by Hunter, Cara
‘Don’t worry,’ she says quickly before he can reply. ‘We’re going to stay there overnight.’
Asante tries to keep the relief out of his voice. He loves his parents and – rarer – he admires them, but he really doesn’t want them staying here. If she’d pushed it, he’d have said he hasn’t got round to buying a spare bed (which also happens to be true), but he’s grateful, not for the first time, for his mother’s ability to work these things out for herself.
‘There are plenty of undergraduate rooms available,’ she’s saying now. ‘We may not have had gargoyles or boys, but one thing EL always did have was space.’
‘How about The Perch?’ he says. ‘For lunch? Dad’s always liked it there.’
‘Perfect,’ she says. ‘Though we’d better book – it’s bound to be packed in this weather. Especially at the weekend.’
‘OK, I’ll sort that out. Leave it with me.’
‘We’re so looking forward to seeing your new place, Anthony – are you sure you don’t want us to bring anything? We’ve loads of spare furniture – the loft is practically bursting –’
Asante smiles, but not unkindly. Anything that suits his parents’ stucco-fronted Holland Park town house is really not going to fit in here.
‘It’s fine, Mum, I really don’t need anything.’
He finishes the call and wanders through to the kitchen, where the side of the castle mound rises cliff-like only a few feet from the window. His neighbour’s black-and-white cat is halfway up the path, prowling for mice. He has one eye and extravagant moustaches, making him look dashingly piratical. The Mound is one of the main reasons Asante bought the place. For some people, the main attraction would have been the bars and coffee shops of the now-chic prison quarter only a few hundred yards away; for others, the five-minute walk from the station. But Asante likes the sheer improbability of the Mound, a thousand-year-old man-made hillock right in the heart of the city. He likes the old brewery and the converted malthouse, and he likes the evocative street names – Paradise Street, Quaking Bridge, Beef Lane. There was a horse hospital round here, in the nineteenth century, and a marmalade factory in the twentieth. The place is not very well known, eclectic and unexpected; rather like Asante himself.
He pours himself a glass of water and pushes the kitchen window open a little further. They do Shakespeare productions in the castle courtyard in the summer, and he can see the edge of the stage and the steps where the audience sit. He’s been to a couple of productions now, including a Henry V with only four actors that hadn’t sounded very promising but turned out to be a wonder. At night, when it’s quieter and the trees at the top are flood-lit, he can sit on his balcony and listen to the entire show. It was Titus Andronicus last night. Not a play he knew, but the gaggle of schoolkids were clearly lapping it up. Cannibalism, revenge and rape – what’s not to like, if you’re fifteen.
* * *
Ten miles away as the crow flies, Ev is getting in a quick early visit to her dad. He’s only been in the care home for a couple of months and it’s taken time to get him used to the place, never mind accept it. She’d been almost as reluctant to agree to it as he was, but after a fall that nearly left him with a broken hip she knew she no longer had a choice. The doctor said so, the manager of the home said so, even Fawley said so. But none of that makes her father’s reproachful stare any easier to take, or his simmering self-pity any easier to hear.
She’s visited every weekend since, but this is the first time when they haven’t had the heating on. Every mobile resident is outside in the garden, which Ev hasn’t ventured into before and turns out to be much nicer than she’d expected. Beds of roses, marigolds, petunias – the sort of flowers her father’s generation grew up with. But, of course, he still found something to criticize (‘the gardener’s one of those greenies, but he won’t get rid of blackfly like that with bloody Fairy Liquid’). Still, at least he had a bit of colour in his cheeks when she helped him back into his armchair. And then there was tea and soggy garibaldis, and more daytime TV with its demoralizing adverts for funeral plans and denture fixative and, that euphemism of the decade, ‘sensitive bladder’. Ev is uncomfortably aware that the same sort of advertising has started turning up on her Facebook feed – just how old do those people think she is? By half past ten she’s had enough, and decides she’s earned a decent coffee in the peace and quiet of her own sitting room. She gets to her feet, mumbling something about feeding Hector, only for her father to bark out that his only daughter ‘cares more about her bloody cat than she does about me’ at foghorn volume. A couple of other visitors turn to stare as she leaves, but one gives her a sympathetic look that says, Don’t worry, I’ve been there.
