The Bursar's Wife

by E. G. Rodford

  “I’ll do it first thing tomorrow. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to Sylvia Booker; she’s been less than candid with me and I need to know why.”

  26

  I DIDN’T HAVE TO GO TO SYLVIA, BECAUSE SHE TURNED UP AT my house the following morning. But she was not my first female visitor after leaving Jason at the hospital.

  My mood that evening was crap, and even the Night Nurse-sized whisky hadn’t helped. I’d tried watching a DVD of The Heroin Busters, one of my favourites in my collection of poliziotteschi films, but it only served to remind me that Jason was lying in a hospital. I turned the film off after a while and paced up and down thinking about how I could tie Quintin Boyd to the thin man who’d broken Jason’s fingers. The more I thought about it the better I felt about the police not knowing about the Quintin connection, because I really wanted to meet this thin man myself. An early night would help, and I’d got as far as putting my pyjamas on when the doorbell sounded. It was past midnight. A wet Stubbing was standing the other side of the front door, getting wetter as I watched.

  “Going to bed?” she asked.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Crime never sleeps, Kocky, if anything it wakes up about now and starts having breakfast.” I watched the rain bounce off her unprotected head and waited for her to state her business. “I spoke earlier to the constables who took your boy Jason’s statement.” Against my better judgement I ushered her in and closed the door, but stayed in the hall so she didn’t get any ideas about being welcome. Her being at my house was becoming a bit of a habit.

  “So why is CID interested in a few broken fingers?” I asked.

  She looked me up and down and I realised that I was in my pyjamas – the second time in her presence. She wiped her face with a wet tissue and I considered offering her a dry towel. Not giving her a dry towel sat better with me. “I take an interest in whatever happens to you, George. I wondered if there was anything you wanted to share vis-à-vis the incident reported. The report said he claims he was attacked for no reason. What sort of sicko does that for no reason? It looks like either a punishment beating or a warning to me, Kocky. What do you think?”

  “I think that either you fancy me and want to catch me in my pyjamas – which is why you keep turning up at odd hours – or that Brampton sent you here to poke around while she’s tucked up with a hot water bottle planning her next career move using you as a stepping stone.”

  Stubbing reddened like a schoolgirl caught looking at drawings of naked men in an anatomy book.

  “What I’d like to know,” I continued, “is why she is so interested in Jason’s well-being. Or, come to think of it, how she even knows Jason works for me.” Stubbing pursed her thin mouth so that it almost disappeared. She pulled her car keys from her wet mac and went to the door.

  “By the way, the post-mortem shows that Elliot Booker definitely killed himself, no sign of foul play or even alcohol or drugs. You’re off the hook.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  She twisted her mouth in what I took to be a smile. “Let’s just say I was looking forward to getting to know you better down at Parkside.” With that she gave me a wink and left.

  I went to bed, and disturbingly I tossed and turned for a while thinking of Stubbing. Having a woman in the house at night, even if it was only Stubbing giving me abuse, reminded me of how long it had been since I’d been with a woman.

  * * *

  When Sylvia Booker rang the bell I was at my kitchen table enjoying my second piece of heavily buttered white toast which I washed down with sugared coffee. With Olivia gone I could at least enjoy white bread as toast again. She had refused to have it in the house and I had to endure wholemeal toast, which could never be the same. Thankfully I was dressed when I opened the door to Sylvia – I didn’t mind Stubbing seeing me in my pyjamas, Sylvia I did. She joined me in the kitchen and sat at the Formica table undoing the large buttons on her black coat while I poured coffee. She looked round the kitchen.

  “It’s fantastic in here, it’s like stepping back into the 1950s.”

  “I like it,” I said. “I don’t necessarily think new is better.”

  “Well I agree with you there, George. Elliot and I are…” She nearly went but maintained her composure. “Were keen collectors of antiques.” I thought it impolite to point out that her antiques probably cost a fortune, mine just happened to be part of the house. She coughed and adopted a serious expression, one I imagined she reserved for charity board meetings. “I heard about the boy who works for you, Jason is it?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to offer any assistance I could. If he needs to be seen by a surgeon I know the top orthopaedic chap at Addenbrooke’s.” Of course she did, but why would she care enough about Jason to come out to Chesterton?

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “Through Lucy; she contacted him last night to tell him about some party, texted him or something. She, ah, told me that she’d been to see you, to ask about Elliot.” At this she looked at me with an unarticulated question and I understood her real reason for coming here. I was tempted to let her sweat but she’d already been through enough.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her anything. I do have a code of conduct when it comes to respecting client confidentiality.”

  She shrugged as if my reassurance was unnecessary but I could tell she was relieved. She said she’d told Lucy I’d done some work for one of her charities. We synchronised stories then drank more coffee.

  “Did Lucy tell you why Jason had been attacked?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. Trust Jason not to tell Lucy.

  “Because we were following her. It was a warning.”

  She looked shocked, her lovely mouth actually dropped open. I thought it a good time to pounce.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Quintin Boyd?”

