Zoe didn’t reply. Fosca stared at her.
“Zoe? Are we okay? God knows we have enough to deal with right now—without you suspecting me of something like this.”
Zoe looked up and stared at him. She slowly nodded.
“We’re fine,” she said.
“Good.” But he didn’t look entirely satisfied. “I have to go. I’ll see you later. Look after yourself, okay?”
Fosca glanced at Mariana for the first time, acknowledging her with a brief nod. Then he turned and walked away, vanishing behind a column.
There was a pause. Zoe turned to Mariana. She looked apprehensive.
“Well?” she said, with a slight sigh. “What now?”
Mariana thought for a second. “I’m going to talk to Conrad.”
“But how? You heard the Inspector.”
Mariana didn’t reply. She caught sight of Julian Ashcroft leaving the dean’s office. She watched him walk across the courtyard.
She nodded to herself. “I have an idea,” she said.
16
Later that afternoon, Mariana managed to see Conrad Ellis at the police station.
“Hello, Conrad,” she said. “I’m Mariana.”
Conrad had been arrested immediately following his interview with Chief Inspector Sangha—the police were confident he was their man, despite a lack of evidence, circumstantial or otherwise.
Tara was last seen alive at eight o’clock by the head porter, Mr. Morris, who saw her leave college by the main gate. And Conrad said he was waiting for Tara at his flat, but she never turned up—although there was only Conrad’s word for this; he had no alibi for the entire evening.
No murder weapon was discovered at his flat, despite a thorough search. And his clothes and other belongings were taken away for forensic testing, in the hope they would provide something to link Conrad to the murder.
To Mariana’s surprise, Julian readily agreed to help her see him.
“I can get you in on my pass,” Julian said. “I need to do the psych evaluation anyway, and you can observe, if you want.” Then he winked at her. “As long as Sangha doesn’t catch us.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
Julian seemed to enjoy the subterfuge. They entered the police station, and he winked at her as he requested Conrad Ellis be brought up from the cells.
A few minutes later, they were sitting with Conrad in the interview room. It was a cold room, windowless, airless. It was unpleasant to be in—but presumably that was the point.
“Conrad, I’m a psychotherapist,” said Mariana. “I’m also Zoe’s aunt. You know Zoe, don’t you? At St. Christopher’s?”
Conrad looked confused for a second; then there was a dim light in his eyes and he nodded absently. “Zoe—Tara’s mate?”
“That’s right. She wants you to know how sorry she is—about Tara.”
“She’s all right, Zoe … I like her. She’s not like the others.”
“The others?”
“Tara’s mates.” Conrad pulled a face. “I call them the witches.”
“Really? You don’t like her friends?”
“It’s me they don’t like.”
“Why is that?”
Conrad shrugged. Blank, expressionless. Mariana had been hoping to get some kind of emotional response from him, something that would help her read him better—but none came. She was reminded of her patient Henry. He had that same clouded look, from years of relentless alcohol and drug abuse.
Conrad’s appearance went against him—that was part of the problem. He was lumbering, huge, heavily tattooed. And yet Zoe was right; there was a niceness to him, a gentleness. When he spoke, his speech was slow and confused; he didn’t seem quite clear about what was happening to him.
“I don’t understand—why do they think I hurt her? I didn’t hurt her. I love—loved her.”
Mariana glanced at Julian to see his reaction. He didn’t look remotely moved. He proceeded to ask Conrad all kinds of intrusive questions about his life and his upbringing—the longer it went on, the more torturous the interview became, the blacker things looked for Conrad.
And all the more Mariana felt he was innocent. He wasn’t lying; this man was heartbroken. At one point, exhausted by Julian’s questioning, he broke down, held his head in his hands—and quietly wept.
At the end of the interview, Mariana spoke again.
“Do you know Professor Fosca?” she asked. “Tara’s tutor?”
“Yeah.”
“And how did you know him? Through Tara?”
He nodded. “I scored for him a few times.”
Mariana blinked. She glanced at Julian. “You mean drugs?”
“What kind?” asked Julian.
He shrugged. “Depends what he wanted.”
“So you saw him regularly? Professor Fosca?”
Another shrug. “Often enough.”
“What did you make of his relationship with Tara? Did it seem in any way strange to you?”
“Well,” Conrad said with a shrug, “I mean, he fancied her, didn’t he?”
Mariana exchanged a glance with Julian.
“Did he?”
Mariana was going to press him further, but Julian abruptly ended the interview. He said he had enough to make his report.
“I hope you found that informative,” said Julian as they left the station. “Quite a performance, don’t you think?”
Mariana looked at him with astonishment. “He didn’t fake that. He’s not capable of faking it.”
“Trust me, Mariana, the tears are all an act. Or else it’s self-pity. I’ve seen it all before. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you realize every case is depressingly similar.”
She looked at him. “You don’t think it’s concerning—that he sold Professor Fosca drugs?”
Julian dismissed it with a shrug. “Buying a little weed every now and then doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“And what about Conrad saying Fosca fancied her?”
“What if he did? By all accounts, she was gorgeous. You knew her, didn’t you? What was she doing with that moron?”