She’s picking up speed as she crosses the lobby, the open front door already in sight, when she hears her name.
‘Miss Everett?’
She turns. It’s Elaine Baylis, the manager. Ev’s heart sinks. Another half-hour between her and that coffee. And that’s at best.
‘I thought it was you – could I have a quick word?’ Baylis must have seen the look on Ev’s face because her own hardens a little. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long.’
Baylis can’t be much older than Ev, but the combination of a studiously dreary wardrobe and a sanctimonious professional manner gives her the aura of an elderly fifty-five.
She shows Everett into the office and closes the door behind her. Ev takes a seat on one of the uncomfortable plasticky chairs.
‘I just wanted to say,’ starts Baylis, taking her own seat and tucking her skirt neatly under her – her mother would have been proud – ‘we’re really pleased your father is settling in.’
Ev wonders if she’s speaking on behalf of the whole staff or if it’s some sort of Royal We.
‘But?’
Baylis frowns. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘It sounded like there was a “but” coming.’ She smiles. ‘Or perhaps I’ve just spent too long interviewing suspects.’
Baylis looks momentarily wrong-footed. Now there’s a first, thinks Ev.
‘I just meant,’ she says, sitting forward now, ‘that it’s always a relief – for everyone – when a resident starts to feel at home.’
Ev waits. There’s something else coming. No question. Like she said, she’s been at the interrogation game a very long time.
Baylis sighs. ‘I know we talked about this before, before your father became one of us.’ She makes it sound like the Masons. ‘But I feel I do need to say it again. Meadowhall is a residential home, not a nursing home. We don’t have specialist resources –’
‘The Alzheimer’s.’
She blinks. ‘Yes, the Alzheimer’s.’
‘The GP says it’s still very early stages. He prescribed those drugs –’
‘I know, and we’re making sure he takes them. But that’s about all we’re able to do.’ She emphasizes the words. ‘We don’t have full-time medical staff. We wouldn’t be able to cope –’
‘If it got worse – yes, I know. You told me.’
Baylis gives her a long look, not unkindly. ‘It’s not a case of if, Miss Everett. It’s a case of when. Alzheimer’s always wins in the end.’
Ev’s throat is suddenly tight with tears.
‘I know,’ she says after a moment, her voice betraying her. ‘I do know that, I just want – I just want him to be somewhere normal for as long as he can. Somewhere that feels as much as possible like home.’
Baylis nods. ‘And that’s what we’ll provide. But only for as long as possible. I just wanted that to be completely clear.’
Everett gets to her feet – if Baylis really was a suspect she’d have exactly the right whip-smart response, the perfect form of words to re-establish the balance of power between them, but something about this office is radio-jamming her brain.
‘Sorry,’ she mutters, ‘I’ve got to go.’
* * *
The head of the university computer science department was easy enough to track down,
but rather harder to persuade to see them at the weekend. When he opens the door of his Abingdon Road house he’s rather pointedly dressed in slippers and a purple-and-turquoise dressing gown.
‘You’re not Moonies, are you?’ he says jovially. ‘The last bloke who knocked here wearing a suit like that asked me if I wanted to be saved.’
Quinn steps forward, showing his warrant card. ‘Acting DS Gareth Quinn. This is DC Asante. Thank you for making the time to see us, Professor Sandford.’
Sandford takes a step back and waves them through. ‘I’m in the kitchen. At the back.’
