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  “Where do I get a copy?”

  Bridget shrugged. “W. H. Smith’s? Unless Loretta’s got one?”

  Loretta glanced towards her study. “I did, but I don’t know where I would have put it. Haven’t you seen it?” she asked, seeing Sam’s incomprehension. “It’s a student guide to Oxford, I usually get it for the list of restaurants. You know, if you want to know the best West Indian restaurant in Cowley Road, that sort of thing.” The reference to food jogged her memory and she looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t we eat? After all, we know she—” She hesitated, realizing they had tacitly adopted this distancing mechanism when referring to the dead woman and feeling uncomfortable with it. “We know the—the victim isn’t in it and we can always watch the rest later.”

  “Thank God,” said Bridget, following Loretta’s lead. She reached for her almost empty glass of Aqua Libra and nudged Sam, who was sitting beside her with a faraway look on his face. “Come on,” she said, “food. Junior’s getting restive.”

  Loretta, who had never expected to hear arch remarks of this sort from Bridget, felt Tracey’s gaze upon her as she stood up and deliberately avoided his eye. “Bring your glasses,” she instructed, picking up the bottle and moving to the door.

  Downstairs in the kitchen she went to the hob, turned up the flame under the pasta cooker to bring it to a rolling boil and returned the tuna sauce to the neighboring ring. She lifted the lid and was favorably impressed by the color and aroma of the contents, which she stirred gently with a wooden spoon. A noise from the dining room made her turn and she was just in time to see the gray cat, poised on the edge of the table with a slice of prosciutto dangling from his mouth.

  “Bertie!” He growled as she rushed towards him, leaping from the table with an awkward motion which upset a bowl of fresh figs and sent them crashing to the floor. Loretta watched his tail vanish under the descending cat flap, leaving behind the spilt fruit and a ragged slice of meat which was all that remained of her lovingly prepared first course.

  “Four basic course modules of two terms each—Shakespeare, The Novel, Major Poets, and Use of English. Is that agreed?” Bernard Shilling, head of the English department, removed his glasses and surveyed his staff. There was no verbal response from the lecturers slumped around the rectangular table in their usual postures of indifference, resentment and despair; Bernard looked down at his notes, creating an interval of silence which was quickly broken by murmurs of discontent and the noisy repositioning of chairs.

  “Major Poets,” Digby Richards whispered, nudging Loretta in the ribs as a preamble to one of his bad jokes. “I told you it was political.”

  “Digby? Did you want to say something?” Shilling pounced on the one member of staff he disliked as much as Loretta.

  “These Major Poets, Bernard,” Digby responded innocently, exaggerating his South African accent. “I was wondering if you could give us an indication of who they might be.”

  Bernard’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “I’m sure we have the expertise to draw up a list, when the time comes. In consultation with the sponsor, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Bernard felt in his waistcoat pocket and took out an elaborately engraved fob watch. He frowned, shook it and held it to his ear, unwilling to admit that it had stopped working and he had no idea what time it was. It was a curious fact, much discussed in the department, that his relentless drive towards what he called “modernization” had been accompanied by a sartorial regression to dandyism which expressed itself in tweeds, brogues and side whiskers—a subconscious admission, Digby said, that the driving force behind all the jargon was a complete capitulation to Victorian values.

  Bernard put on his glasses, glanced furtively at the pink Swatch watch worn by the woman on his right and shuffled his papers. “If that’s all, I’d like to move on to the subsidiary modules which, on the face of it, present more of a problem. I’ve examined all the teaching currently done in the department and I have to say that in an ideal world I would find some of it hard to justify—very hard indeed,” he finished, removing the glasses again and glaring at Loretta and Digby. “The days are gone,” he continued, “when educational institutions could afford to construct a curriculum based haphazardly on the research interests and career ambitions of individual members of staff . . . Indeed I would go as far as to say that what has gone on in certain university departments in recent decades amounts to a fraud on the young people entrusted to them and on the taxpayer.” He stopped, daring the glum faces round the table to mount a challenge.

