by Val McDermid
As if that wasn't enough, I was in the thick of a major business deal. Really, Kathy and I shouldn't have sneaked away to the Cuillin when we did, because we were in the middle of the most crucial period of our entire professional life up to that point. What nobody except the parties to the deal had known when we went to Skye was that Kathy and I were in the midst of selling doitnow.com. I'd been having secret meetings with Joshua Pitt, the CEO of AMTAGEN, for weeks and the deal was on the point of completion when the weather had offered Kathy and me the perfect opportunity for the climb we'd always dreamed of. Now, with Kathy gone, for the sake of everyone who worked for us, I had to find a way to make the deal go forward.The problem was that Kathy owned half of doitnow.com, and though we both had wills leaving our halves of the company to each other, it takes time to process inheritances. The company lawyers had to persuade the executors of Kathy's will that selling her share of doitnow.com was in the best interests of the person she'd left her shares to. Even though that was the same person as the one who was trying to persuade them to sell the shares ... There were times when I felt like I was Alice in Wonderland. I've never come under more pressure in my life.
What was worse than the pressure was not having time to grieve. I wanted to rage at the loss, to weep at the waste, to curse the moment's inattention that had cost Kathy her life. But I had to be civil to the press, to the lawyers and to the people who were trying to buy my company.
I sometimes feel I never got the chance to mourn Kathy properly.
Instead, I concentrated on preserving the jobs of all the people who worked for us. I truly believed that I would be giving them the chance to scale new heights as part of a much bigger corporation, a company that had real ambition for the digital future.
We completed the sale on 9 March 2000, three weeks after Kathy's death. And on 10 March the dotcom bubble burst.
A month after I had sold doitnow.com, AMTAGEN had lost 90 per cent of its value.
Jay ran a hand through her spiky bed hair. She was on thin ice here. She'd lost a business partner but at least she'd managed to hang on to her assets. Anyone who was interested enough to do a little research would soon find out she'd made PS237 million from the sale of doitnow.com. There was no need to turn her readers off by rubbing their noses in it. Time, instead, for a little judicious tweaking of the truth.
By pure chance, Kathy and I had set up the sale of doitnow.com at the perfect moment. Thanks in part to her understanding of the dotcom world, I was a very rich woman.
I'd have given it all to have Kathy back.
'As if,' Jay said out loud, saving the file and transferring it to her memory stick before erasing it from Magda's machine. She pushed back from the desk and stretched luxuriously. If she woke Magda now, there would be time to make love before she left for the cancer ward. Jay smiled. Nothing like some early-morning work to waken those appetites.
13
Charlie had spent more hours than she cared to count inside libraries in Oxford. But she'd never crossed the threshold of the city library. Incongruously set down in the heart of the Westgate shopping centre, its seventies concrete and glass and steel were still more modern than most of the buildings where she'd studied. She didn't think the readers here suffered from tourists clambering up to take photographs through the windows, as happened regularly to students in the Radcliffe Camera. She didn't imagine she'd have to swear an oath before she could consult their stocks, either. Charlie still remembered being charmed by having to promise never to bring fire or flame into the Bodleian Library before they would give her a reader's ticket.
Within fifteen minutes, Charlie was set up with a microfiche reader and the relevant films from the local paper. She already knew the date of Jess Edwards' death and some preliminary research online had pinpointed the date of the inquest. She began the tedious business of scrolling through the pages, trying to ignore the man at the next reader who alternated between sniffing loudly and scratching various parts of his body. His languid turning of the knob on his machine convinced Charlie he was only there to pass the time in a warm place. But when she found the first story about Jess's death, she soon forgot any distraction. There it was in black and white. STAR STUDENT IN TRAGIC DROWNING read the headline.
A student was found dead in the River Cherwell at St Scholastika's College early this morning.
Jess Edwards, a keen rower, was discovered in the water by the college boathouse by her fellow team members when they arrived for early-morning practice. Paramedics were unable to revive her at the scene and she was declared dead on arrival at the John Radcliffe Hospital.
According to one of the students who found her, she appeared to have sustained a head injury. Police said her death had all the hallmarks of a tragic accident.
Jess, 20, was a second-year geography student at St Scholastika's. She was captain of the college rowing eight and had already won a university Blue for the sport. She was a member of the Junior Common Room committee and was in the running to become student president of the college.
A friend said, 'The whole college is in mourning. Everybody loved Jess. It's a terrible shock.'
Charlie's mouth curled in a derisive sneer. That quote was such an obvious fabrication. If the reporter had spoken to any undergraduate from Schollie's, Charlie would dance naked down Westgate. What was even more annoying than the journalistic laziness was that the article told her nothing she didn't already know.
She scanned the next few days but there were no follow-up stories. St Scholastika's would have been buzzing with Jess's death, but the accidental death of a student wasn't that big a deal for the non-academic citizens of Oxford. In that respect, Charlie thought, the university was as solipsistic as a small child - the centre of its own universe, bemused that the rest of the world didn't see things in its terms.
Charlie removed the reel and loaded the one that covered the period of the inquest into Jess's death. When she found it, she was surprised to read STUDENT DEATH AVOIDABLE as the headline.
