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  “I have not.”

  “God, what do they put in this? It’s like soggy cardboard. Here, let me have some of that bread.” She hacked off a slice, pulled a tub of margarine towards her and lifted the lid without enthusiasm. “What’s he taking you to?”

  “Ariadne auf Naxos at the Apollo.” The call from Christopher Cisar, asking her to go with him to the opera in Oxford on Friday evening, had been utterly unexpected. He had offered the invitation so smoothly, apologizing for the short notice and regretting that their conversation at the party had been overshadowed by the grisly discovery in the barn, that it would have seemed bad manners to refuse.

  “Ariadne what?”

  “Ariadne auf Naxos. Richard Strauss.”

  Bridget shrugged, admitting her ignorance of opera, and heaped jam on the thin layer of margarine she had spread on her bread. “What do you think all that was about?” she asked, changing the subject. “First they send someone along at twenty past nine in the morning, then they ring up and call him back when he hasn’t even finished taking my statement.”

  “Dunno.” Loretta lifted the cafetiere, unwilling to admit, even to Bridget, that she had almost been caught listening in to the detective’s conversation. “More coffee?”

  “Go on then—half a cup. I did say, you’re being very thorough, and he said, Oh, we take hundreds of statements on a case like this. I suppose they’re under pressure, especially with all this . . .” She picked up one of the newspapers which Loretta had reluctantly brought downstairs when Bridget suggested they share a late breakfast. “It’s Stephen,” she exclaimed, looking at it more closely. “I hardly recognized him.”

  “The best report’s in the Telegraph” Loretta said hastily as Bridget reached for Today. She could not now remember which tabloid had run the piece about the row in the English faculty, but she did not want Bridget to see it.

  “Fancy you buying the Torygraph” said Bridget, feeling for it near the bottom of the heap. “Right, let’s have a look.”

  “Inside. Page three.”

  “Got it.” Bridget finished her bread and licked jam off her fingers. “Blimey, I’m glad I don’t read this stuff every day. Fourteen-year-old girl strangled by stepfather to conceal sex abuse . . . Masked gunmen sought after gangland shooting at south London pub . . . Police seek van driver after stranded woman motorist attacked on the A34. You know, Sam’s been on at me to carry a can of what’s it called—mace. He’s always reading out pieces about sex attacks in the Oxford Times”

  “Isn’t it illegal in this country?”

  “Quite possibly, but the police aren’t exactly full of good ideas. They gave a talk for freshers this year, this WPC came along who’s been trained to deal with rape victims, and it was all about not walking home alone at night. One of my students got up and said how was she supposed to afford taxis with an eight-hundred-pound overdraft?” She shrugged her shoulders, grimaced and returned to her study of the paper. “Nothing here we don’t know already,” she said a moment later, throwing it down.

  “Except for the post-mortem—it’s this morning.” For the first time it occurred to Loretta that the two things might be connected, the pathologist’s report and DC Sidney’s recall to St. Aldates police station. Then she realized she had no idea how long a post-mortem lasted, which made speculation futile.

  “Time I got dressed. OK if I have a shower, Loretta? Sam should be here soon.”

  “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t telling the truth, actually, when I said I was asleep when he—when PC Plod banged on the door. I was a bit embarrassed, opening the door like this.” She gestured towards her night clothes. “Anyway, Sam’s taken the day off, they keep thinking up new questions and he said it seemed easier not to go in . . . I wonder how long it’s going to go on. It couldn’t have come at a worse moment, he’s so busy at work.” Her mood changed abruptly and her face crumpled. “Isn’t that callous? When that poor woman . . .” Her hands ranged over her hips, searching unsuccessfully for pockets and a handkerchief.

  “Here,” said Loretta, pulling off a square of kitchen paper and holding it out. “Use this.”

  Bridget took it and blew her nose hard. “Sorry,” she muttered, dabbing at her eyes. “Either I think about it and get upset, or I try not to and . . . Sam said why don’t we have lunch at Browns, take our minds off it—I said yes, but afterwards—”

  “Don’t you remember when my father died? You took me to that caff in St. Giles and I had a huge fry-up . . . I did nothing but eat junk food for about a week. There aren’t any rules for situations like this.”

  “Oh yes, there are,” Bridget contradicted. “Imagine what the papers’d make of it, Sam and me sitting in a restaurant the day after . . .”