  “In the modern world,” he intoned, “with fierce competition for limited resources, I consider it no bad thing that we should all be asked to justify ourselves, to explain why Subject A should be taught rather than Subject B when Subject A is esoteric and of no obvious relevance. To that end, I have drawn up a questionnaire for each of you”—he reached for a pile of A4 sheets on the desk behind him—“which Mrs. Whittaker has kindly photocopied and I shall now pass round. You’ll see that you are asked to provide a brief description of the courses you currently teach, the number of students who’ve opted for each course in the last three years, a breakdown of the class of degree obtained by those students, and an explanation of the relevance of the subject in the light of current educational parameters.”

  There was silence for a moment as the questionnaire was handed from person to person and the nine lecturers—the entire staff of the English department except for two lucky individuals who happened to be on holiday—absorbed its contents. It resembled a flow chart, Loretta thought, with boxes to be ticked and key words underlined; she picked up a pen and, heedless of the consequences, scribbled the title of her course on Edith Wharton, Henry James and the American novel followed by the words “useful background reading—Merchant-Ivory films.”

  “Not now, Loretta,” Bernard said testily as she began filling in a second box. “I’m assuming some of you will have to check with Mrs. Whittaker if your own records aren’t up to date. Yes, Michael?” He turned to deal with a query from the other side of the table and Loretta threw down her pen, recalling the rumor which had flashed round the department at the end of the summer term to the effect that departing third-years were going to be asked to evaluate the performance of their lecturers on a scale of one to five. It was Bernard’s attempt to show his enthusiasm for the government’s new, consumerist approach to education, Digby told her at the time, but she had refused to believe him. Now it seemed all too likely that the rumor was true, and that she was at the mercy of kids like the pouting blonde twins who had unaccountably signed up for her Virginia Woolf seminars. Loretta remembered her mortgage and had to stifle a moment’s panic, telling herself she wasn’t out of a job yet, but Bridget’s suggestion that she stand in for her at St. Frideswide’s during the autumn term suddenly seemed like a lifeline.

  “Bernard,” a voice said tentatively, and she looked up to see Chloë Calder sitting back in her chair, holding the questionnaire away from her so she could read it over the top of her half-moon glasses. Chloë was in her fifties, clever but unworldly, and Loretta listened with dismay as she proceeded to spring the trap Bernard had set for opponents of his commercially sponsored two-year degree course. “Bernard,” she said again in her hesitant upper-middle-class voice, “Chaucer has no industrial or professional application. That is, one might argue, one of his chief virtues.”

  Loretta and Digby exchanged anguished looks as Bernard squared his shoulders and entered the fray. “May I remind you, Dr. Calder, that one of the purposes of this exercise is to increase student numbers by making ourselves as attractive as possible to potential sponsors? If the two-year accelerated degree course is to work, we have to persuade industry that we at Fitzroy College do not have an outmoded, ivory-tower mentality . . . One of the worries most frequently expressed by the companies I’ve been talking to is whether their management trainees would retain a commitment—” The door opened and Mrs. Whittaker, the department secretary, insinu
ated herself into the room. Bernard said testily: “Yes, Margaret, what is it?”

  The secretary, mortified at having occasioned his anger, turned to glare at Loretta. “Phone call for Dr. Lawson—I did say she’s in a meeting but the caller insists it’s urgent.”

  Bernard tutted. “This is the vacation, Loretta, you’re only being asked to sacrifice one afternoon to discuss the future of this department. All right, Mrs. Whittaker, you may go. Loretta, could you be as quick as possible?”

  Loretta pushed back her chair and left the room, closing the door as Bernard launched into an account of a meeting he’d recently had with senior management at Marks and Spencer.

  “Who is it?” she called after the secretary’s disapproving back, following her into the department office.

  “A Dr. Bennett.”

  Loretta seized the phone. “Bridget? What’s happened?”

  There was a snuffling noise at the other end and Bridget said in a small voice: “I’m at the police station, St. Aldates, they sent a car for me. Please, Loretta, you’ve got to help me.”

