by Annie Dalton
Anna knocked, and when no one answered, she called, ‘Hope you’re decent!’ and cautiously peered around the door. As she’d guessed, he’d taken out his hearing aid. She could see it lying on a side table, the supposedly flesh-coloured earpiece trailing wires. ‘It would be flesh-coloured if I was some gruesome plastic doll,’ he’d joked to her once.
Her grandfather was sitting with his back to her beside the open French windows, thoughtfully studying an unfinished painting on his easel.
His hair needed cutting again. The fine white tufts grew straight up like a mischievous little boy’s. A rush of feelings took her breath away. Like an ark, this room contained all that was precious in Anna’s world. Yet for the first time in her life she felt as if she was intruding.
‘Hey, Grandpa,’ she said, but he went on obliviously contemplating his canvas. His latest painting showed the remains of a simple meal for two; crumbled yellow cheese, a loaf with its crust torn away, ripe strawberries on a dishevelled white cloth. One long-stemmed wine glass still held an inch or so of red wine. A second glass lay on its side surrounded by a spreading crimson stain. Everything vibrated with the untold, perhaps untellable, story of the mysteriously absent diners. Why had their meal been interrupted? Was it love, lust or something darker?
Anna swallowed. A few months shy of ninety, at an age when most people resigned themselves to crocheted lap throws, George Ottaway was finally becoming the artist he had always longed to be. She had no right to still be bringing her troubles to him.
She was turning to leave, when Bonnie unexpectedly took charge of the situation, trotting up to Anna’s grandfather and shoving her nose forcefully between his knees. He gave a startled grunt, turning round in his chair. Anna saw his expression transform into surprised delight. ‘Anna, how lovely!’
‘Sorry about the cold nose,’ she said. ‘Bonnie decided it was time to alert you to our presence.’
‘You’re a wise, wonderful dog!’ he told Bonnie. He reached down to scratch her in one of her special spots on the back of her neck, just below her collar.
Anna went over to her grandfather, bending down to kiss his cheek, faintly scratchy with stubble. He patted her on the back, and she inhaled the familiar notes of his Penhaligon aftershave. For Anna, this woody, citrusy scent was the smell of home.
Her grandfather reached for his hearing aid, fixed it into place and gave her an impish grin. ‘Right, now I’m fully wired for sound! So, to what do I owe the honour of this unexpected visit?’
‘Does there have to be a reason?’ In fact, Anna now felt totally confused as to why she was here. To cover her moment of awkwardness, she glanced around at the clutter that had accumulated during her grandfather’s few months at Bramley Lodge: jars of brushes, half-squeezed tubes of paint, a tangle of rags stained all the colours of the rainbow and emitting a strong smell of turpentine. And everywhere his growing collection of paintings; some in stacks, larger ones leaning up against the wall. ‘Grandpa, seriously,’ she teased. ‘This looks more like an artist’s garret in Montmartre every time I come.’
Her grandfather was still petting Bonnie. ‘Shall we find one of your special treats,’ he asked the dog, ‘while my other favourite girl makes us both a cup of tea?’ Bonnie immediately came alert. ‘You’ve got a smart dog here,’ he said, laughing.
‘So I’m learning,’ she said, going into the tiny galley kitchen. Perhaps that’s why people had dogs. When you didn’t know what to talk about, you could always talk about the dog.
She spooned a mix of Darjeeling and Lapsang into the familiar brown teapot, one of the few things her grandfather had taken from his house in Park Town, and found cups and saucers. Her grandfather disapproved of mugs almost as much as he disapproved of tea bags. Anna carried everything in to him on a tray and saw Bonnie noisily demolishing her disgusting pig’s ear or whatever he’d given her. ‘Should she be doing that on the carpet?’
‘She’s a dog,’ he reminded her. ‘She won’t leave a single crumb, believe me.’
Looking around for a clear space to put the tray, Anna eventually set it down on the floor. Her eyes kept being drawn back to his paintings. ‘Did you think any more about Art Week?’ she asked. ‘Last time I was here you and Desmond were talking about entering.’