  “It’s only Browns,” Loretta pointed out, guessing that Sam’s suggestion had been made, at least in part, because he wanted to have an hour or two alone with his wife. “It’s not exactly the Quat’ Saisons.”

  Bridget smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Loretta,” she said, coming round the table to hug her and kiss her cheek. “You always cheer me up. Listen, can I stay another night? Just till those reporters—Sam said a camera crew turned up this morning, before he was even dressed.”

  “Of course. There’s room for Sam as well if he likes.”

  “I’ll ask him . . . Can I borrow some shampoo?”

  “Mmm—in the bathroom.”

  Bridget went upstairs and Loretta poured out a cup of lukewarm coffee. She read her way through the Guardian, glancing without much interest at the media section until she came across a news item announcing that her ex-husband, John Tracey, had been nominated for an award for his coverage of events in Romania after the fall of the Ceauşescus. Loretta had not heard from Tracey for several months and she wondered whether she should send him a congratulatory postcard; he had seemed to want to keep her at arm’s length since their divorce, and the invitation she had been promised to his wedding to a Cypriot student had never materialized. She speculated on whether this unlikely union had ever taken place, flipping past adverts for assistant producers in BBC radio and researchers at Granada TV, until her attention was caught by a photo spread on the return of the bra on the women’s page. Cleavage was back, she read in the accompanying text, and sales of the Gossard Wonderbra were soaring. Frowning at pictures of pouting models in acrobatic poses and plunging necklines, Loretta lifted her hands and cupped her own small breasts, mocking the notion of putting them on display like two half-melons on a plate. She began to consider the possibility of a link between recession and conspicuous sexual display, thinking back to the thirties and Jean Harlow—

  “Lo-re-tta!” She swiveled her head in surprise as the muffled shout was followed by a staccato series of raps, both of them coming from the basement area beyond the kitchen windows. Sam Becker was trying the handle of the half-glazed door which provided access to the dustbins; as she got up he saw her face and immediately mimed an apology for startling her. She pointed to the mantelpiece, making a locking movement with her thumb and first finger, and he retreated to the steps, leaning against the railings with his hands in his pockets while she fetched the key.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to give you a fright,” he said as she let him in. “I tried the bell but nobody came.”

  “Oh—there’s a loose connection, I must get it fixed.” Loretta avoided his gaze, more embarrassed than alarmed; she was almost certain Sam had seen her sitting at the table with her hands on her breasts. What must he be thinking: that he had caught her in the early stages of some masturbatory ritual? “Um, why don’t you sit down? Bridget’s upstairs, she should be down any minute. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’ve been drinking it with the cops all morning. Those homicide guys have their own catering truck—”

  “Good God, how long are they planning to stay?”

  “They won’t say.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, throwing his head back and stretching his legs under t
he table in an attitude of exhaustion.

  “I mean, what do they expect to find?”

  He said offhandedly, shading his eyes with his hands and staring up at the ceiling: “Clothes, I guess—her purse, that kind of stuff.”

  “But surely you’d have noticed—”

  He yawned, buried his face in his hands and then jerked forward into a sitting position. “Sorry, Loretta, I’m bushed. Hi, hon,” he exclaimed, his face lighting up as Bridget walked into the kitchen. He got up and enfolded her in his arms, initiating a noisy display of mutual affection which made Loretta turn away and busy herself with filling the kettle.

  “Has Loretta told you her news?” Bridget extricated herself and grinned at her friend.

  “News?” Sam placed his arm lightly round his wife’s shoulders.

  “She’s going to the opera with Christopher Cisar. On Friday.”

  “She is?” He sounded surprised. “Sorry, Loretta, it’s kind of rude of us to stand here talking about you in the third person.”

  “Some German thing,” Bridget added.

  “Ariadne auf Naxos,” Loretta said quickly, switching on the kettle even though Sam had refused coffee. She had somehow forgotten he and Christopher were friends, that they might even discuss her between now and Friday. “I don’t think it’s performed very often,” she said in a rush, “I don’t even think I’ve heard it on record, though I did see Rosenkavalier in Amsterdam a couple of years ago.”

  Sam looked at his watch. “You ready, hon?”

  “Now? Isn’t it a bit early for lunch? My hair’s still damp.”

