A Matter of Trust (26 page)

The younger man shook his head. ‘No,
Faisal.
I mean, why did you give her
that
particular bomb? Farquar said he wasn't sure that it would work properly. It was a new design. It hasn't even been tested.'

Slowly Faisal began to smile. ‘That was why I gave her that particular bomb, my little pomegranate!' he laughed, turning to caress the handsome man's cheek gently. ‘Now it will have its field test. And if it doesn't work and explodes when she sets it, well, none of us need get hurt. And if it doesn't perform as it should . . .' he shrugged. ‘Well, it will be no skin off our noses, will it? Hum?'

And he leaned forward and kissed the younger man on the lips.

He took this politely, but when his cell leader moved away, he surreptitiously rubbed his mouth with the back of his hands.

But he knew he would die for Faisal. Because Faisal had just shown why he was a cell leader. He was clever, and unscrupulous, and could turn any situation into their advantage.

The cause was lucky to have him.

*           *           *

Outside, in the darkness, the car bomb in her handbag, Rosemary drove towards St Bede's.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Nesta stretched on the uncomfortable couch, and reached for her notebook. Outside it was fully dark, and the orange streetlights filtered through her thin curtains, casting an eerie orange glow around the shabby room.

She tucked her legs more comfortably beneath her, and shivered a little. She looked around her for her coat, then shook her head. Shivering a little in her cold bedsit was one thing—just a trifle sad. But hunched up in a coat in her bedsit was bordering on the pathetic! She laughed, but only, she admitted to herself with scrupulous honesty, because she had a way out. Soon, she knew, Lisle was going to ask her to move in with him permanently. Or perhaps suggest that they go house-hunting together.

She'd never been so sure of anything in her life.

She tapped her pen thoughtfully against her notebook, but thoughts of her father, and his cheating supervisor were, for once, a long way off.

Lisle.

To think that one man could change your life forever, and with just—what? A look? A word? She didn't know. She only knew she was no longer the same person who'd left Durham
just
a few weeks ago. Then she'd been this young girl who knew nothing of life. She'd just graduated with a B.A. in psychology, but what did she really know about herself?

She thought she'd been given a raw deal, a man who'd cheated on her. But people often said that first love was the hardest. Except, of course, she knew now that it hadn't been love. Or at least, not the same kind of love as the love she'd found with an Oxfordshire copper.

She thought then that she'd been alone. Now, she knew she would never be alone again. First there would be Lisle. Then, a few years down the road, children. Then, decades later, when the children had left, it would be just Lisle and herself. Then, after that grandchildren. Then old age, together. What more could she ask for?

Two weeks ago the thought of all that would have seemed as alien to her as living on the moon. Now she knew that it was really going to happen. Here, in her cold old besit, she could see her future as clearly as she could see her own reflection in a mirror.

She sighed blissfully, and settled down to think about Lisle. And she couldn't think of a better way to pass a dark winter afternoon. She hoped this rosy first glow of new love would last for a good long while, but she was not afraid of the day when it would eventually fade, because she knew that what would replace it would be stronger, more enduring.

She
remembered walking in and finding him, pacing about, a ferocious look on his face. Why had he demanded to know,
again,
about her relationship with Sir Vivian? Obviously, something more must have happened in the murder case. Frowning thoughtfully, she got up to check the downstairs hall. Sure enough, a local paper had been delivered. As far as she could tell, her fellow tenants treated the papers that were delivered more or less as communal property. First to get them read them, then put them back on the table in the hall for the others to grab.

She glanced at her watch and saw it was barely twenty to five. The others wouldn't start straggling in from work for another half hour. So she didn't feel too guilty about snaffling a quick peek. She skipped lightly down the uneven stairs and gathered up the
Oxford Mail
. Back in her room, she settled back in her sofa, and unfolded it.

As expected, Sir Vivian's murder was still the top story, and the first page screamed the progress, setback, and fortunes of the case. Apparently, one of the psychology Dons at St Bede's, a Dr Callum Fielding, had been questioned and released.