He suddenly looked vague. ‘Remind me when Art Week is again?’
‘Next May. As you know perfectly well,’ she said, not remotely fooled. ‘You should start thinking about which paintings you want to show.’
‘I don’t think so, darling. Nothing’s properly finished.’
’I don’t think artists ever feel their work is finished, do they?’
Her grandfather made a dismissive noise. ‘I don’t know if I’d really call myself an artist.’
Anna gestured around at the thirty or so vibrant canvasses. ‘You know what, Vincent,’ she said, half laughing, ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with a response!’
Lifting a pile of art books from a sofa to make room to sit down, she placed a faded paisley cushion behind her back and suddenly longed to just close her eyes, forget the troubling message Naomi had left on her phone and sleep until morning.
Her grandfather had turned to watch the last of the twilight fading beyond the windows. ‘Just say if you want me to shut the doors,’ he offered after a while.
‘Lord, no!’ said Anna. ‘I was actually thinking of shedding another layer!’
He laughed, got up from his chair with a little grunt of effort and hobbled over to join her. ‘I’m afraid they cosset us frail old sticks as if we were rare orchids.’
‘Well, I’m glad,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘Not that anyone could convince me that you’re a frail old stick, but I think you’ve earned a bit of cosseting. Do you think this tea is fit to be poured?’
‘I think we could risk it,’ he said.
As Anna passed him his cup he said quietly, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s happened?’
For a moment Anna couldn’t speak. Her childish longing for her grandfather’s guidance had been overruled by a new need to protect him. But now he’d opened the way, she felt her old longing rise up. At last she said, ‘It’s been a – a hard day.’ She had to clear her throat. ‘Remember me telling you about Naomi?’
‘Yes, of course! Your young researcher who is going to find out about this girl’s mysterious past.’ He reached down to give Bonnie an affectionate pat.
‘Was,’ Anna said bleakly. ‘Bonnie found her body this morning on Port Meadow. She’d been stabbed.’
She felt his hand quickly move to cover hers. After a while, she risked looking up and saw only pained understanding in her grandfather’s eyes. ‘That must have been particularly awful for you,’ he said. ‘My poor girl, and of course you had to call the police?’
She shook her head. ‘Actually, I didn’t. Two women saw Bonnie dragging me across the meadow and came to see what was wrong.’ For the first time Anna pictured this from Isadora and Tansy’s point of view. What had made them hurry after her? Was it pure animal instinct like Bonnie? Or just a chilling intuition?
She frowned, her mind suddenly blank. ‘Sorry, what was I saying?’
‘You were telling me about the two women,’ he said gently.
‘Yes. One of them was a typical North Oxford type. She took charge and called the police.’ Anna closed her eyes against the sight of Isadora covering Naomi’s face. ‘The other was just a girl.’ She remembered Tansy’s coltish beauty, her face ashen with shock. ‘I think she said she was a waitress. Anyway, they both waited with me until the police came.’
‘I’m glad!’ her grandfather said forcefully. ‘I’m so glad you didn’t have to go through this ordeal completely on your own. And then presumably you all had to go down to the station and tell them everything you knew?’
Anna gave a tight nod.
He passed his hand over his face. ‘I would have given a lot for you to have been spared all that.’
‘I know,’ she almost whispe
red.
‘And how did they treat you at the police station?’
He meant: how did they treat you this time. Anna pulled a face. ‘It turned out the police inspector was with the first response team that came out to – to our house. You can imagine the rest.’
‘He thought this was too much like a coincidence?’
She nodded. ‘He toyed with me a while, because he could, then admitted they thought it was the work of some serial killer, and I should be careful until he’s caught.’ She picked up her cup, then set it back in its saucer. ‘Grandpa, I didn’t realize, but I’d had my mobile switched off all last night. Then, after I got back from St Aldates, I switched it back on and I found – there was a message from Naomi.’
‘Oh, my dear girl!’