Mariana shook her head sadly. “I imagine Conrad was simply a means to an end.”
“Drugs?”
Mariana sighed and nodded.
Julian glanced at her.
“Come on. I’ll drive you back—unless you fancy a drink?”
“I can’t, I have to get back to college. They’re holding a special service for Tara at six.”
“Well, one evening, I hope?” He winked. “You owe me, remember? Tomorrow?”
“I won’t be here, I’m afraid—I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Okay, we’ll work something out. I can hunt you down in London if necessary.”
Julian laughed—but not, Mariana noticed, with his eyes. They remained cold, hard, unkind. There was something about the way he looked at her that made Mariana feel distinctly uncomfortable.
She was rather relieved when they got back to St. Christopher’s, and she could make her escape.
17
At six o’clock, a special service for Tara was held in the chapel.
The college chapel had been constructed in 1612 from stone and timber. There was an ebony marble floor; stained-glass windows in vibrant blues and reds and greens, illustrating incidents from the life of St. Christopher; and a high molded ceiling decorated with heraldic shields and Latin mottos painted in gold.
The pews were packed with fellows and students. Mariana and Zoe sat near the front. Tara’s parents were sitting with the dean and the master.
Tara’s parents, Lord and Lady Hampton, had flown down from Scotland to identify the body. Mariana imagined how their minds must have tortured them all the way from their remote country estate; the long drive to Edinburgh Airport, then the flight to Stansted, giving them time to think—hope and fear and worry—before a final trip to the mortuary in Cambridge cruelly resolved their suspense: reuniting them with their daughter—and showing
them what had happened to her.
Lord and Lady Hampton sat rigidly; their faces were white, contorted—frozen. Mariana watched them with fascination—she remembered that feeling: like being plunged into a freezer, icy cold, numb with shock. It didn’t last long—and it was a blessed state compared with what came next, when the frost melted and the shock wore off, and they began to experience the enormity of their loss.
Mariana saw Professor Fosca appear in the chapel. He walked down the aisle, followed by a group of six distinctive young women—distinctive because they were all extremely beautiful and because they were all dressed in long white dresses. They walked with an air of self-assurance, and also self-consciousness, aware they were being watched. The other students stared as they passed.
Were these Tara’s friends, Mariana wondered, who Conrad disliked so much? The “witches”?
A somber silence fell upon the mourners as the service began. Accompanied by the pipe organ, a procession of choirboys, wearing red cassocks with white lace ruffs around their necks, sang a Latin hymn by candlelight, their angelic voices spiraling into the dark.
This was not a funeral; the actual burial would take place in Scotland. There was no body here to mourn. Mariana thought of that poor broken girl lying alone in the morgue.
And she couldn’t help but remember how her lover had been returned to her, on a concrete slab in the hospital in Naxos. Sebastian’s body was still wet when she saw him, dripping water onto the floor, with sand in his hair and eyes. There were holes in his skin, small chunks of flesh bitten off by fish. And one of his fingertips was missing, claimed by the sea.
As soon as Mariana saw this lifeless, waxy corpse, she knew at once it wasn’t Sebastian. It was just a shell. Sebastian was gone—but where?
In the days after his death, Mariana was numb. She remained in a prolonged state of shock, unable to accept what had happened—or believe it. It seemed impossible that she would never see him again, never hear his voice, never feel his touch.
Where is he? she kept thinking. Where’s he gone?
And then, as reality began to sink in, she had a kind of delayed breakdown—and, like a dam breaking, all her tears came rushing forth, a waterfall of grief, washing away her life and who she thought she was.
And then—came the anger.
A burning rage, a blind fury—which threatened to consume her and anyone near her. For the first time in her life, Mariana wanted to cause actual physical pain—she wanted to lash out and hurt someone, herself mostly.
She blamed herself—of course she did. She’d insisted they go to Naxos; if they’d stayed in London, as Sebastian had wanted, he would still be alive.
And she blamed Sebastian too. How dare he be so reckless; how dare he go out swimming in that weather, be so careless with his life—and with hers?
Mariana’s days were bad; her nights were worse. At first, combining enough alcohol and sleeping pills bought her a kind of temporary, medicated refuge; albeit with recurring nightmares filled with disasters like sinking ships, train crashes, and floods. She’d dream of endless journeys—expeditions through desolate arctic landscapes, trudging through icy winds and snow, searching endlessly for Sebastian but never finding him.
Then, the pills stopped working and she would lie awake until three or four in the morning—lie there longing for him, with nothing to quench her thirst but her memories projected against the darkness: flickering images of their days together, their nights, their winters and summers. Finally, driven half mad with grief and lack of sleep, she went back to her doctor. As it was obvious she had been abusing the sleeping pills, Dr. Beck refused to write her another prescription. Instead, he suggested a change of scene.
“You’re a wealthy woman,” he said—adding callously, “with no children to support. Why not go abroad? Travel? See the world?”
Considering the last trip Dr. Beck had sent Mariana on had ended in the death of her husband, she elected not to follow his advice. Instead, she retreated to her imagination.
