The Bursar's Wife

by E. G. Rodford

  * * *

  I found Mark Stillgoe’s address easily enough and cruised past the 1980s semi. I saw no Subaru in the driveway or on the street so I parked pointing the way I’d come. Retrieving my clipboard and fake charity badge from the back seat I went to the front door. It was a PVC door like the windows, which had mock bars in the panes to make them look like they were panelled. I rang the doorbell and Big Ben chimed inside. Someone shuffled up to the door and it opened to reveal a woman in her late fifties. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon she wore a green dressing gown with matching slippers. The whole outfit crackled with static. I was struck by the smell of cigarette smoke, fresh upon stale. A new source of smoke hung from her lip like a protruding tooth on the proverbial witch. She squinted at me through the blue haze, a slack look on a prematurely aged face.

  “What is it?” she said, without removing the cigarette. I flashed my fake charity ID at her.

  “I’m just doing a survey on behalf of Save Our Trees. Is Mark Stillgoe in?”

  “Nah, Mark’s at work.”

  “OK, what time is he likely to be back?”

  “It don’t matter, since he don’t care about saving trees.”

  “Well maybe you can help me. Can you tell me his occupation?”

  “Who is it?” said a male voice from within the house. An Essex voice, a raspy Essex voice. A voice I’d heard on the phone only the previous afternoon, a voice identified by Jason. The woman turned her head to address it.

  “It’s just someone collecting for charity,” she shouted.

  “Well fucking get rid of them, you’re letting in the cold.” She turned back to me and started to close the door, without as much as a goodbye. Some people are so rude. I stuck my foot in the opening. She looked confused.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she asked.

  “Coming in,” I said. “Saving trees is important.” I pushed past her into the narrow hall.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” That voice, coming from the end of the hall, from what looked like the kitchen. I strode towards the open door where a man appeared, a thin runt of a man. Braces held his trousers up and he too had a lit cigarette dangling from his narrow lips. It was clearly the way to smoke in Haverhill. At least he removed his to speak.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I want to talk to you about where you were yesterday evening.” His eyes narrowed and his right hand went to his trouser pocket. I noticed a big ring on his middle finger, a gold coin mounted in a claw.

  “Who the fuck are you again?” he said. He took his hand from his pocket but I couldn’t see anything in it.

  “You remember breaking someone’s fingers yesterday? A young lad, long hair?” His wrist moved and a narrow blade shot from his fist. Then his eyes flicked behind me and I remembered my back was to the woman. I turned just in time to see her with a baseball bat over her head that was about to start its downward swing. I put my palm, fingers spread, into her face, pushing her out of the way. I didn’t see the fag in her mouth and her face appeared to emit a shower of sparks, my palm stinging on the lit end. She let out a muffled yelp of surprise. I didn’t turn to see what the thin man would do with his blade but I stepped past the woman and headed for the open door. Something caught the back of my jacket but I didn’t stop. It was only when I was on the pavement that I looked behind me and saw the thin man standing in the doorway, his eyes glinting like the blade he was wielding. We stared at each other for a few seconds then he closed the door carefully as if he didn’t want to disturb the neighbours. I could feel a wetness at my back but I got in the car and drove straight to Kamal’s without daring to check it.

  28

  KAMAL’S CURRENT FLATMATE, AN IRAQI JUNIOR DOCTOR AT Addenbrooke’s, stitched up my shoulder with four of his best while I sat, stripped to the waist, the wrong way round on a chair, resting my forearms on the back. We were in Kamal’s room in a small flat over a Chinese supermarket on Mill Road. One of his walls was decorated with floor to ceiling paperbacks, one had a bed against it, the third had hooks in the wall with coat hangers on them and served as storage for his meagre wardrobe. The fourth had a desk and chair under the window and it was here that I sat looking at the ancient laptop that Kamal wrote on and gritting my teeth with every new puncture of flesh – there was no anaesthetic. Kamal supplemented his income by subletting a room in his flat to a succession of Arab medical students.

  The thin man had sliced through my raincoat, jacket, shirt, vest and skin, leaving a three-inch-long gash in the lower right shoulder. Kamal was wittering on instead of refilling my glass with Jack Daniels, and he was beginning to get on my nerves. For the son of Palestinian exiles I always expected him to take a dim view of authority, or at least to be wary of it, but he had spent the last couple of hours bemoaning the fact that I hadn’t gone to the police. I’d explained that I’d come to him rather than going to Addenbrooke’s precisely because I wanted to avoid the police. Doctors were required to report knife crime and I didn’t want to risk a protracted explanation to the police of what I was doing in the Haverhill house. The woman had only to say I had forced my way in and punched her in the face. And the thin man had only to say that he was defending her from my vicious attack and for there never to have been a baseball bat. The tables would be turned on me in no time. Despite Kamal’s nagging he’d done the right thing and called in his flatmate who told me he perfected his sewing technique by practising at the kitchen table on pork skin.

  “I don’t eat it myself,” he said, tugging at some thread and causing me to wince.