Until this moment, Anna had been telling herself that she wasn’t going to involve him, but now that it came to it her need was too strong. ‘The thing is, she said something and I need to know if I’m just being paranoid.’ She took out her phone. ‘Would it – would it be too disturbing if I play it to you?’
He drew a sharp breath. ‘You found her body, and you’re worried about disturbing me – with a recorded message! You really do think I’m a frail old stick!’ He sounded hurt and angry. ‘Of course you must play it!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘that didn’t come out how I meant.’
‘Play it,’ he said fiercely.
She found the message, and suddenly Naomi’s voice was with them in the room. ‘Hi, Anna! I’m so sorry this is such short notice, but I’m going to have to cancel our breakfast. I interviewed someone last night and something – something absolutely mind-blowing, actually – came up. I’ve been up till stupid-o’clock typing up my notes, but oh my God, this is going to be a total game changer, Anna! Oh, yes! And I also wanted to let you know that I absolutely haven’t forgotten about your beautiful Bonnie. In fact, I might have some solid info for you very soon. OK, really have to dash now, bye!’
Anna switched off her phone. For a few moments neither of them spoke.
Then her grandfather said, ‘Was your friend as lovely as she sounds?’
She didn’t correct him about Naomi being her friend. ‘She really was,’ she said huskily.
‘What a terrible, terrible waste.’ He shook his head. After a while, he said, ‘And you wanted me to hear this because you think you might be overreacting?’
‘Yes. Because I don’t know if I’m just reading something into this that isn’t there.’ Again, she added silently. Aloud, she said, ‘She finds something out, something huge, a “game changer”. The very next day she’s dead. Is that suspicious, or is it just coincidental? She finds something out, goes for a run and meets some random nutter with a knife. It happens!’
‘Exactly!’ He set down his cup with a clatter. ‘I don’t know if this message is significant, and nor do you, but if there’s the slightest chance it could lead the police to the killer, you owe it to that poor girl and to her devastated family.’ His voice shook, and Anna saw him give an involuntary glance at a photograph on the wall. She had the identical family picture at home, but hers was locked inside a cupboard of horrors. When her grandfather turned back she was horrified to see him close to tears.
‘I’m sorry, Grandpa,’ she said. ‘It’s just – I’ve spent my entire adult life, you know, thinking about the kind of stuff that most people never go near. I can’t always tell when I’m being rational and when I’m being—’
‘Crazy crackers,’ he supplied, a jokey phrase of her dad’s that had passed into their family’s repertoire.
She nodded, biting her lip.
He quickly took her hand, squeezing it hard. ‘Given what’s just happened, I think you’re commendably rational. You are also exhausted. Go home, darling. Try to sleep. And first thing tomorrow, call the police.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll go down to the station when I’ve finished work. I’m only working half a day tomorrow.’
Driving back to Park Town with four of her grandfather’s paintings stashed in her boot, Anna kept hearing his last words to her as he saw her to the door. ‘I want you to promise me something though, Anna. Once you’ve given the police this information, leave them to deal with it as they see fit. You don’t need more darkness and suspicion in your life, my darling. You’re still so young; you should be out in the world, falling in love and having fun.’ His words had left her feeling exposed and ashamed. Her grandfather didn’t know that he had seen only the smallest glimpse of the dark obsessions that ruled her life. She prayed that he would never find out the full extent of the damage.
FOUR
At six a.m. Anna gave up trying to sleep. Throwing on a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, she took Bonnie for a fast walk around the University Parks, breathing in the peppery, loamy scents of early autumn and trying to calm herself. She walked as far as the River Cherwell, where early-morning mist rose in curling wisps from the water, then headed home.
Back in her flat, she quickly showered and dressed in her deliberately nondescript work clothes. (Anna regarded her job as the least significant part of her life.) Her fridge was almost empty, so for breakfast she made do with a small tub of natural yogurt and an overripe banana, most of which she had to throw away, washing everything down with two mugs of strong coffee. Bonnie watched all these preparations for departure with close attention.
‘Not this time, beautiful girl,’ she told Bonnie.