  “Where’s Sam? Your solicitor—is he with you?”

  “No. I can’t talk, I’m not alone. Loretta, can you come?”

  Mrs. Whittaker was watching her and Loretta pointedly turned her back. “They haven’t—they haven’t said anything about charging you?”

  “No.” Her voice got even smaller. “But I’m scared . . . they’re listening, Loretta.”

  Loretta made up her mind. “OK, the next train’s at twenty past four, I might just make it. What about the solicitor? Have you called him?”

  Bridget whispered: “No, because of Sam. I don’t want him to find out . . .”

  “All right, I’m on my way.” She added the only advice she could think of: “Say nothing, nothing at all. They haven’t changed the law yet and you have a right to silence. I have to go now or I’ll miss my train.”

  She put the phone down and strode to the open door, turning at the last minute to address Mrs. Whittaker. “I have to go back to Oxford, could you tell Bernard—” She felt for her bag, remembered she had left it hanging over the back of her chair in the seminar room and added: “Never mind, I’ll tell him myself.”

  She hurried out of the room and along the corridor, sliding into the meeting as quietly as possible and circling the table until she came to her chair.

  Bernard glared. “Sit down, Loretta, we’re just about to—”

  “Sorry.” She grabbed her bag and swung it onto her shoulder. “I have to go back to Oxford.”

  “Oxford?”

  “I do live there,” she snapped, hardly registering a sympathetic wink from Digby Richards as she backed out of the room. In the corridor she broke into a run, narrowly avoiding a collision with a dark-haired woman as she hurled herself through the swing doors at the far end. Out in the street she spotted a cab bowling along in the wrong direction and waved frantically just the same.

  “Paddington Station,” she cried, throwing herself inside and falling back against the worn upholstery as the driver performed a violent U-turn. The taxi sped towards Euston Road and Loretta checked her watch in the hope that she would arrive at the station in time to phone Tracey at his hotel. It did not look very hopeful and she slumped sideways against the window as the taxi stopped at a red light, staring out with a fluttering anxiety which seemed to place an invisible barrier between herself and the outside world. A young couple strolled past, arms entwined in the summer sunshine, and as she watched the boy bent to snatch a kiss with a careless grace which reminded her of a Doisneau photograph.

  The light changed to green and the cab lurched forward, leaving the lovers behind. Loretta swiveled her head to catch a glimpse of them through the rear window but they were gone, into a shop or a side turning. An abandoned newspaper skittered across the pavement, blowing against the ankles of a middle-aged man who kicked it aside with hardly a break in his stride. Loretta sagged against the backseat, resting her chin on her out-stretched arm, and only then remembered that her questionnaire was still lying on the table in Bernard’s office, her childish attempt at sarcasm visible to anyone curious enough to pick it up.

  9

  The Concourse At Oxford Station Was teeming with people, the automatic doors from Platform One blocked by a party of teenagers whose luggage, flung down in a sprawling heap, constituted an obstacle course of bulging holdalls and trailing straps. Loretta picked her way through it, skirted the small group of people clustered below the TV monitor displaying departure and arrival times and made her way to the phones. Most of them took cards, not cash, and the few pay phones were in use, with half a dozen people waiting impatiently to use them. Loretta screwed up her face, debating whether to join the queue or go to the newsagent’s at the far end of the cavernous station building and buy a phone card. A hand seized her arm and she twisted away, incomprehension replacing alarm as she exclaimed: “John! What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.” He took her arm again, gently but firmly, and started to lead her away from the polyglot babble of voices explaining why they were late, issuing instructions to their secretaries and cooing into their loved ones’ answering machines.

  She hung back, protesting: “I don’t understand, I was going to call you.”

  “If you’re worried about Bridget, she’s all right. I gave her a lift to your place.”

