This time she attempted a nod, and slowly he relinquished his grip on her mouth. She gasped a deep breath, and felt the knife jagging into her flesh.
‘In there,’ he ordered, his arm locking around her tiny waist, her T-shirt raised and the knife still pricking at her side. He bundled her through the door into the south aisle of the church. Quiet and empty, she felt shattered by disappointment and bereft of any hope. He bungled her to the right hand side and into a rear pew. Jabbing the knife into her side, he slid her across the cushioned seat until she hit the wall. He pressed himself tightly against her; the knife, she was sure, had again pierced her skin. He repeated his question as if she could possibly forget.
‘Why were you following me?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His right arm moved around her shoulders mingling with the strands of her hair. He grasped and pulled back sharply. She cried out.
‘No more games. Who are you? What do you want with me?’
This time she got a closer view of his face. Clean-shaven, smooth taut skin. His eyes she judged a blue grey, wary but not evil in the way she had known others to be. His breath smelled of onions and vinegar after his meal in the burger bar. Most striking was his tanned complexion. Unless he slept every night under a sun-bed this man had spent serious time in the sun.
‘I’m a police officer,’ she replied at last. She watched his eyes dart as his brain dealt with the implications. ‘Detective Inspector Tara Grogan. I think it’s time you let go of my hair and put that damned knife away.’
He did neither.
‘What do you want with me?’
‘I saw you by the river; you were looking at a plaque about the Baby Isis, why?’
‘And that’s a reason to follow me across town? Try again.’ His grip tightened on her hair. She drew a sharp breath and felt the cold blade on her skin.
‘I know who you are, Justin,’ she said. The knife cut her. She cried out.
‘You’ve got the wrong man, cop.’ Judging by his reflex action with the knife as she spoke, she knew that the man squeezing the breath from her was definitely Kingsley.
‘Please, Justin. Listen to me. I’m trying to help you. Put the knife away, and we can talk.’
He laughed nervously then pressed his forehead into hers, pushing her back against the wall. He pulled ever harder at her hair, and she cried in fear that she’d got things terribly wrong in her mind. That Justin Kingsley was indeed the killer, Callum was right, and he was here to finish off this group of Latimer alumni. But first, he intended to kill her.
‘No, you listen to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whatever you’re doing you’ve got the wrong man. Leave me alone, or next time you won’t get to speak before the knife goes in.’ Releasing her, he shoved her hard against the wall. He was out the door before she’d crawled into the aisle. She tried going after him, to make him understand, but as she struggled to her feet she saw her blood dripping to the floor.
CHAPTER 50
Finding her shoulder bag lying in the porch, where she’d been grabbed by Kingsley, she retrieved a small pack of tissues and struggled back inside to sit in a pew. Using her compact mirror, she inspected the cuts. A lot of blood but, she hoped, without real damage. There were at least three long gashes in her side, and a rip in her T-shirt, where he’d forced the knife point to break her skin. Had he been deliberately careful with his cutting? She wondered.
While she pressed a tissue against the cuts in her side, the silence in the church was broken as the door opened. She had no time to run. A man of around seventy, bald, squat with glasses and a sagging face ambled through the doors; a woman of similar age and remarkably similar build with silver hair followed behind. They did little more than glance at the young woman seated in the back pew, her hair sticking out at every angle, her face pale with shock and fear, tears drying slowly in the corners of her eyes. The woman managed a brief smile, and Tara tried her best to return it. A bit bloody late, she thought. While she worked to stop the bleeding in her collection of grazes, she recalled a prayer, and after what had taken place within its walls she felt she couldn’t leave without some form of devotion. She recited what she could recall of the Memorare, removed her mobile from her bag and tentatively stepped outside.
Fresh air helped, although her body still trembled, and she wondered if the people in the bus queue opposite noticed the little girl lost rocking on her feet. She steadied her hand and managed to call Stephanie’s number.
Thank God they were close by. She propped herself against the railings of the churchyard and waited for them to appear, watching all the while in case Justin Kingsley had decided to keep tabs on her.