It’s a Victorian semi, but unlike most people who live in houses like this, Sandford hasn’t knocked through any of the downstairs rooms, so there’s a railway carriage feel of doors opening off a passageway that doesn’t get enough light. That, combined with the heavily patterned wallpaper and the piles of newspapers and magazines, makes the place feel much smaller than it really is. The kitchen is in a modern extension, but ‘modern’ is a relative term. Eighties, at a guess. Out the back, what’s left of the garden has been slabbed over; there’s a white plastic table and chairs on the grubby paving and neglected tomato plants withering in a growbag against the fence. And Sandford clearly isn’t much of a domestic goddess within doors either. The kitchen’s not that clean under the clutter and the only item less than thirty years old is the large Nespresso machine. The rest is vintage 1985 – the mug tree, the matching tea and coffee jars, and the enamel toaster in the corner that’s definitely an original rather than a trendy repro. There’s a mug of coffee steaming on the breakfast bar and a plate of newly buttered toast, but Sandford doesn’t offer either. He just pulls out a bar stool and gestures for them to do the same.
‘Must be serious, to get you chaps dolled up to the nines this early on a Sunday.’
Quinn gets out his tablet. ‘We’re making enquiries in relation to Professor Fisher.’
Sandford raises an eyebrow. There’s a half-smile trying to get out. ‘Marina? Well, well, well. Who’d ’a thought it, eh?’
‘It’s a confidential matter at present, sir. And it’s very important that it remains so. I’m sure you understand.’
Sandford does a zip gesture across his mouth. ‘Rest assured, my lips are sealed.’ He reaches for a slice of toast and coats it liberally with blackcurrant jam. Asante feels his stomach start to rumble.
‘Go on then,’ Sandford says, his mouth half full. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How does Professor Fisher get on with her students?’ asks Quinn.
Sandford nods slowly, chewing all the while. ‘She’s very popular. Being a media star no doubt helps – sprinkles a bit of fairy dust. Oh yes, she has quite the little following.’
‘What about her colleagues?’ asks Asante. ‘Does she inspire the same admiration there?’
Sandford considers. ‘That’s rather more nuanced, shall we say. No one questions her technical competence, but this is Oxford; excellence merely gets you to first base.’
‘What do they think about her public profile?’ continues Asante. ‘Is that seen as a good thing?’
Sandford gives him a narrow look. ‘Well, the “official” line is that having a woman of Marina’s standing on the staff can only be a good thing. And if it helps attract girls to the subject, so much the better. Getting the stats up on female applicants is still an unholy grail for every STEM faculty.’
Quinn raises an eyebrow. ‘And the “unofficial” line?’
Sandford puts down his toast and wipes his hands on a piece of kitchen paper. ‘There are those who think she’s too flashy, and her rather – shall we say – idiosyncratic style of dress doesn’t exactly help. Not that she appears to care, but that’s Marina all over.’
‘In my experience,’ says Asante carefully, ‘academic life can be very competitive –’
Sandford is already laughing. ‘My God, out of the mouths of babes. The average Oxford department, Detective Constable, is a very small pond overstocked with piranhas the size of elks. And the fact that they’re so rare only serves to make the female of the species that much deadlier.’
Asante and Quinn exchange a glance.
Sandford gets up and goes over to the coffee machine. ‘Safe to say, Marina’s most vocal detractors are almost certainly motivated by envy, and almost always other women. One of them famously referred to her as “the sort of marina where the wisest option is a wide berth”.’
He gives them a heavy look, turns to the switch and flips it on. The kitchen fills with the thudding gurgle of the machine. Quinn makes a point of staring at the empty mugs, but it cuts no ice with Sandford. He collects his coffee then comes over and joins them again.
Asante takes a deep breath; here comes the point of no return. They’re going to have to trust Sandford to keep his mouth shut from now on, and his demeanour so far has hardly inspired much confidence. ‘Have there ever been any allegations against Professor Fisher that you’re aware of? In connection with her teaching role?’
Sandford looks intrigued. ‘What sort of “allegations”?’
He stares at them, a stare that turns into a gape as the silence lengthens and he finally realizes what they must be getting at. ‘Fuck me,’ he says. ‘You are joking, I take it?’
‘Just answer the question, please.’
Sandford sits back a little. ‘Well, if you actually mean what I think you mean, the whole bloody idea is preposterous. Marina has no shortage of male company as far as I can see, and even if she did, she’s just not that bloody stupid.’