  She did a great deal of foot shuffling and looking at manicured fingers and then something came over her face, perhaps relief at being caught out, or something else I couldn’t read. She turned her turquoise eyes on me.

  “Yes. I’m really sorry, George. I knew him at university, as did Elliot. I should have told you from the start but I didn’t want it to be the issue. The issue for me is his relationship with Lucy.” She fiddled with her wedding ring. “Elliot kept in contact with Quintin after university, they did some business. I think he made some investments based on Quintin’s advice.”

  “Are those the ones that went bad?”

  “Possibly. I wasn’t privy to bursary business. In fact it bored me.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Quintin?” She moved her gaze to the window and then back at me.

  “Not since graduation.” Not a flicker. I filed that lie for later and tried a new tack.

  “Since you knew him why didn’t you just ask him about his relationship with Lucy? Or get Elliot to ask him?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  “I couldn’t have asked Elliot to do that. He would have been terribly upset if he knew Quintin was seeing Lucy.”

  She stood up to go, ignoring the part of my question about why she didn’t ask Quintin herself. “Listen, once again I’m really sorry about Jason. If you need anything let me know. I now feel a certain responsibility.” She went to the door then stopped. “Do the police know about the connection with Lucy?”

  “By the police I assume you mean DCI Judith Brampton?”

  She tried to look confused.

  “She was at university with you as well, wasn’t she?”

  She exhaled. “Yes, yes she was.”

  “In answer to your question, no, she doesn’t, as far as I know, although she seemed interested enough to despatch her flying monkey last night to see what information she could get.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Like I said, code of conduct, client confidentiality.”

  “Of
course, of course. I’m sorry, George, I’m just…” She curled her fingers as if grasping something that could not be verbalised. I walked her to the door; outside a weak sun was trying hard to dry the street.

  As she stepped out I remembered the other thing I wanted to ask.

  “Sylvia?” She stopped and turned. It sounded odd, saying her name out loud, like it was the first time I’d done it. “At Morley you all belonged to something called the Cambridge Blue Club. What was it?” She showed nothing on her face but her answer came a little quick.

  “It was just a film club, something that Quintin set up. We had weekly screenings. Why do you ask?”

  “It was a common factor between you, that’s all.”

  “I don’t think it’s of relevance. How did you find out about it?”

  “It was on the Morley alumni’s website. Didn’t you provide the details?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so, it wasn’t a big part of my life at university. Anyway, I need to get off.” She started to walk away again.

  “What sort of films did you watch?”

  She stopped and turned again. “Pardon me?”

  “I asked what sort of films did you watch?”

  She looked annoyed and shrugged. “A variety. Fellini, Buñuel, Bergman. The usual film student fare.”

  “Did that include pornographic films?”

  She couldn’t help looking around to see if anyone had heard me. “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, it’s called the Cambridge Blue Club so I just assumed…”

  She sighed and her shoulders dropped.

  “Well, occasionally Quintin would screen something a little more risqué. We were young, we thought it was, ah, cool.”

  “Of course,” I said. I smiled and nodded to indicate that I didn’t care if they watched the odd skin flick. She seemed about to say something else but decided against it and walked off to her Mini. I watched her walk all the way to the car; she looked different now that I knew this about her.

  * * *

  The phone rang as I closed the door and I picked up with a jaunty ‘hello’.

  “Oh hi. It’s Megan, from the care home? I got your message.”

  “Ah yes, you had some information for me, Megan.”

  “Yes, I didn’t want to leave a message with the woman at your office, I didn’t know who she was.” I told her she’d done the right thing. “Anyway, I spoke to Angela, who was on duty that day, and she said that the man didn’t give a name and stayed like five minutes. The only thing she remembers is that he wore a suit and was very thin. Also, she told him off for lighting up on the premises. Does that ring a bell?”

  “Yes it does,” I said, genuinely. It was the man who’d attacked Jason. My guts churned at the thought that he’d been alone with my baby-like father.

  “Listen Megan, it would be good to know in future if he calls on my father. Not everyone appreciates his mental state and that he might not recognise them and could be upset. In fact it would be great if I could be told when they are there, not afterwards.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  She went on about how she would let Angela know as well and then talked about policies and procedures at the home and I listened dutifully, then thanked her for going to all the effort. This uncorked a gushing stream about how fond she was of my father and nothing was too much trouble, and that I could ring her any time if I was worried or just wanted a chat. I hung up, wondering whether I gave off vibes indicating that I needed a chat.

  27

  SANDRA WAS ON THE PHONE WHEN I ENTERED MY OFFICE. SHE was saying, in a flirty voice I’d not heard before, “Thank you, Luke, you’ve been very helpful.” She listened to something Luke was saying and made eyes at me. Then, to my amazement, she giggled into the receiver. “You naughty boy, Luke, you’ve made me blush. Bye now. No, I really need to go.” She hung up and wrote on a pad.

  “I hope you’re not using the office for your other line of work,” I said.

  She gave me a murderous look and ripped off the sheet from the pad. “That was Luke from the DVLC. He thinks I’m a twenty-something blonde airhead.” She handed me the sheet. “This is the owner of the Subaru, one Mark Stillgoe.” The note showed an address in Haverhill.

