Acknowledging that thought was difficult enough. Like most people, she’d despised the politicians and generals around the world who had resorted to genocides and ethnic cleansing in pursuit of their ambitions. She’d condemned them as war criminals and applauded the setting up of the international criminal court. She’d sat round other people’s dinner tables and criticised the US for its refusal to participate at The Hague. It had appeared to be one of the few issues where there was only one acceptable side for a civilised person to stand. And now, because of what Mitja had done, she was having to concede that sometimes the world was more complex than it was comfortable to admit.
Some people would have swept such considerations under the carpet and simply got on with their lives. But all Maggie’s academic training militated against that. When the facts were in conflict with her world view, then she had to adjust that world view to accommodate her new knowledge. How she carried on, knowing what she knew now, was the burning question. Because knowledge always brought responsibility in its wake.
She gave herself a mental shake and stood up. Time to take the day in hand and make something of it. She had a student whose DPhil thesis concerned the geography of bodies in Oxford-based crime fiction and Maggie had promised to see whether she could arrange a trip to the balustraded rooftop of the Radcliffe Camera, where Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane had enjoyed a crucial conversation at the end of Gaudy Night. According to her student, Dorothy L. Sayers’ description of the view of Oxford from the topmost gallery of the eighteenth-century circular library provided her with a key anchor for her thesis. Maggie thought it was more about making a sentimental journey, but it gave her an excuse to experience one of Oxford’s landmark buildings from a new angle.
The Camera was part of the Bodleian Libraries, the vast complex of book storage at the heart of the university. Cheryl Stevenson, its Head of Technical Services, was an alumna of St Scholastica’s and a frequent guest at High Table for dinner. She and Maggie had become friends, most recently linked by their membership of the same book group. Over the years, Maggie had been allowed behind the scenes at the library for such historic moments as the closing down of the Lamson pneumatic tube system for transmitting book requests, finally superseded by a digital version as late as 2009.
Now, she texted Cheryl and suggested a drink after work. Within minutes, Cheryl had responded, suggesting the King’s Arms which, although always busy, served Young’s Double Chocolate Stout, her favourite beer. With that agreed, Maggie returned to her desk and forced herself to consider the entries she was due to contribute to the forthcoming edition of the Dictionary of Human Geography.
Maggie arrived at the pub in good time, intent on snagging a table. The pub, being the oldest in the city and set in the very heart of the tourist zone, was always thronged, but by judiciously staking out a trio of American tourists who didn’t look as if they were set for a long session, Maggie managed to achieve her goal with five minutes to spare. When Cheryl arrived, hot and flustered and seven minutes late, she was gratified to see an empty stool and a full bottle waiting for her.
‘Madhouse in there today,’ she said, straightening her glasses and slipping out of her coat. ‘With all the rebuilding, I seem to spend every day arguing with architects and builders and, frankly, idiots about the simplest of things.’ Cheryl was from Glasgow, equipped with an accent that could make the most generous of compliments sound like a threat. Maggie suspected she gave as good as she got.
It felt strange to be having a catch-up conversation with a friend that was defined more by what she couldn’t say than what she could. Maggie spoke of things that no longer mattered much and tried to remember how she acted when she was interested in another person’s concerns. At last, they worked their way round to Maggie’s reason for the meeting. ‘I’ve got a DPhil student who’s desperate to get on to the roof of the Camera. Any chance I could borrow a key and take her up there? She’s adamant that it would make all the difference to her thesis to see the view that wowed Dorothy L. Sayers. Because Gaudy Night is such a love letter to Oxford. And her thesis is all about how crime writers use the cityscape in their work.’
‘I can’t see why not. I think I can trust you not to hold a wild party up there. I could take you both up, if you’d rather?’
‘I don’t want to put you out,’ Maggie said. ‘And I’m not sure what her timetable is.’
Cheryl drained her glass. ‘Since we’re here, come back with me now and we’ll pick up a set of keys for the upper-storey doors.’