The drowning of a promising student could have been avoided by a simple safety measure, the Oxford coroner told an inquest yesterday.
Jess Edwards died in the River Cherwell after hitting her head on the edge of the boathouse jetty at St Scholastika's College last November. But if the college had installed a non-slip surface, the tragic accident might not have taken place.
Delivering a verdict of accidental death, Coroner David Stanton said, 'We cannot be certain what happened at the boathouse that morning but, based on the forensic evidence, it seems clear that Miss Edwards slipped and hit her head on the edge of the jetty as she fell into the water. We have heard evidence that this blow would almost certainly have rendered her unconscious, which in turn led to her drowning.
'While I attach no blame to St Scholastika's College, it seems clear that, had a non-slip surface been installed, this accident might never have occurred. I urge all colleges and rowing clubs to review the conditions of their jetties as a matter of urgency.'
After the inquest, Terry Franks, solicitor for the Edwards family, read out a statement on their behalf. 'We are satisfied with the verdict of the inquest. While we applaud the coroner's remarks, we do not blame anyone for what was a genuine accident.'
When asked to comment on the coroner's remarks, Wanda Henderson, the principal of St Scholastika's, said, 'Jess Edwards' death has been a blow for this college. We have already undertaken a full review of the safety of the boathouse area and have made significant improvements, including the application of non-slip materials to all external areas. We would like to extend our deepest sympathy to Jess's family.'
And that was that. Charlie was surprised by the reaction of the family. The natural impulse after the accidental death of a child is to want to find someone to blame. A lot of families in the Edwardses' position would be shouting about negligence and litigation, not quietly accepting that Schollie's wasn't responsible for their daughter's death. It indicated a remarkable maturity on the part of h
er parents. Or perhaps her mother was a Schollie's graduate herself, possessed of a powerful loyalty to the college that had nurtured her. Either way, it was no help to Charlie. Bitter resentment might have given her some leverage, even after all this time. Calm acceptance was the sane route, but for once, Charlie would have preferred the unbalanced response.
With a sigh, she turned off the reader and returned the films to the librarian. Charlie walked back through the pedestrian precinct towards Carfax, its medieval tower a reproach to the disposable shopfronts surrounding it. She'd hit a dead end already. What she needed to see was the inquest report, but a call to the coroner's office had made it plain that wasn't going to happen without authorisation from Jess Edwards' family. Having no official standing had introduced Charlie to a level of frustration that was entirely new to her.
She walked down Cornmarket and on up the Banbury Road towards Schollie's. She'd parked her car in a nearby side street, one of the first roads where city-centre parking restrictions didn't apply. As she walked, Charlie considered her limited options. She didn't want to admit she was already defeated, but she couldn't see how to make progress on Jess Edwards' death. Maybe she should just accept that this wasn't the death where she was going to implicate Jay. And if that was the case, there was little point in hanging around in Oxford. She'd hoped to find something that would keep her here long enough to see Lisa again. But she couldn't justify sticking around with no leads to follow.
Still, it wouldn't hurt just to drive past her house, to drop in on the off chance. It was almost lunchtime, after all. Even Lisa had to stop for food sometime.
Skirting the city centre, it didn't take too long to get to Iffley village. Cruising past Lisa's, Charlie was disappointed to see another car in the drive beside Lisa's Audi. Still, they might not be staying for long. Charlie found a parking spot that provided a view of Lisa's front door and her drive and settled down to wait.
While she waited, she considered her next course of action. Kathy Lipson's death on Skye was the obvious next place to look. There was plenty about that online, but she needed to get past the headlines and talk to someone who understood what had really happened. That probably meant a trip to Skye. This was starting to get expensive. Charlie wondered whether Corinna had considered that aspect of what she had asked Charlie to do.
On the other hand, taking money from Corinna, even if it was only expenses, would place her under an obligation. If Corinna was paying for the investigation, she was entitled to its product. And Charlie didn't want to lose control of whatever she uncovered. She didn't want to find herself in a position where she was blocked from sharing information with someone else because Corinna didn't want that. However much she had once admired Corinna, it didn't mean she completely trusted her now. On balance, Charlie decided she'd fund her redemption from her own pocket. Now she just had to figure out how to get her hands on the information that would allow her to redeem herself.
However hard she tried to develop a strategy for the next phase, Charlie kept coming back to Jess Edwards. The idea that Jay might have committed the perfect murder affronted Charlie. That she could do nothing about it affronted her still more.
The ringing of her phone startled her out of her reverie. Maria, the screen read. Feeling uncomfortable at taking a call from her partner while she was staking out the house of the woman she wanted for her lover, Charlie spoke. 'Hi,' she said, sounding as flat as she felt.
'Just finished my morning list and thought I'd give you a call. How's it going?' Maria, cheerful, upbeat. The one who had always kept her going.
'Dead-end street,' Charlie said. 'The newspaper reports don't say anything I didn't know already. The inquest report's been transferred to the county archives and I can't get to it unless I'm an interested party. Like, Jess's family.'
'Poor you,' Maria said. 'What about the police?'
