by Hall, M. R.
‘We have to try.’
‘There’s an email from DI Watling you might want to look at,’ Alison called after her. ‘He doesn’t know what happened to the figurine in Jordan’s car, but they found another couple of receipts in the junk under the seat. I’ve forwarded it to you.’
Jenny sat at her desk and ran her eye down the fifty emails that had arrived since she’d left the office. It never ended. Watling’s was near the bottom. In the kind of terse message that only a man would write, he reported no sign of the figurine and said scans of the last traces of evidence discovered in Jordan’s car were enclosed. She opened the two attachments. The first was a scan of a till receipt. The print was faded and patchy, but Jenny could just make out that it was from Blackwell’s bookshop in Broad Street, Oxford. It was dated two days before Jordan’s death: Saturday, 21 July. He had purchased a single item costing thirteen pounds, at 11.15 a.m. The second contained a scan of another receipt, this one from a cafe in New Street, Oxford, for a purchase made forty minutes later: two cups of Americano coffee and a bottle of water.
Jordan had evidently been to Oxford and met with someone. Jenny thought back to her last conversation with his widow, and couldn’t recall her having mentioned it.
Curious, she reached for her phone and looked up Karen Jordan’s number. Karen answered against the clatter of a busy hospital corridor.
‘Mrs Jordan, it’s Jenny Cooper.’
‘I know.’
‘How’s your son?’ Jenny asked, trying to let her feel she was on her side.
‘He’s fine.’ She sounded unsure. ‘Much better.’
‘The police found a few receipts in your husband’s car.’
‘You mean our car.’
‘Of course. May I ask you about them?’
‘You can try.’
Jenny scrolled down through her inbox and found the previous email Watling had sent her.
‘The day your husband died – Monday – he’d filled the car with petrol at somewhere called Great Shefford at a quarter to six in the evening. He also bought a sandwich and a couple of drinks.’
‘Great Shefford? Where’s that?’
‘Berkshire. It’s about ten minutes off the M4 motorway – an hour’s drive from your home.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’ She sounded confused. ‘Berkshire? He told me he was going to visit his father’s grave, with Sam – that’s the opposite direction. Are you sure?’
‘It was paid for by card – I’ll send it to you if you like. You can check it yourself.’
‘I will.’
‘Just one other thing. Two other receipts from last Saturday, the 21st. One from Blackwell’s bookshop in Oxford, one from a cafe along the road forty minutes later. Both cash, I think.’
Karen Jordan was silent for a moment. ‘Last Saturday? He was never in Oxford. He went to London last Saturday. He went to visit the office. He was going to talk with Harry Thorn and the others about their new project. He even called me from there.’
‘On a weekend?’
‘That’s not unusual.’
‘When I spoke to the girl at the charity – Eda, is it? – she said he’d been in last week, not two days before.’
‘Yes, he’d been there on Wednesday as well. He called me from London on Saturday at about one. He told me he was just around the corner in Oxford Street. I could hear the traffic.’
‘If these receipts did belong to him, it seems he was more likely to have been in a street in Oxford, fifty miles away.’ Jenny paused. ‘Would you like me to check with Mr Thorn or the London office?’
Karen Jordan didn’t answer.
‘Mrs Jordan?’
‘Do what you like. I don’t care.’
She rang off.
Jenny started to call her back, then stopped herself. Nothing she could say would undo the damage of letting a widow know her husband had been lying to her. She continued her search instead by calling AFAD’s London office. Eda Hincks answered, wary when she heard Jenny’s voice.
‘I’m attempting to clarify Mr Jordan’s movements in the days before his death,’ Jenny explained. ‘Last time we spoke, you said he was in the office last week. Would that have been on Wednesday?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And did he come to your offices again last week?’
‘Not that I am aware.’
‘Mrs Jordan seems to think he may have been there on Saturday, the 21st.’
