by KJ Griffin
***
South Bank, London: 5:00 p.m.
Clayton was staring again at Knox’s photo of the voluptuous Oxford girl when the phone rang.
‘Just received an update from my Oxford scholars, Max.’ Stupid giggle.
‘Well done, Graham. Any photos of Prince Al-Ajnabi?’
Deflated nervous cough. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid, Max. But we’ve got ID’s on the young couple and the pouting beauty. Which do you want first?’
‘Tell me about the couple,’ said Clayton, poring over the photo he was fingering in the thrill of suspended delight.
‘Girl’s called Linda Groves, aged 26, of Abingdon. Single. Lives with parents. Profession: computer programmer. No police record. Worked for Avant-Garde Technosolutions, a London computer software designer, until March last year. Now registered as self-employed.’
‘And the young lad?’ Knox coughed again. He could tell Clayton was unimpressed.
‘Even less interesting. Name of Mark Elmer. Born in London, now living in a flat in Headington. Age 28. Worked as an MP’s assistant for two years, then as a Westminster lobbyist. Left in January this year. Been travelling since then, as far as we can make out.’
‘Where to?’
‘No idea. Our information came from his last employer.’
‘Who was?’
‘Westminster Strategy. Lobbying group, as I told you.’
‘Which MP did Elmer work for?’
‘Claire Ferris, Labour MP for Ipswich. Still holds the seat, I believe.’
‘OK, Graham,’ Clayton paused to scribble down the details. When he had finished, he picked up the photo again and stared in mesmerisation at the beautiful face that had fired him with an intense, youthful passion. ‘Now tell me about the girl.’
‘Well, she turns out to be a second year English student from Magdalen College. We don’t know how or why, but the young lady seems to be living in the mansion with our Ramli friend. Goes to college to study by day, returns to Ramli Sugar Daddy by night.’
‘Is she sleeping with him?’
Very nervous chuckle. ‘Come off it, Max. You don’t expect us to have bugs in the bed sheets, do you?’ Follow on giggle at lame joke.
‘Name? Age? Home address? Any previous connection with Ramliyya?’
‘Nothing on file to connect her to the Ramlis. Name of Miss S. L. Palmer, short for Sophie, Louise. Nineteen years old. Lives in North London with her mother outside term time.’
‘Palmer?’
‘That’s right, Max.’ Cough. Long pause. Exploratory, waiting-for-an-answer cough. Prolonged pause. Lavish throat clearance, ‘I say, Max, are you still there?’
Clayton was everywhere and nowhere. He was twenty years away, and he was right there inside the photo in his hand. He was also swimming in the very deepest part of his mind, in a swelling sea of ill-defined unease.
‘Hello, Max?’ Giggle and cough together. ‘Look, as I told you before, that’s as much as I can do for you now without official clearance. I’ve juggled around the manpower enough as it is. Questions will be asked if I keep the Oxford team in place any longer.’
‘Thanks, Graham. You’ve done me a big favour,’ Clayton sighed eventually, sounding anything other than thankful or reassured. ‘I think I’d better go up to Oxford myself tomorrow and see if I can speak to this young woman in the flesh.’