Asante quietly makes a note, trying to give the impression that this is all perfectly routine, but without any confidence that he’s managing to pull it off.
‘I believe there was a fundraising dinner on Friday night,’ says Quinn. ‘At Balliol. Were you present?’
Sandford nods. ‘Of course. And if you’re going to ask about Marina, she completely aced it. Had the bigwigs eating out of her hand, especially our Chinese friends. They couldn’t get enough of her. And that dress – what did they say about Nicole Kidman that time? – “pure theatrical Viagra”. At one point during dessert the Vice-Chancellor was heard to mutter that they should have asked for double.’
‘That sort of success won’t have endeared her much to her female colleagues either, I imagine.’
Sandford smiles drily. ‘No doubt. But as it happens, she was the only woman present.’
Asante nods slowly; easy to see what an adrenaline hit that would have been. Fisher must have felt invincible. Invincible enough – and uninhibited enough by all that alcohol – to assume she could ask for anything else she happened to want, and expect to get it?
He clears his throat. ‘Professor Fisher has admitted to us that she was drinking at the dinner.’
Sandford raises his eyebrows. ‘We were all drinking.’
‘Were any photographs taken?’
Sandford gives a quick frown. ‘Some, I think. I didn’t have my phone with me, but a couple were posted on the faculty WhatsApp group yesterday.’
‘And you’re on that?’
Sandford nods. ‘For my sins. I take it you want to see?’
‘If you don’t mind, sir.’
Sandford fishes about under the scatter of Sunday papers and unearths the phone. ‘Here you go. Usual sort of stuff.’
‘Your group’s called “The Vowels”?’ asks Quinn, frowning.
Sandford looks smug. ‘Artificial and Experimental Intelligence, Oxford University. AEIOU.’
‘Hilarious,’ says Quinn.
Sandford’s still smirking. ‘Thank you, I thought so too.’
Quinn turns back to the phone. There are a couple of formal shots that were probably taken before they went in to eat – a line of men in DJs, monotonously black and white, Fisher queening it in the centre, glittering in her scarlet dress like some sort of tropical insect. She’s turned three-quarters to the camera, one shoulder lowered, as if she’s done this before. The later shots have people with gla
sses of port in their hands, and Marina is clearly visible in several, talking to a couple of middle-aged men. Her cheeks are slightly flushed and, judging by their faces, both men are captivated by her, though it’s debatable whether it’s her cleavage or her conversation that’s making the greater impact. Quinn scrolls to another picture, stops, then holds out the phone to Asante with a meaningful look. Marina Fisher, mid-gesture, her right hand raised, her sleeve slipping down. She’s not wearing a bracelet and her wrist is completely unmarked.
‘Can you send these to me, sir?’ asks Asante, sliding a business card across the counter.
Sandford shrugs. ‘Sure, knock yourselves out, as our American cousins say.’
Quinn gets to his feet. ‘Unless there’s anything else you think we should know, I think that’s it, thank you. We’ll leave you to your breakfast.’ And get some of our own, he thinks. Thanks for bloody nothing, tosser.
Sandford follows them down the hall to the door.
‘There was one thing –’
‘Oh yes?’ says Quinn, turning back to face him.
‘Who brought this “allegation” against Marina? I don’t think you said.’
‘No,’ says Quinn. ‘We didn’t.’
As they walk back up the Abingdon Road towards St Aldate’s, Asante turns to Quinn. ‘What are the odds this is all over that WhatsApp group before the day is out?’
‘Two to one on,’ says Quinn grimly.
* * *
It’d take a lot more than wild horses to get Clive Conway to work on a Sunday under normal circumstances, but something about the Fisher case isn’t sitting right, so as soon as his wife is settled outside in the garden with her brother and his family, he slips upstairs to his office and logs on to the TVP server.
He stares at the screen, then sits back, swinging the swivel desk chair slowly from side to side.
He should be feeling pretty pleased with himself right now, with his hunch amply vindicated. But it’s not as simple as that. It rarely is. Because even if what he found is clear enough, the why and the how are going to take a lot more explaining.