‘No. There was no meeting scheduled for that day. Hold on, I’ll double-check. Jenny heard her turning through the pages of a diary. ‘Yes, he had scheduled another meeting for this Friday, with Mr Thorn and Helena Anders – she is a consultant assisting us with a funding matter.’
Jenny said, ‘Do you know of any reason he might have been in Oxford last Saturday? Did he have friends or professional associates there?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you know anyone who might?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
Can’t or won’t? Jenny wondered.
‘One more thing – he was in Berkshire late on Monday afternoon. He bought petrol at a village called Great Shefford. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
Jenny thanked her and hoped for better luck with Harry Thorn.
His phone was answered by his girlfriend, Gabra, who said he was out. Where, and at what time he might be back, she couldn’t say. She sounded dreamy, as if she were high. Jenny tried asking her whether she was aware of Adam Jordan having come to London the previous Saturday, but Gabra was equally vague. Giving up, Jenny promised to call back later.
She stared at the two receipts opened side by side on the screen in front of her, impatient for an explanation for Adam Jordan’s secrecy. Oxford was only an hour’s drive away. A short trip might even put the case to bed. She made up her mind to go there. Right away.
As she moved the cursor across the screen to shut down her email, the faded, illegible text on the Blackwell’s receipt suddenly sharpened in her peripheral vision. For the blink of an eye she registered the title and author of the book Adam Jordan had purchased: Warrior in White, by Professor Roman Slavsky.
EIGHT
JENNY’S MEMORY OF OXFORD – MORE than fifteen years out of date – only partially matched the city now. The university term was over and tourists had moved in. They swarmed the narrow pavements, hoping, she suspected, to find the promised magical vista of lawns and spires around each corner. But they would be frustrated. Apart from the panoramic view of Christ Church from the meadows, it was a medieval warren of a city whose beauty coexisted alongside the charmlessness of a modern shopping precinct that cut through its heart. It was a living place, beautiful in parts but not the spectacle she remembered.
Cafe 1070 was inside the yard of Oxford Castle, whose precincts had been developed into a mini-quarter all of its own, with cafes and restaurants, and an upmarket hotel in what had once been Oxford jail. Pushing through its glass doors, Jenny became aware that Adam Jordan had trodden the same ground less than a week before. She was conscious, somehow, of his presence, his sense of purpose, as she reached into her bag and approached a counter with one of the photographs Harry Thorn had given her.
She introduced herself to the young waitress at the till, informing her that she was a coroner inquiring into the death of one of their recent customers. Alarmed, the waitress said she hadn’t been on duty on Saturday morning, and went to fetch a colleague who had. Jenny guessed Rena was Polish; she spoke excellent English and even in their brief exchange Jenny discerned that she was an intelligent woman trapped by background in a menial job.
‘Two cups of coffee and a bottle of water, all paid for in cash. I’m assuming he was with one other person,’ Jenny said.
Rena stared at the photograph and frowned. ‘We were so busy. The other person was a man or a woman?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ Jenny said. ‘All I know is that he had a book with him that
he had just bought.’
A light seemed to dawn in Rena’s eyes. ‘A book . . . Yes.’ She pointed to a table by the window. ‘I remember, there was a man, sitting alone reading. I asked him for his order and he said he was waiting for someone.’ She paused, trying to bring his companion to mind. ‘It was a woman. She comes here often.’ She turned to her colleague. ‘You know the lady – short black hair, glasses, always working on a computer. She comes early in the morning – 8.30.’
‘I know.’ The other waitress looked at Jenny and shrugged. ‘But I don’t know her name.’
Rena said, ‘She’s sometimes with that guy. Is he called Alex?’
The first waitress looked blank.
‘Alex – the blond guy,’ Rena said insistently, ‘the one who asked for Linda’s number. He tells her he’s important, teaches economics at the university.’
‘Oh, him.’
Jenny brought out her phone and called up the web browser. ‘Economics?’