  “I told Elaine I’d call in at CES first, there are a couple of things I need to do.”

  “OK.” Bridget gave in easily, running her hands lightly over her stomach. She was wearing a dress Loretta had packed for her the day before, not a maternity dress but in the loose style she had favored since her pregnancy was confirmed; she would rather go naked, she had announced with typical hyperbole, than shop in Mothercare.

  “Hang on,” said Loretta, surprised by the speed of their departure. “What about your messages? I wrote some of them down there”—she pointed to a piece of paper by the phone—“and there’s a load more on the answering machine. Your mother rang again this morning.”

  Bridget immediately looked contrite, but a glance at Sam made up her mind. “I’ll have to speak to her later, I think Sam’s keen to leave.”

  “Sorry, Loretta,” he confirmed, drawing Bridget towards the stairs, “but I don’t have much time. Catch you later, maybe.” He steered Bridget out of the kitchen, leaving Loretta to stare after them with a feeling that her hospitality was being abused.

  “Wait a minute,” she called, taking the stairs two at a time. She caught up with them at the front door, explaining breathlessly that she had a dentist’s appointment that afternoon and Bridget would need a key to get back into the house. “There’s one in my desk, I’d better give it to you now.” She hurried into her study, resenting Sam’s unconcealed impatience, and searched for it among the half-used rolls of Sellotape, dried-up felt pens and foreign coins she regularly consigned to the bottom drawer. “Here it is,” she said eventually, returning to the hall. “I’ll be back about half four.”

  When they had gone she returned to her study, picked a couple of leaky biros out of the drawer and tossed them in the wastepaper basket. Her computer screen still displayed the incomplete text of her chapter on Charlotte Brontë, but a line had been added underneath, presumably by Bridget. “Great stuff,” Loretta read, “when can I see more of it?” Loretta frowned, disliking the idea of anyone, even her best friend, catching a glimpse of her work-in-progress, and deleted the sentence from the screen. After a moment she began to type, stopping occasionally to delete a word or phrase, until she reached a point where she needed to quote from Shirley. She was about to get the novel down from a shelf when the phone rang; Loretta ignored it, waiting for the answering machine to cut in, then changed her mind and picked it up.

  “Hello,” said an unfamiliar female voice, “is Dr. Bennett there?”

  “I’m sorry, you’ve just missed her.”

  “Hold on, please.” Loretta heard her confer with someone, then she said: “This is Professor Cromer’s secretary, he’s most anxious to speak to her.”

  “Well, she isn’t here and I’m not sure when she’ll be back.” Loretta bit her lip, thinking it unlikely that Donald Cromer, the warden of Bridget’s college, had got his secretary to call because he was worried about her wel-fare.

  “In that case I’d better leave you some numbers. Have you got a pen? Professor Cromer’s in New York at the moment, but he’s due in Washington this evening and he’s very keen to have a word with her.”

  “All right,” Loretta said meekly, and wrote them down. She returned the receiver to its rest, starting when it rang again almost immediately.

  “I don’t care when she’s supposed to go off shift, this is a murder inquiry,” a man’s voice snapped. “If she wants to work regular hours—Hello? Anybody there?”

  “Yes,” said Loretta, wondering what the police wanted this time.

  “That Dr. Bennett?”

  “No. She went out—oh, half an hour ago.”

  “Know where I can reach her?”

  “No, sorry.” Loretta did not really think the police would march into Browns, interrupting Bridget and Sam’s lunch with trivial questions, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Anyway, they probably hadn’t even arrived at the restaurant yet.

  “What about Mr. Becker, any idea where I can get hold of him?”

  “They, um, they went out together.” In the background Loretta could hear a phone ringing and someone using a manual typewriter slowly and inexpertly.

  “Get her to ring St. Aldates police station, will you? Soon as she gets in.”

  “All right. Who should she ask for?”

  “Sergeant Perrot. That’s P-E-double-R-O-T. Sergeant Perrot or DC Sidney.” The line went dead.