Half an hour later, Maggie was back in her rooms. In the centre of her desk was a plain ring of keys labelled ‘Upper Camera roof.’ Her admission to a high place where she could look out over the city that had shaped her life. A place where she could make a decision about her future. ‘Lead us not into temptation,’ she muttered ironically.
If she was to set herself back on an even keel, she had to try to reboot her life. What would she normally do if she’d been handed the gift of a set of keys for one of the most spectacular viewpoints in the city? A privileged access that few people ever had the chance to share? She’d share it. That’s the sort of woman she’d always been.
She picked up her phone and texted her best friend, the woman she’d always turned to ever since they’d first bonded back in Dubrovnik.
Tess, I’ve got keys for roof terrace of RadCam! Come and see the view with me. xxx
The answer arrived in a few minutes. Maggie was still staring at the keys, her face solemn.
Love to. When? x
Tomorrow morning? Meet you on steps at 10?xxx
OK. See you then. You OK?x
Yes. Tell you all about it when I see you.xxx
Amazed at herself for maintaining so normal a front, Maggie abruptly put the keys out of sight in a drawer. Tomorrow she’d contact her student.
Or not, depending on what she ended up doing.
42
By the time Karen and the Mint arrived in Oxford, it was too late to go knocking on the doors of elderly women. They checked into a budget motel on the outskirts of the city; Jason looked as if he could barely stand as he said goodnight. Karen knew she should be feeling the same but her brain wouldn’t stop tick, tick, ticking like the timer on a Hollywood bomb.
The minute she arrived in her room, she called the intensive care unit at the Vic. The duty nurse knew her voice by now; she’d been calling every hour since they’d left Kirkcaldy. ‘No change,’ she said sympathetically. ‘He’s very peaceful. His vital signs are giving no cause for concern. Mrs Patel said to tell you she’ll be in first thing in the morning and she’ll speak to you then.’
‘Thanks,’ Karen said. She realised that she’d been so relieved that Phil was still alive that she’d asked Aryana Patel nothing about the long-term prognosis. How long would he be in hospital? What were the implications of his internal injuries? Would he walk properly again? Would he still be a cop at the end of his convalescence? All questions she needed the answer to. Her life was going to change, no two ways about it. And Karen, who didn’t much like surprises, wanted to be as prepared as possible for what was coming at her down the road.
She’d still be with Phil. That went without saying. Whatever had happened to his body, his heart and his head would still be Phil. She knew that life-changing events like this sometimes destroyed relationships, but that wasn’t going to happen to them. She wouldn’t let it. Simple as that.
Karen stripped off her clothes and threw them over a chair. The world had been a different place when she’d put them on that morning. What had happened to Phil had drawn a line through her life. Now events would be characterised as being ‘before Phil was attacked’ and ‘after Phil was attacked’.
Karen pulled on a T-shirt and got into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin like an obedient child. She closed her eyes but nothing changed. Her head was still busy. Her heart still raged. And then her phone vibrated on the night table. She leapt into action, grabbing it and jamming it to
her ear without checking who was calling.
‘Karen? It’s River. I just heard about Phil.’
Until River’s voice filled her head, it hadn’t occurred to Karen how much she needed a friend. ‘I should have called you,’ she said.
‘Never mind that. How are you doing?’
‘Shite.’
‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘Don’t be daft. It’s gone eleven. And besides, I’m not at home.’
‘Where are you?’
‘He’s in a medically induced coma. I’d go mad sitting by his bedside playing his Elbow CDs to him. So I’m in Oxford.’
‘The general?’
‘Yeah. We were going nowhere, then I had an idea.’
‘And of course it wouldn’t wait.’ River’s voice was affectionate; not a trace of criticism for actions that most people would have struggled to understand.
‘When he comes out of that coma, he’s going to need to know that life goes on. And me solving a big old mystery like Dimitar Petrovic’s murder will be like a tonic to him.’
‘You’re probably right. Did you take the Mint with you?’