Rena nodded. ‘That’s right. He thinks he’s a good-looking guy.’ She rolled her shoulders from side to side, imitating his swagger.
Jenny tapped Oxford University Department of Economics into the search bar on her phone and found the departmental website. She clicked on Academics and up came a list of economics tutors. She scrolled through the names until at the very bottom she found Alex Forster. Another tap and she was looking at his CV and photograph. He had a PhD from the University of Wellington, was thirty-two years old and was a research fellow at Worcester College. She showed his picture to Rena. ‘Is this the man?’ Rena nodded, impressed with the speed of her detective work. ‘The picture’s a little old, though.’
It took only two phone calls, one to the Department of Economics and one to the receptionist at Worcester College, to be connected to Alex Forster’s extension.
He answered briskly in the manner of a man who had been interrupted at his work. ‘Dr Forster.’ He spoke with a pronounced New Zealand accent.
Jenny introduced herself with her formal title – Coroner for the Severn Vale District – and got his attention. ‘My inquiry doesn’t directly concern you, Dr Forster,’ she explained, ‘rather someone you may know. This may sound rather odd, but I’m told you sometimes share a table at a cafe in Oxford Castle with a woman with short black hair. She wears glasses and often carries a laptop with her.’
‘I’m conducting a tutorial at the moment, Ms Cooper. May I call you back?’
She detected a tightness in his voice, as if he been caught out.
She pressed him. ‘I’m here in Oxford. I could speak to you in person if you wish. Or if you’d prefer to check my identity, I suggest you call my office and ask my officer to patch you through.’
‘That might be wise. I’ll call you back.’
Jenny ordered a coffee while she waited the few minutes it would take for Forster to perform the same exercise as the one she had just conducted on him. Unlike a police officer, she was in no position to intimidate witnesses into speaking. She had instead to rely on their willingness to help, and her instinct was that Forster would.
He returned her call five minutes later.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms Cooper – you understand my caution.’
‘Of course. I ought to explain – the woman I’m attempting to trace was seen talking to a man who apparently committed suicide earlier this week. I’m conducting an inquiry into the surrounding circumstances and would like to speak to her.’
‘I see.’ He sounded relieved. Perhaps he had feared the incident with Linda the waitress had somehow come back to bite him. ‘The description you gave sounds like Sonia Blake. She’s a politics tutor here in college. I tried her number but she’s not answering. She’s usually back in her room by about 4.30.’
‘Are you and she close colleagues?’
‘Like all good Oxford dons, we often have tea,’ he joked.
‘I’d like to reach her before then if I can. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me her mobile?’
Thanking him for his help and ending the call, Jenny took stock. She decided a phone call to Sonia Blake wouldn’t be enough. She wanted to talk to her in person.
It was only a ten-minute walk – guided haphazardly by the tourist map she had picked up at the cafe – to Worcester College. It stood at the bottom of Beaumont Street, a short walk from the Randolph Hotel, and had the feeling of being set slightly apart from the centre of town. Its Georgian facade lacked the grandeur of the colleges in the city centre, but having passed through its unpromising entrance, she found herself in a cloister that opened onto a large and beautiful sunken quad with buildings on three sides. To the left stood a row of medieval cottages, to the right a four-storey Regency terrace, and at the far end an ancient stone wall beyond which lay a formal garden. She stood and admired the vista for a moment: an age-old secret hidden from the world outside.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
She turned to see a college porter emerging from the lodge, a small office set just inside the entrance.
‘I’m here to visit Sonia Blake.’
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘No,’ Jenny answered truthfully.
He shook his head. ‘The college isn’t open to visitors this afternoon. You can’t come in without an appointment.’
‘I’m not a visitor,’ Jenny said, pointedly ignoring his rudeness. ‘I’m the Severn Vale District Coroner. I’m here on business.’
‘Oh.’ He drew back his shoulders, but offered no apology. ‘I’ll call up for you, then.’