  “Religious, eh?”

  “No, I just don’t like the taste.”

  He tied off the last stitch and dressed the closed wound. He told me I should get it changed tomorrow and the stitches would need to come out in a week. I thanked him and he said it was nothing. He went off with his medic’s bag; he had a night shift to get through.

  “Why don’t you pour me some more of your whisky?” I said to Kamal.

  “Because you’ve had enough and I have to make it last. What you need is something to eat.”

  “You can’t cook and I’m not going out. How about a takeaway?” We settled on Chinese and I gave him enough of Sylvia’s money to buy food and a bottle of Jack Daniels as well as a bottle of whisky for his flatmate.

  “He does drink, doesn’t he?” I asked.

  “Like Captain Haddock,” Kamal said.

  * * *

  While he was out I rang Sandra to check on Jason. She said he was fine if a little bored. I told her that she should get me out of doing the DWP case as things had escalated. She reluctantly agreed, moaning about losing what could be regular income. Then I told her about my trip to Haverhill and subsequent adventures.

  “Maybe you should go to the police, George. This bastard sounds a little dangerous.”

  “Going to the police means involving Stubbing and Brampton, as they seem to have taken an interest in me, and I’m convinced our knife-carrying finger-breaking friend belongs to Quintin, who is a university friend of Brampton’s.”

  “It doesn’t mean they are in cahoots.”

  “I know, but they studied together and watched porn together so I’m guessing she’d not be happy with me linking him with crims just days before he gives the keynote at the alumni lunch.”

  “Speaking of alumni and porn, I looked up that website again to see if I could find any other ex-members of the Cambridge Blue Club. I thought I might find someone local we could talk to, get a clearer picture of what they got up to.”

  “Good idea. How did you get on?”

  “Well, the thing is, the site was down for maintenance until about an hour ago and then when I managed to get back on it again all references to the club had gone. It had just disappeared from everyone’s entry.” I looked at Kamal’s books and felt the throbbing in my shoulder. “George, you still there?”

  “Yes. I’m guessing it was probably Sylvia got onto whoever runs the site to take it
off. Wants to protect her image I guess.”

  “And Elliot’s,” Sandra said. I heard Kamal come in and turned to look at him, yelping as I sent a tearing pain through my wound. “You all right, love?” Sandra said in my ear.

  “Yes, just moved the wrong way. Say hi to Jason; I’ll pop round to see him tomorrow.”

  “He’ll like that. You need anything, you let me know. I can nurse two blokes as easily as one.”

  * * *

  I put one of Kamal’s blue porter shirts on and we ate in the small kitchen. After swallowing painkillers with my Kung Po chicken the pain began to ease. After dinner I gave Kamal a general overview of the case, without naming names. When he’d heard my summary he thought for a bit, running his finger up and down his impressive nose. Once, having had too much to drink, we’d measured our noses to see whose was bigger. It was mine.

  “I have a question,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “This glamorous woman is overprotective of her daughter, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Yet when you tell her who the daughter is seeing she does not reveal that she already knows this man?”

  I nodded.

  “Why is this, do you think?”

  I recalled how Sylvia had recoiled from Quintin at the railway station. I’d seen no love there but it didn’t mean it hadn’t existed at some point.

  “Because she’s afraid of what he might want with the daughter, of his motive for seeing her. She tried to see him soon after her husband killed himself, and they didn’t get on from what I could see. Let’s say they were an item when they were at university. Maybe she jilted him in favour of the guy she married. Maybe she’s worried he’s getting his revenge on her through her daughter.”

  “A lot of maybes there, my friend. But there is something missing: what is she so afraid of with this man – what is he again, a lawyer? Why doesn’t she just tell the daughter the truth? If she just told her that she used to date this man it would put the girl off, no?”

  “That I don’t know. Maybe she’s worried the daughter would get a kick out of it, use it to get back at her mother.”

  “Get back at her why?”

  “For being her mother.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe you should be the writer.”

  “I learnt something else on Tuesday,” I said. I told him about the film club and he conceded that a woman as worried about her image as Sylvia would be embarrassed about such a thing.

  “I can’t help feeling there’s something missing though. This guy with the knife seems a bit over the top.”

  “I agree with you there.” He studied me and smiled.

  “I can see you’ve got that glint in your eye – I’ve seen it before. Your interest is piqued, is it not?”

  “Let’s say I’m more curious this evening than I was this morning.”

  We batted it back and forth for a while without much result except finishing the first bottle of Jack Daniels, but it was good to use him as a sounding board. Sometimes he could be a bit earnest, like when he banged on about me not being in touch with my Armenian roots, but he was a good listener. In return I gave him an opportunity to moan about the lack of balls in the publishing industry until it grew late and I grew weary. When I stood up to go to the bathroom I knew I had drunk too much to drive home.

  “Best for you to stay here tonight,” Kamal said. “I’ll set up the sofa bed.”