Stephanie and Ollie took her immediately to A&E at the Radcliffe. Fortunately, the wait was brief and soon she’d been seen by a staff nurse and momentarily by a junior doctor who assessed the damage. Not as bad as it looked, was the medical opinion. She’d had to explain how she came by such an injury, and in doing so had to point out that she was a police officer involved in a case which was ongoing. No time for rest or written reports to her superiors. Eight stitches and a tetanus jab later, she was released to her waiting companions. Ollie went off again in search of Callum, while Stephanie escorted Tara to their room at the Randolph.
Callum appeared with Ollie thirty minutes later. His face was pale, his eyes frightened.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, rushing to her and going down on his knees.
‘’I’m fine, just a little shaky. You were right, Callum. He did show up.’
Ollie had a glass of brandy for her, although Tara knew she couldn’t manage it. She sat gingerly upon the bed as Stephanie boiled water in a kettle and made some strong coffee. Callum hadn’t taken his eyes off her since he came in, listening in silence while she spoke of her encounter with Kingsley.
‘You’re certain it was him?’ Ollie asked her, helping himself to the glass of brandy.
‘Might not have been one hundred percent until I called him by his name. That definitely touched a nerve.’
‘So we have our man then?’ said Ollie.
Callum appeared to wait for Tara’s view on the matter.
‘We don’t have anyone, Ollie,’ she said. ‘Kingsley didn’t hang around for a reunion with you lot. We have no further evidence that he’s the murderer.’
‘He stuck a knife into you, Tara,’ said Stephanie, alarmed. ‘Isn’t that sufficient evidence?’
‘If he killed the others, why not kill me?’
‘Did you tell him you’re a police officer?’ Callum asked.
‘Yes I did. But if he’s a determined killer my being a police officer wouldn’t have stopped him.’
Ollie shook his head in despair, throwing the remainder of the brandy down his throat.
‘I don’t understand coppers. If you can’t see a killer from close up, what hope is there for the rest of us?’
Only now was Tara able to sip at her coffee, it having been much too hot when Stephanie poured it. Something inside her, despite her shaking, enjoyed seeing Ollie Rutherford a bundle of nerves. He looked a fit man, but lacked something substantial in the courage department. Regardless of his mental state, she had a couple of questions to ask him.
‘Tell me about you and Egerton-Hyde, Ollie.’
‘Here we go. You still reckon Anthony is the killer?’
She wasn’t about to argue the toss over her suspicions. She simply wanted information about Egerton-Hyde. The rest of them seemed convinced that Kingsley was the murderer, but as far as she was concerned nothing had changed. No one had identified a motive for any of the murders.
‘How much business does he put your way?’
Rutherford glared icily at Tara, his face paling into the most serious expression she’d so far witnessed in the man. For a moment she wasn’t certain that he would answer.
‘Okay, Tara. I handle a fair number of private investments for him. Strictly business. Nothing to interfere with his politi
cal activities.’
‘If he were to take a fall would you go down with him?’
‘This is ridiculous. The man’s a close friend of mine. We were at school together. He’s not a murderer.’
‘Is he in your debt, Ollie, or are you in his?’
‘We’ve worked together for years. I helped him raise money outside of his political career. It went to saving his ancestral home. Most families in properties like his have to open their doors to the public to keep going. I earned Anthony enough money so that he won’t have to consider such actions for years. You’re out of your mind, Tara, if you think Anthony would be trying to kill me or anyone else.’
‘I hear you have quite a few rows with him. What about?’
He fired his girlfriend an unhealthy stare.
‘Well informed, aren’t you?’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes, we have rows, usually about money.’
‘Not always money?’
‘No.’ He fixed his gaze on Stephanie, and looked on the verge of tears. ‘I had an affair with Georgina.’
‘When?’ Stephanie demanded. She’d been sitting on the double bed next to Tara, but she jumped to her feet and stood before him. ‘When, Ollie?’ she repeated.
‘Years ago, before us,’ he said with some resignation in his voice. ‘He and Georgina argue about it, and she throws in his gay fling with Peter. They beat each other up with it all the time. I think he would use it against me, but he needs me to earn money for him. Nowadays he seems resigned to needing me.’
‘What about Georgina?’ Tara asked.
‘She hates my guts, because Anthony is so reliant on me. He could get himself another investor, but I think he keeps me around just to spite Georgina.’