Jenny followed him into the lodge, a room which could hardly have changed in a hundred years. As the porter went behind his desk, she cast her eyes over the rows of pigeonholes, the foot-worn flagstones and the thick distemper paint peeling from the walls.
‘Ah . . .’ the porter said, setting down the phone. He was looking past her to someone who had appeared in the doorway behind her. ‘There’s Mrs Blake now.’
Jenny turned to see a bespectacled, dark-haired woman in her late thirties, with the serious, intense look of one with much on her mind.
‘Sonia Blake?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, the single word enough for Jenny to detect her American accent.
‘Jenny Cooper. Severn Vale District Coroner.’ She hesitated. ‘I believe you knew Adam Jordan.’
A look of dismay crossed Sonia Blake’s face. ‘What about him?’
Jenny glanced over at the porter, who had tactfully absorbed himself in his computer. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mrs Blake – last Monday night.’
Sonia Blake spun sharply and stepped out into the cloister. Jenny followed her, uncertain how to proceed.
After a few paces Sonia wheeled round, her eyes welling with tears.
‘How?’
‘It seems he jumped from a motorway bridge, at least that’s what the police have concluded. His wife has no idea why. It seems you were one of the last people to see him. I thought you might be able to cast some light.’
An involuntary sob escaped from Sonia’s lips. She pressed a fist to her mouth. ‘Come to my room.’
Jenny followed her out from under the cloister and along the length of the Regency terrace. Each of its evenly spaced doorways was numbered, and they entered at staircase six. According to a hand-painted sign inside the entrance, Sonia Blake’s room was on the second floor. They climbed four creaking flights of stairs in silence and arrived outside a heavy outer oak door painted black. Sonia fumbled for keys, and unlocked it to reveal a smaller, inner door that led into a spacious study.
She gestured Jenny to an armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture not smothered with books and papers. Too agitated to sit, she stood at one of the two elegantly proportioned sash windows that overlooked the quad.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Blake. I had no idea if you knew or not.’
‘It’s all right. There’s never an easy way.’
‘No.’ Jenny allowed her a moment to collect herself. ‘I don
’t mean to be intrusive, but can I ask what the nature of your association with Adam Jordan was?’
‘Purely professional.’ The answer came out a little too defensively to be entirely convincing. ‘We’d only met a couple of times. I write about international development. I was doing some research on Africa and needed to talk to someone with recent first-hand experience.’
‘I see,’ Jenny said. ‘I understand he was working on irrigation projects.’
‘Yes. That’s how I found him. I’d learned that his charity was doing pioneering work.’
‘You approached him?’
‘I did. But I really don’t know anything about his personal life. He seemed perfectly happy last weekend.’
‘He didn’t tell his wife he was here,’ Jenny answered. ‘In fact, he told her he was going to London last Saturday. She had no idea he had been to Oxford.’
‘Perhaps he was going on to London? We only talked for half an hour or so.’
‘He telephoned her at one o’clock and told her he was around the corner from his charity’s London offices. I presume that can’t be right.’
‘I really have no idea why he would do that. You must understand – it wasn’t a personal relationship. It wasn’t really a relationship at all.’
Sonia’s attempt to distance herself seemed to Jenny at odds with the reaction she had witnessed outside the porter’s lodge.
‘How long had you known one another?’ Jenny ventured.
‘We started corresponding several months ago, while he was still in South Sudan. We met twice in person, both times here in Oxford.’
‘Do you mind if I ask what you discussed?’
‘We mostly talked politics. I’m researching the impact of post-partition democracy on traditional tribal loyalties. Adam had been living amongst the people I was interested in – close to the border with the north, right in the middle of what for years has been disputed territory.’
‘The Dinka people?’
‘That’s right.’ Sonia seemed surprised by Jenny’s knowledge.
‘And he was in good spirits?’
‘Very. Enthusiastic about his work, though a bit frustrated he had to leave his last project before it was fully completed.’