  The sofa bed took up all of the living room when laid out, and I’d stayed on it a few times before quite happily, especially in the days after Olivia had left.

  I can’t say I slept well; it was impossible to lie on my back due to the pain. And I can’t sleep on my front even if I haven’t been knifed. I must have drifted off to sleep at some point though because I had lurid half-dreams of the woman in the green dressing gown wielding a baseball bat and a thin man with a blade emerging from his fist. They were both smoking cigarettes and laughing as they approached me from front and back.

  * * *

  I woke on my front and covered in sweat to find Kamal’s flatmate in the room with his medic’s bag.

  “Sorry to wake you. I’ve come to check your wound. I just got back from my shift and was going to bed but I saw you in here…”

  “Of course. Help yourself.”

  “Please, stay as you are.” He pulled up a chair and peeled off the dressing to have a look.

  “I’m very grateful for your help,” I said.

  “It was no problem. Thank you for the whisky, it was very generous.”

  “Least I could do. Ouch.”

  “Sorry. I brought you some codeine from the hospital, you might find it helpful at night. Also, a course of antibiotics and some sterile dressings. The wound looks OK but you need to keep it clean and dry. Do you have someone who can change the dressing?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of Sandra. “I have someone.”

  29

  MY CAR HAD A FROSTY TICKET ON IT BECAUSE I’D PARKED IN A residential bay the previous afternoon, not really caring at the time. It took me several minutes to clear the screen of ice using a credit card that had no available credit on it and using the arm connected to my good shoulder. The back of the driver’s seat boasted an espresso saucer-sized blood stain, as did my raincoat, jacket, shirt and vest, increasing until it was the size of a side plate on my vest. Kamal had washed, dried and ironed the last two items overnight, which is when he did most of his writing and washing. He’d even, bless him, had a go at cleaning my jacket and raincoat, but it was a dry-cleaning job.

  The car didn’t have time to heat up in the time it took me to drive to the office – the best place, I thought, to think about what to do next.

  * * *

  Outside my building Stubbing was hunched against the cold, a sensible shoulder bag at her feet. It was too early for anyone to be in yet.

  “Are you stalking me?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “What, no comeback?”

  She gave me a tired smile.

  “Do you want coffee?” I asked.

  “That would be a life-saver.”

  We walked round to Antonio’s who told me that it would be a few minutes before he could get his ancient coffee machine (imported from Turin by his father in 1965) up and running. We took our coats off and sat down at the back of the café.

  “What happened to your coat?” she asked.

  “I caught it on something,” I said.

  “What, a sword?”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, I went to your house and then came to the office.” She tightened her ponytail, something I didn’t think possible. My wound was starting to throb.

  “Is this about Jason again? Because I’ve nothing to add to what I said the other night.”

  She examined her bitten nails then said, “It’s about the Trisha Greene case.”

  “I’ve nothing more to say about that either,” I said. Gurgling and hissing sounds came from Antonio’s espresso machine. She clasped her bony fingers together on the table and looked me in the eye.

  “You gave us some evidence relating to the murder in the Gogs car park. You know, the tracker details and dogging photos?”

  “Yes of course.”

  “Well, they’ve gone.”

  “They’ve what?”

  She looked round to see if Antonio had heard my exclamation, but he was busy grinding coffee.

  “How can they have gone?”

  “The tracking details and the photos have gone,” she repeated, in lieu of an explanation.

  I shook my head and laughed. “Brampton must be livid.”

  Stubbing’s face remained impassive and she said nothing.

  “They got copied onto a computer or something, didn’t they, the photos? I thought it would go to the techies. How do they disappear?”

  Antonio came over with some good-smelling coffee. As he placed the cups on the table Stubbing and I eyed them like dogs eyeing
bowls full of chopped sirloin being lowered to the floor. We waited for Antonio to head back to the counter.

  “Well?” I asked.

  She squinted at me through the steam rising from her cup.

  “The memory stick was blank apparently, when the technical guys looked at it,” she said.

  “What? I checked it after I’d put the files on it. Everything was there.”

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t.” I looked at her for clues but she remained emotionless. Then I thought about the time frame.

  “But I gave it to you over a week ago. Surely it was checked before now?”

  “It seems the techies didn’t get it the day you came in, and then they had other priorities, like checking hard drives for child porn. Then I got caught up with Elliot Booker’s suicide, remember? Look, we’re facing cutbacks like every other public body, and we didn’t have unlimited people to start with.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “But this is a murder case.”

  “Yes, but we have already charged the husband, remember.”

  “So what do you want with me?”

  “Copies.”

  “You want copies?”

  “Yes please.” She sipped coffee and said, her tone level, “Do you have any other photos you took, or notes that you didn’t give us to start with?”

  I shook my head. “I gave you everything. I’m happy to go though them with you. You can even have the scribbles I made when I followed her around; they’re in the file in the office.” Something was nagging me about her request. “I don’t really understand – why are you bothered about the photos if you’ve already charged the husband? You have his belt which was round her neck.”