Nesta frowned, and quickly she read the front page blurb.

Dr Callum Fielding, (pictured right) was unavailable for comment this morning, when we
went
to his College to ask him about the events concerning Sir Vivian Dalrymple's death.

Mystery still surrounds his five-hour long interview at Kidlington Police Headquarters with Detective Inspector Lisle Jarvis and another police officer.

A spokesman for the Kendall family has made it clear that the Kendall Prize, awarded to Dr Fielding at the Dinner which the murder victim attended, is in no way linked to the tragic events of later that night.

Dr Fielding is a well-known friend and colleague of the murder victim, Sir Vivian Dalrymple, who was killed on the night of the 4th, after leaving a Dinner held in St Bede's. He was on the short-list for the Kendall in psychology, along with others, including Dr Julie Ngabe, and Dr. Felicity Ollenbach. Dr Fielding was named as the winner of the Prize at a special announcement at Dinner at High Table in Hall.

This was followed by the fateful cocktail party in the SCR. It was just after leaving this prestigious affair, hosted by the famous supermodel Marcheta, that Sir Vivian was attacked and killed. So far, the police have made no arrests, although a rival paper mistakenly printed that Dr Fielding had been arrested for the crime.

In fact, we can confirm that Dr Fielding was released, after questioning, without charge.

This did not stop Marcheta (pictured below) from issuing a statement to the Press via her PR
Company,
the moment the false reports of his arrest had been printed.

However, we have heard from several sources that Marcheta was outraged at the police treatment of Dr Fielding, and threatened to bring her considerable clout to bear, and prosecute the Thames Valley Police Force for malicious arrest.

So far, the man in charge of the case, Detective Inspector Lisle Jarvis, an ex Blackbird-Leys resident, has had little comment to make.

Lord Saint-John James, Principal of St Bede's, has also been most reticent, merely stating that the college was doing everything it could to help the police, and sincerely regretted that such an atrocious act could take place on College grounds.

More intriguing still is the fact that unsubstantiated rumours are beginning to filter through that the method of Sir Vivian's demise is NOT consistent with a routine mugging after all, and security at the coroner's office is unduly tight.

The questioning of a man of Dr Fielding's reputation and standing also seems to suggest that the police are not only following up the idea of a random slaying, but that Sir Vivian was murdered by someone he knew, perhaps even someone at the prize party.

An anonymous source close to the police investigation said this morning that the police had been searching for a certain weapon connected with archery.

Is
it possible Sir Vivian was killed with a bow and arrow?

Dr Fielding, as any follower of the sport will know, is an accomplished archer, as are many of St Bede's illustrious graduates. They boast three Olympic medal winners in the last 35 years. The thing that really puzzles this newspaper, however, is what possible motive there could be for one of Sir Vivian's friends or colleagues to murder him?

Please turn to page 4.

But Nesta didn't bother to turn to page four. Instead she felt the paper slip numbly from her hands, but made no attempt to stop it falling to the floor. She stared blankly at the wall for a long, long time, her mind whirling. She felt sick. Giddy. Like she'd just witnessed something horrific—like a plane crash.

She had to struggle to re-arrange all her preconceived ideas. Sir Vivian had been attending a fancy Dinner at St Bede's. As a psychology student herself, Nesta knew all about the prestigious Kendall Prize. And any winner of it was set for life! And Dr Fielding had won it. But, more importantly, at that same Dinner, Rosemary Naismith had been in attendance. She'd have been bound to be.

Why oh why hadn't any of the papers thought to print this piece of information before? Her lips twisted grimly. Obviously because it was not spicy enough. Wasn't interesting enough to help them sell more
papers!
She felt like screaming in frustration! All this time she'd been thinking it was just a sad case of random violence.

She forced herself to calm down, to think rationally.