'I haven't even bothered trying to talk to them. Nobody's going to remember who was in charge of an accidental death seventeen years ago. There was never anything suspicious about it officially, so it would barely have made an impact on anyone in CID.'
'No, no, that's not what I meant.'
'What, then?'
'Wouldn't the police be able to access an inquest report?'
'I suppose so. But that doesn't help me. I'm not the police.'
'God, Charlie.' Maria's tone was the verbal equivalent of eye-rolling. 'You may not be the police, but you know plenty.'
Charlie gave a little bark of laughter. 'Most of whom want to forget they ever heard my name right now.'
'I'm not thinking of the ones you've worked with, necessarily. What about Nick? He thinks the sun shines out of your backside. You know he does. He sent you a card when you got suspended, remember?'
Charlie groaned. 'You're right. Why didn't I think of Nick? Oh yes. Could it be because he's an ambitious young cop who's not going to take chances with his career just because I've turned into Don Quixote?'
'You don't know till you ask. Call him. He's just down the road. You could take him out to dinner and ask him.'
'Just down the road,' Charlie muttered. 'He's in London.'
'That's what I mean. It's just down the road. Or you could catch a train. It's better than coming home with your tail between your legs,' Maria said. 'What have you got to lose? If he says no, you're no worse off than you are now.'
She was right, and Charlie knew it. 'All right,' she sighed. 'I'll give him a call. How was your morning?' she added, suddenly remembering that Maria also had a professional life.
Maria chuckled. 'Nothing I need to share with you. But I have to go now and scrub up for my first afternoon appointment. I've got to hammer two titanium screws into a footballer's jaw. I think he must have spent his entire adolescence sucking sweets, the state of his teeth. I love you. Talk to me later, OK?'
'Will do.' Charlie ended the call just in time to notice Lisa's front door opening. She recognised the man who emerged carrying a laptop bag. Tom, the colleague who had been there when she'd arrived on Saturday. Lisa followed him on to the doorstep. She was wearing what looked like a Westernised version of the shalwar kameez - oversized collarless shirt and baggy pants gathered at the ankle, both in vivid turquoise. Her feet were bare, but she seemed not to notice the cold. Tom turned to Lisa and put his free arm round her shoulder. Lisa put her hands on his chest and leaned into him.
The kiss went far beyond what Charlie expected between a boss and her subordinate. True, it fell short of what she and Lisa had shared on the other side of the door, but it didn't look like something that had taken either of them by surprise. This looked like habit; it looked like a fragment of something more.
Charlie fought a sudden wave of nausea. The last thing she wanted right now was to be caught throwing up on the grass verge in plain sight of Lisa's house. The misery she felt was bad enough without adding a dose of humiliation. A small voice at the back of her head kept saying, 'You've had a lucky escape.' The trouble was, Charlie still didn't quite believe it.
This was not over.
14
Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides swapped the National guitar for his Martin D16 and checked the tuning. This was the first day off that hadn't been hijacked by the job for over two weeks and he was determined to lay down the backing guitar tracks for the new tune that had been teasing at the corner of his mind for days. He knew his colleagues were wary of him because he wasn't interested in football or fishing or boxing or pumping iron or any of the other pursuits that marked you out as a real man. It was OK to like music, provided that didn't go beyond having the right sounds in your car or on your MP3 player. But wanting to spend your spare time making music on your own or with a bunch of civilians - that was definitely on the weird side.
What they didn't know was that the music was what kept Nick sane, what locked him into a sense of himself. The music was the only remnant of the life he'd had before the life he had now. It was his bridge across a distance most of his colleagues would not beli
eve.
It was a miracle that he had made it through his teens without a substantial police record. Someone less smart, less quick on their feet, less able to cover their tracks would have ended their adolescence in custody rather than in university.
But that was a secret history. And he planned to keep it that way. Nick had been fast-tracked ever since he'd joined the police. To begin with it had been because of his first class degree in psychology, but his aptitude had been demonstrated both at the National Police Academy and at the sharp end. He was a young man who was going places. And he never forgot that the reason it had all become possible was Dr Charlie Flint.
Nick had scraped into the psychology course at Manchester, his exam results the bottom of the barrel for a course in such high demand. The main reason for choosing to go to university at all had been to extend the range of his drug dealing and to postpone having to consider any kind of career that would interfere with making music, taking drugs and shagging girls who didn't have the brains to snag him. Within a few weeks, in spite of himself, he'd found he was actually interested in some aspects of the course he'd signed up for. The main reason for that had been Dr Charlie Flint.
She was the only member of the department he came across who was a psychiatrist rather than a psychologist. What she did was underpinned by medical training; almost as interesting as what she had to say was the fact that she could prescribe legal drugs. And she was young enough in the job that he reckoned she wouldn't know how to stand up to him. Halfway through the first term he'd gone to her with an offer he'd thought she couldn't refuse. She would write prescriptions for him for stuff he could sell on. In exchange, he would pay her. More importantly, he would not make her life a misery. When she'd asked him what he meant, he'd said, 'I'm not a man who's short on imagination. Trust me, you don't want to go there.'