Tara looked at Callum for input. None was forthcoming. She’d believed that she and Callum were in this together. Now, however, she realised she was very much on her own. She felt awkward about their having spent the night together. Clearly, it hadn’t meant that much to him beyond a brief sexual desire. She wasn’t considered a part of his future. He’d used her every step of the way, offering little support. Even now he couldn’t see evidence stacking up against Egerton-Hyde. Instead he pinned all his suspicion on Justin Kingsley, and this afternoon it seemed he had been proven right. Still, Tara thought, it was Egerton-Hyde who’d been a delegate at the food safety conference in Lucerne when Zhou Jian was murdered. Hell of a coincidence if Kingsley had been there, too.
CHAPTER 51
They shared a taxi back to Latimer. Neither one spoke. Tara’s side below her ribs continued to sting from the knife cuts, and she wanted to get back to her room to rest before the evening reception for the alumni. Emotionally, she was in agony from the ordeal at the hands of Kingsley, but also from the treatment she’d received from Callum. It crossed her mind to run, to clear off and leave these people to their own sorry mess, but part of her wanted still to help the man she’d come to love. What infuriated her most was that every suggestion she’d made to counter the argument that Kingsley was the murderer Callum had put down, dismissed completely. She had been wrong about Kingsley showing up, but she didn’t think she was wrong about Anthony Egerton-Hyde.
*
Callum sat beside her for the five minute journey from the Randolph to Latimer College, trying to figure out what he’d done to offend her. She’d hardly looked in his direction all day. She left the college before he came down to breakfast; she was acerbic during lunch, didn’t eat and persisted with her theory that Anthony was the killer. All this time, she never believed Kingsley was responsible, and had been cock-sure that he wouldn’t turn up in Oxford. He’d been terrified when Ollie told him that Tara had been attacked. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. Tilly’s death, he had always believed, would effectively kill him one day. Then, when he could sink no deeper in his sad existence, he’d found Tara. He loved her, and at the same time was petrified that last night might be the only occasion they would ever make love together. She’d helped him get his life back and knocked him into shape. With Georgina’s offer of a job, he could be on the road to freedom. But he longed so much to travel that road with Tara beside him. When this was over, and Kingsley given what he deserved, he would ask her to quit the police and move to London with him. She was a beautiful woman with a kind heart; she wasn’t destined for a life that dealt with murder, death, violence and sick in the head people. Now, surely she would spend her life with him.
*
She enjoyed a couple of hours sleep in her room and felt refreshed by a long spell in the shower. She downed a couple of paracetamol and a cup of hot, sweet tea before getting dressed for the evening. When she entered the Meeting Room of the Old Member’s Building in the college, Callum’s mouth dropped open. Several inches taller, by virtue of the fawn shoes Aisling and Kate had trailed her around the stores in Liverpool One to find, she displayed beautifully lean legs in the tights she’d bought in Oxford that morning. What caught the eye of several males in the room, however, was the vision of a slight girl in a purple silk dress, revealing bare shoulders, a banded waist and a skirt falling well short of her knees, the dress that Aisling bought for Tara to spice up her dreary life. The waist of the dress pressed against her wound, but it was bearable.
The Meeting Room, within the Old Member’s building, sat directly behind the buildings that formed the quadrangle. Built in the Nineteenth Century of Bath stone, the Old Member’s building stood on the far side of a tidy lawn. It was accessed by entering the corridor separating the dining hall from the Fellow’s Library and then outside along a path that crossed the garden. The Meeting Room, fully panelled in oak, had an arched wooden-beamed ceiling and a polished floor. It was laid out at one end, close to a huge stone fireplace, with red-cushioned straight-back chairs. Slightly off-centre, an oak lectern awaited the invited speakers for the evening reunion of college alumni. To the right of the main door, stood two long tables neatly stocked with canapés, wines, tea and coffee.
