by KJ Griffin
***
Two and a half hours after speaking to Whitaker, Clayton was again at Oxford station. The superintendent had a busy schedule that day, but he had put Clayton in touch with his friend Raymond Salisbury, Warden of Magdalen College. Clayton had been even keener on that idea; there were other attractions at Magdalen College.
Same porter. Same helpfulness. Clayton was even honoured with a personal escort as far as the Warden’s lodgings.
‘Mr Clayton,’ the Warden beamed, ‘I believe that this is a double honour—chance to meet a rather special servant of Her Majesty’s government, and a long-lost fellow of the College. Care for a sherry?’
‘Dry,’ said Clayton tersely, and settled on another ancient leather sofa, only marginally more comfortable than the bed of nails in McPherson’s Downing Street study.
The Warden was effusive with the chitchat, but Clayton brought him straight down to business before the ruddy-faced old devil could pour his first refill, asking the Warden to give him a physical description of Prince Omar Adil Al-Ajnabi.
‘Ah, yes,’ murmured the Warden. ‘Quite a distinguished looking Arab. Got his face firmly imprinted here,’ he added, tapping his shiny pate and launching into a patchy description that fitted nobody Clayton was anxious to hear about.
Further conversation convinced Clayton that he was wasting his time.
‘Thank you, Warden,’ he snapped, putting his glass on the heavy oak table. ‘You’ve been a great help. Now, one last thing. I believe that one of your undergraduates is lodging with the special envoy. I’d like to see this girl, if you could have the Porters’ Lodge find out where she is at the moment.’
The Warden looked concerned.
‘Sophie Palmer, I think you mean,’ he mumbled, dropping his voice. ‘That could be a little awkward right now, Mr Clayton. You see, this is most irregular during term time, but I have just given Sophie a week’s exeat from college. It is a golden opportunity for the pretty young thing, you see, and anyway, how could I refuse Prince Omar’s request after all he’s done for the college renovation appeal?’
‘You mean Miss Palmer has left Oxford?’
‘Just for the week. Prince Omar gave me his word that she would be back in college by next Thursday. I can have Sophie contact you then if you leave a number.’
Clayton walked over to the windows and gazed down at the main quad. The gargoyles on the roofs of the opposite building were leering at his impotence.
‘So where has Miss Palmer gone? Or should I say, where have they gone, Warden?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Mr Clayton. Say, what’s all this about, anyway? Why are you chaps so interested? Has Prince Omar done anything wrong?’
But Clayton ignored the question; he had almost forgotten something else. Taking a brown envelope from his jacket pocket, he walked crisply across the polished floorboards and arranged three of the photographs Eitan had given him side by side on the oak table.
‘Take a good look, Warden. Tell me if you saw any of these faces among the guests at Prince Omar’s dinner party last night.’
The Warden withdrew his reading glasses from the pocket of his waistcoat and screwed up his face to study the photos.
‘No, can’t say I did,’ he pondered sceptically, but then he paused and looked again at the last photo. ‘Wait a minute. Curly-haired, swarthy-looking fellow on the right. He could have been there. Let me see…yes, I believe he runs one the companies that’s just landed a big arms contract with the Ramlis. Can’t remember his name, though, I’m afraid.’
Clayton picked up the photo of Chentouf, gazed at it for a second and then returned it with the others to his jacket pocket. He declined another sherry, thanked the Warden and made for the door. But he stopped as his hand touched the door handle.
‘You’re quite sure that the man in the photo was talking to Prince Omar, not just to his PA, Hasan Shukri?’
‘Quite sure, Mr Clayton. They were sitting next to each other at dinner.’
At least finding Chentouf was some consolation, Clayton thought grumpily as he walked across the misty quad, back towards the Porter’s Lodge. It looked as if Ronny Eitan had been right about the kind of friends Prince Omar was keeping. But it was going to be hard to persuade McPherson to extend a free rein for further delving, if, as the Warden reckoned, Prince Omar Adil Al-Ajnabi had already fled the country.