  “Quintin’s driver is called Mark, I bet even money that this is him.”

  “You better get on it then.”

  I looked at her. “How’s Jason?”

  “He’ll be out today but stuck at home for a few weeks. It’s going to be difficult to sound sexy on the phone if I know he can hear me.” I sat at my desk and wondered if I should tell her that Jason had already heard her. Not really my place, I decided. “Well if you wanted to use the office…”

  She smiled. “Thanks, sweetheart, but I’ve got a dedicated number set up at home and it would be too complicated to get it transferred. Although, imagine how it would go down with the rest of the building.”

  “They would hold a meeting.” I went through my post. There being nothing of interest I put it down.

  “I wouldn’t have used Jason on the case if I’d suspected it was dangerous. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, George,” she sighed, “I know that. Let’s just nail the bastard that did it.”

  “Did you have any luck with that PO box I gave you last night?” She rooted round on her desk.

  “Yes. I’ve got an address from the Post Office but no name or anything. It’s just a unit number in the Science Park.”

  “The Science Park? OK, maybe I’ll pop there on the way to…” I checked the sheet she’d just given me, “…Haverhill.”

  I recounted my conversation with the woman who’d been in Quintin’s apartment.

  “Was she a pro?” Sandra asked, when I told her what she’d said about Quintin getting his take. I recalled the prostitutes I’d come across in the course of my work.

  “Could be. She had that hardness about her, you know, but I couldn’t really say.”

  “I could tell you, if I met her.”

  “You think he’s a pimp?”

  She shrugged and said, “She was there all night though, it doesn’t really add up.”

  “Maybe he uses the flat as a brothel. Maybe he likes to watch.” She cackled at that and the phone went. It was Addenbrooke’s. Jason would be ready to go home in an hour. I suggested we go to the Science Park together and then I would drop her off at Addenbrooke’s on my way to Haverhill.

  * * *

  To pass the time driving across town I told her about Sylvia’s visit that morning.

  “Well, well, who’d have thought little miss Booker had it in her. Do you think they called it the Cambridge Blue Club when they only watched the odd porn film?”

  “Not really. Maybe it was the main purpose of the club, maybe the sole purpose.”

  “Exactly. But why put it on the website? It’s not the kind of thing those sort of people want to advertise, is it?”

  “I wondered that. She claimed she didn’t offer the information.”

  With Sandra’s help I found the right road. I could sense her studying me as we pulled into a car park outside a utilitarian unit.

  “You get a kick out of it, don’t you? Admit it,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the gorgeous Sylvia watching porn films giving you a thrill.”

  I gave her a smile that I hoped conveyed my contempt as I got out of the car.

  * * *

  I had only been to the Science Park once before, when I was hired by a management consultancy firm who suspected one of their partners of fiddling his expenses. It turned out he was, using the money to finance a mistress on the side. The guy kept his job and I was made to sign a confidentiality agreement despite declaring my investigator’s code of conduct. I studied the buildings before me, one of three on this road, all one storey, a seven-foot layer of brick, then a layer of steel-reinforced window, then corrugated iron topped with a flat roof. More industrial
units than offices, each a thousand square metres at most. This was the less glamorous area of the Science Park, not the glass and steel edifice of a management consultancy. No clues as to what went on inside from where I was standing so I looked for the entrance of the right unit. What I was looking for was a sign. And there it was on the first set of frosted glass double doors. One of them had my spiral staircase on it; the other had the words ‘Legacy Labs’. I couldn’t really reconcile the two things, nor was there any clue as to what Legacy Labs did. I wrote the name down in my notebook.

  I asked myself how best to approach things. I could go in and bluff it, or I could go look Legacy Labs up back in the comfort of the office, and at least know what I was dealing with. I tried the door but it was closed, probably for lunch. That deciding things, I rejoined Sandra.

  I dropped her off at the hospital, taking some cash out of my wallet.

  “This is for a taxi home. I’ll charge it to the gorgeous Sylvia.”

  She took the cash, saying, “Your secret is safe with me, sweetheart.”

  It was scary how well she could read me, it really was.

  * * *

  I continued out of Cambridge to Haverhill, travelling through the Gogs and past the car park where Trisha Greene had been found topless and dead. I hadn’t given her or her husband Al Greene much thought since becoming involved in Sylvia and her world. A world apart, the Bookers and the Greenes. Once I’d left Cambridgeshire for Suffolk I stopped to fill up with petrol and bought an Argus and a sandwich.

  Parked in a lay-by I looked for an update on the Greene case but found nothing. There was a small item on Elliot Booker, whose funeral was to take place the next afternoon. It said that the college had decided that it would go ahead with the alumni lunch on Sunday because of the number of people who had already made travel arrangements to attend from abroad. Quintin Boyd, as keynote speaker, was quoted as saying he was heartbroken at the news of Elliot’s death as he was a ‘personal friend’, and that he thought the lunch would be a good way to celebrate Elliot’s contribution to Morley College. I read all this as I ate my petrol-station sandwich with soggy prawn filling.