  “You did?” It took Loretta a moment to adjust to this new situation, in which the rescue mission she had nervously rehearsed on the hour-long journey from Paddington was no longer needed. Relief flooded through her and she began eagerly: “Does that mean—”

  Tracey stopped her. “Not here. Let’s find somewhere to talk. There’s a snack bar place at the other end, it doesn’t look much but at least we can get a cup of tea.” He propelled her through the crowds, his expression grim, and relaxed his grip only when she made it clear she was not going to bolt out of the building. As they joined the short queue in the snack bar he looked about him and said: “What happened to the old station?”

  “What? Oh, they pulled it down.”

  Tracey inspected the few bits of food remaining in the glass display cabinets, a couple of plastic-wrapped sandwiches and some lurid pizza portions. “Two teas,” he said doubtfully to the woman at the till, “One black. And a packet of biscuits.”

  “What sort?”

  Tracey shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I missed lunch,” he explained to Loretta, feeling in his trouser pocket and drawing out a couple of pound coins.

  “I’ll grab a table,” she said as a train drew into the station and there was a stirring among the blue Formica tables. She zigzagged through the seating area, threw her bag down on a seat and cleared the table of a random assortment of empty cups, hamburger containers and a half-eaten chocolate brownie. She looked for a bin, couldn’t see one, and had no choice but to heap the rubbish on one side of the small table.

  “Christ,” said Tracey, joining her, “what a dump! But we can’t talk at your place and I didn’t think you’d want to go back to the Randolph.” He sat down, tried to move his chair nearer to the table and discovered it was fixed to the floor. An expression of disgust crossed his face and he eased the lid from one of the Styrofoam cups he had brought with him, tossing it to one side and tearing open the packet of biscuits. “Brontë?” he queried, reading the manufacturer’s name on the cellophane wrapper. “I didn’t know they made biscuits. Want one?”

  Loretta shook her head. “Has Bridget—did she ask you to come?”

  The biscuits were friable and he wiped crumbs from his mouth before answering. “Not exactly. I’d arranged to see this DS who’s dealing with the press and when I got to the station she was just coming out of the main door. White as a sheet and looking like she might keel over any minute, so I got her into the car and took her back to your place. Has she seen a doctor lately? I don’t know much about pregnant women but for a moment there I thought we were looking at a miscarriage . . . I tried t
o get a message to you, save you rushing back, but that old bat who answers the phone—” He paused for her to fill in the blank in his memory.

  “Mrs. Whittaker.”

  “That’s the one. She informed me in her usual dulcet tones you were no longer in the building so I went back to the nick, then set off to meet you. I’d forgotten about that bloody awful one-way system.” He remembered something and his forehead creased anxiously. “By the way, those notices in the car park, the ones that say twenty minutes only on station business. They don’t wheel-clamp you or anything? I don’t mind the odd ticket but I haven’t got time to hang around getting the car undamped.”

  Loretta shrugged, unaware that there was such a notice; she rarely drove to the station and almost never parked there. Tracey shook his head and finished his second biscuit, washing it down with tea and taking out his cigarettes. He saw her face and added: “Sorry, Loretta, but it’s so smoky in here another one won’t make any difference.”

  She looked away, her gaze coming to rest on a youth of eighteen or nineteen at a nearby table. He was gaunt and unnaturally pale, his pallor emphasized by an all-black outfit of jeans and leather jacket, and his hunched posture reminded her of the boy in a government antiheroin poster. Across the table Tracey inhaled deeply and she turned back, observing his half-closed eyes and the almost sensual look of pleasure which came over his face as smoke filled his lungs. She shifted uncomfortably, disturbed by this unsought exposure to other people’s addictions, and reached across to touch his arm. “But you said—they have at least let her go.”

  Tracey didn’t answer at once but peered round for an ashtray, eventually tapping a trembling column of ash into an empty hamburger box. “They’re building a case,” he said in a flat voice, not looking at her. “They’re not there yet but what they have got . . .” He paused, examining the glowing tip of his cigarette as though it was an object of rare interest. “They didn’t bring her in just for the fun of it,” he began again. “They’ve got a witness who was in the Bodleian that day and he says she was there for an hour at most.”