‘Aye. He’s pretty upset about Phil. I thought he’d be better with me rather than having to stop his lip trembling in front of the big boys.’
River chuckled. ‘You don’t fool me. I’m glad you’re not by yourself. Listen, there’s nothing I can say that’ll make any of this better. But if you want to talk, any time of the day or night, I’m here. OK?’
‘Aye. Thanks.’
She’d have been hard pressed to say why, but after River’s call, Karen felt less panicky. She snuggled down, cuddling one of the pillows to her like a giant teddy bear. In spite of her conviction that she’d never sleep, reaction to the day’s events overtook her within minutes. When she surfaced, to her amazement, it was after eight.
Groggy with sleep, she raced through the morning rituals – phone call to check on Phil (‘no change’); shower (bloody awful trickle); hair and clothes (drier hotter than hell) then down to the self-service breakfast. The Mint was already there, eating Coco Pops and drinking orange juice. Judging by the debris around him, neither was his first.
Karen armed herself with a cup of coffee and two boxes of Fruit and Fibre, persuading herself that this was a healthy breakfast.
The Mint looked up expectantly. ‘Any news?’
‘No change.’ She tipped cereal into a too-small bowl.
‘That’s good, then. Better than a turn for the worse.’
‘You always this cheerful in the morning?’ Karen added milk and dug a spoon into the cereal. The Mint looked wounded but at least he kept his mouth shut while she jacked her caffeine and sugar up to manageable levels. Once she’d finished shovelling her food down with the determination of someone who doesn’t want to think about anything else, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Sorry.’ She got out her notebook and checked Dorothea Simpson’s mobile number. ‘Give her a call and say you’d like to have a word with her.’
‘Why me?’ Panic flared in his eyes.
‘Because I’m the boss and I don’t want to forewarn her that this word is an important one. As far as she’s concerned, you’re just the oily rag. So she’s not going to be on her guard.’
‘OK.’ He dialled the number. With a face as informative as his, there was no need for a speakerphone. Karen could tell when the call connected and when it was eventually answered. ‘Aye, hello, Dr Simpson, it’s Detective Constable Murray from Edinburgh. We met the other day at your house… Uh huh. Well, I could do with another wee word with you, just to clear up a couple of details?… Well, I’m in Oxford, so this morning would be… You’re not?’ His look of dismay made Karen want to cry. ‘Well, we could come to you… you are? Brilliant. Where will we find you?… Excellent. We’ll see you very soon.’ He ended the call, pink with achievement.
‘That sounded successful,’ Karen said.
‘She’s not at home,’ he said. ‘So I said we could come to her. And it turns out she’s at St Scholastica’s. She goes in for breakfast a couple of times a week. She’s going to be in the SCR, whatever that is.’
Karen beamed at him. Was she finally turning him into a cop? ‘Well done. So what are we waiting for?’
On the way to the college, Jason said, ‘What’s an SCR?’
‘It’s the Senior Common Room. It’s like the staff room for the college tutors.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s like a secret code, all these fancy names. A way of keeping the likes of us out in the cold.’
‘You’re not far off the mark, Jason.’ And then, just to put the icing on the cake, Jimmy Hutton called to say they’d picked up the driver of the white BMW tractor.
‘Stupid twat was trying to drive it on to the Rotterdam ferry at Newcastle,’ Hutton told her. ‘Like somehow because he was in England they wouldn’t be looking for him.’
Already Karen felt the day was going to be a lot better than the one before.
They found Dorothea Simpson alone in a long drawing room with views of the river. It was furnished in the style of an English country cottage, with comfy-looking sofas and armchairs scattered around a series of low tables. A pair of deep bay windows were lined with cushioned window seats and a refectory table held a collection of newspapers and magazines. Dorothea led them back to the table, where she had clearly been reading a copy of the London Review of Books. ‘I can’t afford all the periodicals these days,’ she said. ‘So I come in for breakfast two three times a week and catch up with my reading afterwards.’ She lowered herself into a padded captain’s chair and sighed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you, Chief Inspector.’
