door, I hesitated and looked back. ‘Before I leave, do you mind telling me when your close examination of the college ended and you were satisfied you had nothing to hide?’
‘Oh, it must have been five years ago. Maybe six,’ the professor said, and behind his thick lenses, one eyelid drooped in what might have been a wink.
LOUISE
Gil exerted himself to be charming on the drive back to London and a shamefully short distance down the road I found myself laughing at something he’d said, and then it seemed easier to talk than to say nothing, and almost too soon we were drawing up outside my house.
I sat where I was for a moment, reluctant to open the door. Inside the car was a different world; outside it, I would never talk to Gil with the relaxed intimacy we had fallen into on the journey. I didn’t care if he was playing a game – I had enjoyed myself. I hadn’t ever seen what Rebecca liked about him when they were together, apart from his looks, but then he hadn’t bothered to show me how he could be: warm, funny, likable. I found it helped that he couldn’t look at me as he concentrated on the road, so I could watch him unobserved. He hadn’t seemed to not
ice that I was staring at him, or at least he hadn’t cared. I had tried to work out why it was that he was paying attention to me, and came up with nothing; I didn’t believe his story about being more interested in me than in Rebecca, not for a second.
Gil had turned the engine off and was very still beside me. I had to move; I couldn’t sit in the car all night.
‘Thank you for the lift,’ I said politely. ‘There was no need to drive me to the door, but it was very kind of you.’
‘We had that argument hours ago. Besides, driving you was my pleasure.’ He tweaked the end of my ponytail. ‘You should wear your hair down.’
I shook my head. ‘Untidy.’
‘Liberating,’ he countered. He reached over and picked up my hand, studying the back of it, then turning it over so he could examine the palm. ‘You have a long lifeline. Lucky you.’
‘Do you have a crystal ball as well? Or do you use Tarot cards?’
‘Shh.’ He frowned. ‘I’m starting to get something. Tomorrow night, I see you having dinner with a dark-haired man.’
‘You are ridiculous.’ I took my hand back and started to hunt through my bag for keys.
‘You are hard to pin down.’ He was watching me when I looked up, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw the expression on his face. I wouldn’t have said that he even liked me at that moment, but the next second he smiled ruefully and the darkness I had seen was gone as if I had imagined it. ‘It’s going to be a fight all the way with you, isn’t it?’
‘All the way to where?’
‘Dinner. Tomorrow night. I would like the pleasure of your company,’ he said in a mock-formal tone of voice.
I should have said no – I knew I should have said no – but I found myself agreeing to it, and to being picked up at half past seven.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’
‘I hate that.’ I glared at him. ‘How will I know what to wear if you won’t tell me where we’re going? It’s patronising and controlling.’
‘I thought it was romantic.’ He grinned and I knew he wasn’t going to back down.
‘Fine. Seven thirty, here, tomorrow night. But you have only yourself to blame if I turn up in a tracksuit. Or pyjamas.’
‘You won’t be needing pyjamas, whatever happens tomorrow night.’
‘Nothing is going to happen.’ I opened the car door and started to get out. ‘Dinner. I agreed to dinner. That’s it.’
‘We’ll see.’
I shook my head at him and slammed the door, walking up the path to my front door and letting myself in without turning around to see if he was still there. But it took all my self-control to do it.
It felt late, but it was just after six, I found, checking my watch. Gil hadn’t kissed me goodbye. But he was seeing me the following night. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to kiss me. But if it hadn’t been as amazing for him as it had been for me, would he have wanted to take me out to dinner? I wandered around the kitchen, biting my thumbnail edgily. I could make no effort for him, or I could pull out all the stops. He would expect me to dress down. I wanted to look pretty. I wandered into the unlit hall and stared into the mirror, my face an oval glimmering in the darkness. I said, out loud: ‘What would Rebecca do?’
I was lucky; my usual hairdresser had just had a cancellation and they could fit me in the following morning, first thing. I took the stairs two at a time and went through the fitted cupboards in my bedroom, sliding hangers back and forth. All these clothes and nothing to wear.
The problem was settled for me early the following day by a courier who delivered a large box tied with a tulle bow. In it, I found a simple black dress with a label that made my eyebrows shoot up; it must have cost a fortune. I tried it on and found that he had chosen the right size without needing to check what that was. Clinging without being tight, it hugged my body, the skirt narrow to just above the knee, the neckline dipping low at the front and the back. He had bought shoes as well, high with a spindly heel and scarlet soles. There was a damson-coloured silk shawl too. It was, I discovered, the precise shade of the bruise on my neck. I wondered if he had chosen it deliberately and decided that he probably had – it was a typical Gil tease.