Tara was one of the last to arrive, deliberately so. Whatever way she regarded this evening’s event she couldn’t feel comfortable in attending. Rather than parade herself, which is exactly how she felt in her expensive, staggeringly high shoes and a dress much too extrovert for her tastes, she longed to be home in her flat at Wapping Dock, a light-hearted film on the telly, a bowl of crisps in her lap and a glass of apple juice in her hand. As Callum greeted her, goggle-eyed, she hoped she hadn’t overdone the make-up, but considering the day she had endured, a hefty application was required to conceal the stress lines in her face. If Aisling suddenly swept into the room Tara wondered what she would say. Impressed, she hoped, that she did look well in her little purple number, but disgusted by the dark eye-shadow and liner when tonight jolly tones of silver and mauve were required to set off the frock. With her discomfort peaking, Tara hadn’t devoted any attention to what Callum was thinking of how she looked. His jaw dropping reflex, when she came into the room, made her feel better.
‘Any of our distinguished guests arrived yet?’ she asked him.
‘Ollie and Stephanie are helping themselves to the food and drink.’
They looked across the room to where Ollie was trying his best to hold a flute of sparkling wine in each hand while attempting to eat a spiced prawn wafer.
‘No sign of our guest speakers?’ she asked.
He shook his head. Perhaps it was best if they didn’t show at all. She wondered what Kingsley was planning. There was no doubt in her mind that his appearance in Oxford was designed to coincide with this evening’s gathering. If, as she remained convinced, he was not the killer, then what role was he here to play?
Twenty minutes later, the assembly of Latimer alumni took their seats at the top end of the room. The chairs were arranged four rows deep in an arc around the fireplace. Tara sat next to Callum at one end of the third row, and to the far right of the lectern. Ollie and Stephanie sat one row in front, close to the centre aisle.
The distinguished alumni numbered forty seve
n, most were mid-thirties to mid-forties, the age when many people begin to dwell a little on bygone days. Settled into careers and lifestyles, they were becoming aware of their own failings and life’s disappointments. They saw, perhaps, carefree times fading in the distance and hoped to savour something to feed their longing and to assist with the ageing process. Some, of course, were present in order to compare notes with old friends, to see who’d done well and who hadn’t quite made a go of things despite the privileged beginning. A few harboured a deep affection for their old college, delight in its buildings, its traditions and its setting within an astounding city of learning. Tara didn’t see anyone she considered younger than her, although, for a moment, she pictured Simon and Louisa attending a similar function at Balliol.
Adrian Cook, a neatly dressed man in is late thirties with dark moussed hair, introduced himself as Communications and Events Manager for the Alumni Association. He welcomed everyone, alumni and guests, to the annual reception then introduced the Alumni Director of Development, Marjorie Sheldon. Tara recognised the woman from her days at college. Her huge mound of silver-grey hair, resembling a powdered pouf of Eighteenth Century France, was difficult to forget once seen. Her gilt-frame glasses perched at the end of a prominent nose, Marjorie Sheldon re-iterated the welcome given by Cook, and spent a few minutes going over the evening’s programme, getting a few plugs for up-coming alumni events and fund raising activities. Finally, she gave a detailed résumé of the career thus far of one of Latimer’s most famous alumna.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, alumni of Latimer, it gives me enormous pleasure to introduce one of the most vibrant women of our times, Georgina Maitland.’
A panelled door to the right of the fireplace opened, and to warm applause, Georgina strode into the Meeting Room. She acknowledged the welcome with a beaming smile, although Tara thought the distortion of facial muscles made her look ten years older. In reality, she was little more than four years older than Tara. The reddish brown hair she’d noticed at their first meeting had grown such that, had it not been curled inwards at the bottom, it would have rested upon her shoulders. It looked perfectly smooth, and it shone beneath the bright candle bulbs of the room’s chandelier. She wore an exquisite metallic silver-blue dress, a slim fit that hung just below her knees. The silver strap-shoes seemed excessively high for a woman so tall, but she walked with confidence to take her place behind the lectern. Her smile remained on show until the applause subsided, and then she dropped her head to examine the few pages of notes she’d brought with her. Before she began, the door behind her opened once again, and Anthony Egerton-Hyde, in a plain dark suit and bright multi-coloured tie, made a less elaborate entrance and took a seat on the front row of chairs. Following him was a girl Tara remembered as Georgina’s PA, the plump Scottish red-head, Katrina. She tip-toed unnecessarily and took a seat between Egerton-Hyde and Marjorie Sheldon.
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