Was it just a coincidence? Could it possibly be just a weird twist of fate, that Rosemary Naismith and Sir Vivian had been thrust together, under such tension-making circumstances?

Nesta, without realising it, was suddenly on her feet.

She shook her head, to try and clear it.

Coincidence? How could it be? She just didn't believe it. And now they were saying that the police suspected someone at the party. And she knew someone at that party had a perfect motive for killing Sir Vivian. And it wasn't Dr Fielding!

Nesta had her coat in her hand, and for a moment she stared at it blankly. She realised she was colder now, and it had nothing to do with the inadequate radiators. Shock. She was in shock. She'd had vital evidence all along and never known it . . .

Lisle. Of course. She must talk to Lisle.

She walked to the door and clumped down the stairs, all her previous light-hearted skipping totally gone. She felt old, and curiously numb.

She'd never once thought that Rosemary Naismith could be responsible for murdering
Sir
Vivian. Why should she? Even now the thought was so hideous. Stealing a dead person's work was surely a long way from committing cold-blooded murder.

And yet . . .

With one newspaper article, Nesta's whole world seemed to have been set on its head.

If only Lisle had told her about that Dinner and its true importance! And if only she'd realised that Naismith was present when Sir Vivian had been killed! She'd have told him instantly about her father's thesis. When she thought of all the times they'd been together, and he'd been keeping his police secrets so close to his chest, sweating his guts out trying to solve the mystery, when all the time, the one person who could crack his case for him was right under his nose.

If only he'd trusted her. If he'd told her everything, she could have helped him.

Once again, she felt like screaming at the cruel tricks life could play. She only hoped, now that fate had had its little joke on them, that it would leave them alone in peace in the future, and let them live a relatively care-free life!

As she walked to the end of the road, and the public telephone booth, Nesta quickly began to piece it all together, and as she did so, some of the shock began to wear off. With the resilience of youth, and her psychological training, she began to accept the fact that she
was
on the trail of a murderer.

Sir Vivian must have cornered Naismith and told her what he knew. She could well understand how Rosemary being at the Dinner when she had no right even to be in Oxford, must have really aroused Sir Vivian's sense of outrage.

But had nobody heard him accuse her?

No, she thought, opening the door to the phone booth and shutting it behind her. No, Sir Vivian would not make a scene in public. He would want Naismith to go in as quiet and dignified a manner as possible. For the University's sake more than anything.

She rang Directory Enquiries for the Kidlington Police number, but when she got through there, she was told that Inspector Jarvis was not in the building.

A pleasant-voiced WPC asked if she could take a message.

Nesta hesitated. She really needed to speak to Lisle. On the other hand, she couldn't keep information like she had to herself for any longer.

‘Do you know where Detective Inspector Jarvis is, please? It's really urgent.'

‘I'm sorry, I can't give out that information. If you have any knowledge of a crime, however . . .' the pleasant voice became just a touch sharper, and before she knew what she was doing, Nesta had put the phone down. She stared at the instrument for a while, torn
between
a desire to pick it back up and another, slightly stronger desire, to go and find Lisle for herself.

She backed out of the telephone booth and stood looking around her. Oxford was choc-a-block with commuters now. The streetlights bounced light off ancient stone walls. The domes of the Sheldonian and the Bodleian library stood out against an inky black, starlit sky. It was all so beautiful, but Nesta had never felt so suddenly alone. Or so laden with troubles.

She walked back to her car and got inside. Her car keys were in her coat pocket and she put them in the ignition and turned on the engine, hearing the little car roar into life.

But where could she go?

‘Damn it, Nesta, think will you?' she muttered to herself. Where was Lisle likely to be, if not at Headquarters? There was a police station in the city, but she didn't think he'd be there.

St Bede's?

Suddenly, Nesta realised that they must have set up an ‘incident' room. And didn't they usually do that as near to the scene of the crime as possible? And St Bede's was a college, which meant it was bound to have a room to spare to lend to the police investigation team.