As I lifted out the shawl, a box of perfume dropped into my lap and I felt my mood darken a notch. I recognised it immediately. It was the scent Rebecca had always worn, the one I had taken from her flat. Why he wanted me to wear it, I could only guess, but it unsettled me.
On the other hand, two could play at that game. My frown cleared and a slow smile spread across my face in its place. The outfit needed something more, and I knew exactly what that something should be. And I was looking forward to dinner, I acknowledged to myself with a tiny shiver of pleasurable anticipation. Whatever happened, it was going to be interesting.
Chapter Nine
MAEVE
It absolutely didn’t surprise me to discover, via the DVLA database, that Caspian Faraday drove a black 1971 Aston Martin DBS V8, a car-collector’s dream that was worth a good six figures. Nor was it a shock that he lived in a six-bedroom double-fronted house in the serene and leafy exclusivity of Highgate Village. He had, after all, made a lot of money from three well-regarded and popular history books, not to mention the television series that had accompanied his last, currently available in hardback and on display in the window of every bookshop in the interminable run-up to Christmas. And Google had informed me, in loving, breathless detail, of the good marriage he had made with the daughter of a convenience-food magnate. I had been expecting well heeled; I had even been expecting ostentatious. What did surprise me, however, when I trekked up to Highgate on a bright, cold afternoon to interview him, was that he had invited his solicitor to come along too. And if that was a bad start to our conversation, things were going to get a lot more awkward before I was finished.
The historian had seemed nervous on the phone, and defensive, two emotions that I generally enjoyed in an interviewee. Nerves and defensiveness were excellent indicators that someone had something to hide, and I was in the luxurious position of having a fairly shrewd idea what that something might be. The best questions for a detective are the ones where you already know the answer, because a lie can be far more revealing than the truth.
It didn’t look as if I was going to be hearing much of either when I strolled into Caspian Faraday’s comfortable, elegantly furnished sitting room to find an overweight middle-aged man scowling from the depths of an armchair. He had dewlaps like a bulldog.
‘My lawyer, Avery Mercer,’ Faraday said from behind me, and I detected a note of smugness that had not been there when the historian opened the front door and practically dragged me into the house. Heaven forbid the neighbours should notice the policewoman on the doorstep, even if I was in plain clothes. And heaven forbid that lovely, rich Delia Faraday should get back from her shopping trip before I was finished. I was quite certain that she hadn’t been told I was coming to see him, or why, and equally certain that he wouldn’t tell her about it once I had gone if he could get away with it. There were things no wife needed to know. Especially if she was the reason Caspian could divide his time between the house in London, the villa in the south of France, the mansion in the Lake District, the duplex in New York and the Parisian apartment that had featured in House & Garden and overlooked the Place des Vosges. History didn’t pay that well.
I attempted to look wounded. ‘I thought I made it clear on the phone, Mr Faraday, this is just a casual conversation. There’s no need for you to have legal representation. You aren’t a suspect.’ I waited a beat. ‘At the moment, anyway.’
The bulldog stirred. ‘My client asked me to join him as he wasn’t certain why you were interested in speaking with him. I am sure you know better than to draw any conclusions from the fact of my presence.’
I threw the lawyer a meaningless smile and concentrated on Caspian Faraday, who had sat down in a chair by the window so the light was behind hi
m. That old trick. It might have been habit, however, rather than guilt, because the first thought I had had when he had opened the front door was that he had aged considerably since his author photograph was taken. The close-cropped fair hair had silvered and was receding inexorably in the classic M shape; he had had a high forehead in the picture I’d seen previously, but time had tipped it beyond that to straightforward, undeniable balding. He had a deep tan that did nothing to hide the wrinkles around his startlingly blue eyes, and the intellectual’s black poloneck was not quite managing to camouflage the softening of his jaw and an incipient paunch. Too much good living, I diagnosed. For all that, he was still attractive: he was tall and broad-shouldered, he had beautiful hands, and his voice was deeply resonant. He was forty-four, I knew from his driving licence, which also told me that he liked to drive faster than was legal and had nine points to show for it. That meant he could be reckless, and impulsive, and that was what I had been hoping to use against him. Avery Mercer, however, was showing every sign that he would take pleasure in applying the brakes on his client’s behalf, and I stifled a sigh as I looked around, working out where to sit. There was a small chair near the door and I picked it up and placed it by the window, closer to Faraday than he liked.