‘Who could resist a trip to Oxford?’ Karen said.
‘Who, indeed,’ said Dorothea without a trace of irony.
Karen took the crumpled list of names from her bag. ‘We’re anxious to track down the person General Petrovic went to Edinburgh with. We think it must have been one of his climbing associates, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. But we do have a list of names from the hotel register of a trip we know he made to go buildering. You know, climbing the outside of buildings for fun. Anyway, I thought it might be helpful to ask people he knew if they recognised any of the names from the hotel register.’
Karen would have sworn that Dorothea’s nose twitched. ‘You think this might be his killer?’
Karen forced a light laugh. ‘I’ve no reason to suspect them. There’s nobody on the list with a foreign name. No, I’m hoping they might be able to remember the general talking about someone he used to go buildering with back in Croatia.’
‘Have you shown this list to Maggie?’
‘She’s not around this morning,’ Karen said. It wasn’t an answer to Dorothea’s question but she hoped the other woman wouldn’t notice that.
‘No, she’s gone off to the Radcliffe Camera,’ Dorothea said. ‘She’s borrowed a set of keys to get up on the roof. It’s a special favour for one of her DPhil students.’
Happy that Dorothea had been diverted from inquiring too closely about the list, Karen unfolded the paper. ‘I thought I could go through the list and you could tell me when any name rings a bell.’
Dorothea nodded doubtfully. ‘I’ll do my best. But my memory is not as sharp as it once was.’
‘Never mind. The first name on the list is Christopher Greenfield.’ She paused while Dorothy repeated the name, shaking her head. And so it went on. Nine names and no reaction. Then Karen said, ‘Ellen Ripley.’
Dorothea perked up. ‘Did you say, “Ellen Ripley”?’
‘Yes. Do you know her?’
Dorothea chuckled. ‘Don’t you know who Ellen Ripley is?’
Karen shook her head. ‘Should I?’
‘Oh, Chief Inspector! “In space, no one can hear you scream.” Surely you’re not too young to remember Ripley?’
Karen felt stupid. Now it was pointed out to her, of course she remembered Sigourney Weaver’s iconic portrayal of the heroic Ripley. What w
as even more interesting was that Ellen Ripley was one of the trio of names they’d been unable to trace. ‘I guess I never think of her as having a first name.’
‘I suppose not,’ Dorothea said. ‘And in fairness, I suppose I might not either were it not for the fact that Mitja used to tease Tessa about being our Ellen Ripley. Taking on the alien monsters like Milosevic and Mladic.’
‘The general called Tessa Minogue Ellen Ripley?’ Karen said, trying not to show the sudden buzz of excitement in her stomach. ‘And did they go buildering together?’
‘I honestly don’t know about that. I believe she went walking in the Highlands and Snowdonia with Maggie and Mitja and their friends. But why don’t you ask her yourself? Maggie’s taking her up on to the roof of the Radcliffe Camera this morning as a special treat. The view is supposed to be phenomenal.’ Dorothea peered at the grandfather clock standing against the wall. ‘They were meeting at ten. They’ll be on their way up right now.’
43
Their feet clattered on the iron staircase leading to the very top level of the majestic Radcliffe Camera. Maggie glanced down, taking in the baroque details of the interior, wondering exactly how far it was to the ground. Behind her, Tessa was beginning to breathe heavily. ‘Bloody hell, Maggie,’ she complained. ‘I can’t believe you’re fitter than me these days.’
‘You spend too much time working and not enough time in the hills,’ Maggie said. ‘Not enough mountains to climb in The Hague.’
‘This is amazing, though,’ Tessa said. ‘It looks entirely different from this height. You look around at all this elaborate decoration that was hardly ever going to be seen by anybody and you just wonder at it. To go to that much trouble, to create all that detail and to have it appreciated by so few. That’s a real love of craft for craft’s sake.’
The Skeleton Road Page 30