  Loretta added the names to the sheet of paper on which she had made a note of Cromer’s numbers, writing the single word URGENT in block capitals. She got up, intending to take the paper downstairs and leave it on the kitchen table where Bridget could not possibly miss it, then caught sight of the answering machine. At some point she would have to transcribe the messages from last night and this morning; with an exclamation of annoyance, and some harsh thoughts about Sam Becker, Loretta balanced herself on the arm of her chair, pressed the “play” key and picked up a pen to summarize a rambling message from the pleasant but scatty librarian of Bridget’s college.

  4

  “The Whole Conversation Was Terribly polite,” Bridget said glumly, playing with the biro she had been using to write out a diary of her movements for the police. “His end of it, that is. Difficult times, the college’s reputation, unwelcome press attention—what he was saying, in effect, was would I please keep away from his hallowed bloody portals while he tries to touch some tame millionaire for a new accommodation block. I mean, I can’t help it if the papers say where I work, can I? What really pissed me off, Loretta,” she went on, changing tack, “is that you were paying for the call. Twenty-five minutes to Washington—I dread to think how much it cost.”

  So did Loretta, who had been trying to reduce the size of her phone bills. Her only consolation was that she had been in bed by the time Bridget got hold of Donald Cromer, so the call would be charged at the cheaper rate. “How did you leave it? He hasn’t really banned you from college?”

  “Not in so many words.” She cocked her head, listening to the spluttering of Loretta’s front doorbell. “Oh, God, and I was going to ring Sam before they came. You ought to do something about that bell, Loretta. Ticking-off number two—you will stay with me, won’t you?”

  “Course,” Loretta said tiredly, getting up. “Don’t worry, she seemed quite human when she interviewed me on Sunday. If you explain—”

  “I already have. Are you going to let her
in?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m going.”

  When she opened the door the red-haired Inspector was facing away from the house, shaking rain off an umbrella, while a man in a leather jacket hung back beyond the railings, avoiding the flying drops.

  “Dr.—oh, it’s you, Dr. Lawson.” The Inspector acknowledged her with a curt nod. “Dr. Bennett’s expecting us, I think.”

  “Yes, come in.”

  “This is DC Harvey, by the way. I’ll leave this here, shall I?” She furled the umbrella and leaned it against a corner of the porch. “I don’t want to get your floor wet.”

  She strode past Loretta, her navy raincoat open over a paler blue suit, and peered into the drawing room. “Where is she?”

  “Downstairs. In the kitchen.” Loretta followed her, taken aback by the Inspector’s brisk, no-nonsense manner. The woman had been quite different on Sunday afternoon, relaxed, sympathetic—it was almost as if she’d assumed a different personality with her semi-official clothes. Perhaps Bridget was right, and the interview was going to be sticky after all.

  “Out of the way, puss,” the Inspector commanded as Loretta rounded the bend in the stairs. The cat protested volubly as she tried to dislodge him from the bottom stair with her high-heeled shoe, hunching himself into a solid mass and leaving her no choice but to step over him.

  Loretta stooped to give him a surreptitious caress as she passed, and the Inspector’s leather-jacketed sidekick almost fell over her. She muttered an apology, bumping her head on his chest as she sought to disentangle herself, and arrived in the kitchen uncomfortably aware of the pink glow on her cheeks. She slid past the Inspector, who was shaking hands with Bridget, and propped her-self against the sink to demonstrate her role as an observer rather than a participant in the proceedings. The Inspector shot her a questioning look as she sat down, more surprised than hostile, but Loretta pretended to be intent on her examination of a ragged fingernail.

  “So,” the woman began after a slightly uncomfortable pause. “I’m grateful to you for seeing us so early, Dr. Bennett. As I said on the phone, after your . . . conversation with my colleague, I’m hoping you’ll regard this as in the nature of a friendly chat. DC Harvey’s got something to show you but first . . .” She picked up Bridget’s discarded pen, drawing attention to her slim fingers and scarlet nails—Loretta didn’t think she’d been wearing nail polish on Sunday—then dropped it abruptly and looked Bridget full in the face. “Perhaps you don’t realize, Dr. Bennett, how your behavior looks to some of my colleagues? We are in the middle of a murder inquiry, a very serious matter indeed, and at this moment there are something like fifty officers . . .” She paused again, as if unsure how to proceed. Her hair looked darker, Loretta thought, in this low, rainy light—more auburn than red. “Some of my colleagues,” she went on, leaning back in her chair, “consider your behavior unhelpful if not downright obstructive. No, let me go on.”