She left the house just as Dana, her lodger, was getting into her car. Deathly pale in designer sunglasses she managed to look simultaneously hung-over and fabulously glamorous. ‘Isn’t it terrible about that poor girl? Do be careful, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ Anna said. ‘And you be careful too,’ she remembered to call over her shoulder.
Waiting at the bus stop on the Banbury Road, hollow with hunger, she told herself that after she’d been to the police station she’d stock up on groceries at a supermarket. Then she’d come home and cook a proper meal. Make that two meals, she decided as her stomach growled, then felt guilty because it seemed so trivial to be thinking about housekeeping when Naomi was dead.
When the bus finally came it was packed. Anna had to stand all the way to the Cornmarket. As she hastily made her way to the exit, she saw the front page headlines on someone’s copy of the Oxford Mail: ‘New Murder Victim Found In Port Meadow.’
Walsingham College was situated just off the High Street. Like St Edmund Hall, its nearest neighbour, some of its buildings dated back to the eleven hundreds, though they’d been added to or modified throughout the centuries. Walsingham was one of the smaller colleges, but the philosophy department was regarded as one of the best in existence. Students came from all over the world to study. Yet the college still retained the homely intimate atmosphere of an old manor house.
All access to the college was via the porters’ lodge. As usual, Anna stopped at the counter to ask if there was any mail. Built like a nightclub bouncer, Mr Boswell wore his sombre regulation suit and bowler with the ponderous dignity of an old-style gangster. ‘Not many letters for you today, Miss Hopkins,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it terrible about that other young woman—?’
‘Sorry, Mr Boswell, I’m running late!’ Anna fled through the eleventh century archway and out into the college gardens. The traffic noises immediately faded behind her, as if she’d stepped back in time. She’d tried to tell herself that it was the thickness of the ancient stone walls that created this muffling effect, but was never completely convinced.
If Walsingham reminded Anna of a medieval manor house, the ecclesiastical-style arched windows and gracefully proportioned buildings which surrounded the gardens on all four sides suggested a monastery. A covered stone walkway added to the impression of an enclosed and dedicated community. The atmosphere would be completely different once the new term began, with students and academics rushing everywhere. But this morning, with no one else around, Anna was super-aware of her footsteps echoing on the cobbles, an
d of all the ghostly scholars who had walked here before her through the centuries.
Next week the philosophy department was hosting a conference, which Anna had helped to organize, and the college would fill with chattering academics of all nationalities. Then, apart from a few resident fellows and research students, it would empty out again until the undergraduates returned at the start of the Michaelmas Term. Anna hadn’t acquired her degree at Oxford, but she had lived in this city for the first eighteen years of her life, and the peculiar rhythms of its academic comings and goings were as familiar to her as the seasons.
Anna turned right through another of Walsingham’s ancient archways. This one was signposted to the Old Library. A second right turn brought her to the foot of the nondescript twentieth century staircase that led to the college’s equally unimpressive administrative offices on the first floor.
The college had three assistant administrators; Nadine, a hyper-efficient older woman, job-shared with Anna, and Kirsty worked full-time. Anna had immediately taken to stocky, forthright Kirsty with her copper-coloured curls and English rose complexion. But this morning the thought of being cooped up in their hutch-like office with Kirsty, or indeed any other human, filled her with dread. Naomi’s murder was now common knowledge. Kirsty would be sure to bring it up, and if she didn’t, Paul, the senior administrator, would. Anna would have to tell them, singly or together, that she’d been first on the scene. She’d have to cope with their horror, and worse, their sympathy. Resolutely closing her mind to her rising claustrophobia, Anna forced herself to continue climbing the narrow stairs to her office.
The door was open. As usual Kirsty had arrived first, having dropped off her little boy at his nursery. Anna walked in, dumping her bag and her letters on her desk. ‘Hi.’ She gave Kirsty a neutral smile, then did a double-take as she saw the daunting blizzard of Post-its Nadine had left pasted on to their shared desk. ‘Oh, what? Seriously?’