She would shut her eyes and think of the ruined temple on Naxos—the dirty white columns against the blue sky—and remember her whispered prayer to the Maiden—for their happiness, for their love.
Was that her mistake? Had the goddess somehow been offended? Was Persephone jealous? Or perhaps she fell for that handsome man at first sight, and claimed him, as she herself had once been claimed, taking him to the Underworld?
This seemed easier to bear, somehow—blaming Sebastian’s death on the supernatural, on the capricious whim of a goddess. The alternative—that it was meaningless, random, signifying nothing … was more than she could bear.
Stop it, she thought. Stop, stop it. She could feel pathetic, self-pitying tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away. She didn’t want to break down, not here. She had to get out of here, out of the chapel.
“I need some air,” she whispered to Zoe.
Zoe nodded, and gave her hand a quick, supportive squeeze. Mariana got up, and hurried outside.
As she left the dimly lit and crowded chapel, emerging into the empty courtyard, she felt an immediate sense of relief.
There was no one in sight. Main Court was silent and still. It was dark, apart from the tall lampposts spaced out through the courtyard—their lanterns were glowing in the darkness, with halos around them. A heavy mist was seeping in from the river, creeping through the college.
Mariana wiped away her tears. She looked up at the sky. All the stars, invisible in London, shone here so brightly—billions of shimmering diamonds, in an infinite blackness.
He must be there, somewhere.
“Sebastian?” she whispered. “Where are you?”
She listened and watched, and waited for some kind of sign—for a shooting star, or a cloud passing in front of the moon—something; anything.
But there was nothing.
Only darkness.
18
After the service, people mingled outside in the courtyard, talking in small groups. Mariana and Zoe stood apart from the others, and Mariana quickly told Zoe about her visit to Conrad, and that she agreed with her assessment.
“You see?” Zoe said. “Conrad is innocent. He didn’t do it. We have to help him somehow.”
“I don’t know what else we can do,” said Mariana.
“We have to do something. I’m pretty sure Tara was sleeping with someone else. Apart from Conrad. She hinted at it a couple of times … Maybe there’s a clue on her phone? Or her laptop? Let's try and get into her room—”
Mariana shook her head. “We can't do that, Zoe.”
“Why not?”
“I think we need to leave all that to the police.”
“But you heard the inspector. They’re not looking—they made up their minds. We need to do something.” She sighed heavily. “I wish Sebastian was here. He’d know what to do.”
Mariana accepted the implied rebuke. “I wish he were here too.” She paused. “I was thinking. How about you come back to London with me for a few days?”
She knew, as soon as she said this, that it was the wrong thing to say. Zoe stared at her with a look of astonishment.
“What?”
“It might help, to get away.”
“I can’t just run away. That won’t make any difference. Do you think that’s what Sebastian would say?”
“No,” said Mariana, suddenly feeling irritated. “But I’m not Sebastian.”
“No,” said Zoe, mirroring her irritation. “You’re not. Sebastian would want you to stay. That’s what he’d say.”
Mariana didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she decided to voice something—a worry that had been bothering her since their phone call last night.
“Zoe. Are you sure … you’re telling me everything?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. About this—about Tara. I keep thinking—I can’t escape the feeling you’re holding something back.”
Zoe shook her head. “No, noth
ing.”
She looked away. Mariana had a continuing feeling of doubt. It concerned her.
“Zoe. Do you trust me?”
“Don’t even ask that.”
“Then listen. This is important. There’s something you’re not telling me. I can tell. I can sense it. So trust me. Please—”
Zoe hesitated, then weakened. “Mariana, listen—”
But then, glancing over Mariana’s shoulder, Zoe saw something—something that silenced her. A strange, fearful look flashed into Zoe’s eyes for a second—and then it was gone. She turned back to Mariana and shook her head. “There’s—nothing. Honest.”
Mariana turned to see what Zoe had seen. And there, standing by the chapel entrance, were Professor Fosca and his entourage—the beautiful girls in white dresses, deep in whispered conversation.
Fosca was lighting a cigarette. His eyes met Mariana’s through the smoke—and they stared at each other for a second.
Then the professor left the group and walked over to them, smiling. Mariana heard Zoe sigh slightly under her breath as he approached.
“Hello,” he said when he reached them. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself before. I’m Edward Fosca.”
“I’m Mariana—Andros.” She hadn’t meant to use her maiden name. It just came out like that. “I’m Zoe’s aunt.”
“I know who you are. Zoe has told me about you. I’m very sorry about your husband.”
“Oh,” said Mariana, taken aback. “Thank you.”
“And I’m sorry for Zoe,” he said, glancing at her. “Having lost her uncle, and now having to grieve all over again for Tara.”
Zoe didn’t answer; she just shrugged, evading Fosca’s eyes.
There was something not being said by Zoe here—something being avoided. She’s afraid of him, Mariana suddenly thought. Why?
Mariana didn’t find Fosca remotely threatening. To her, he seemed completely genuine, and sympathetic. He gave her a heartfelt look. “I’m so sorry for all the students,” he said. “This will devastate the whole year—if not the entire college.”
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