The Bursar's Wife (18 page)

* * *

I put one of Kamal’s blue porter shirts on and we ate in the small kitchen. After swallowing painkillers with my Kung Po chicken the pain began to ease. After dinner I gave Kamal a general overview of the case, without naming names. When he’d heard my summary he thought for a bit, running his finger up and down his impressive nose. Once, having had too much to drink, we’d measured our noses to see whose was bigger. It was mine.

“I have a question,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“This glamorous woman is overprotective of her daughter, correct?”

I nodded.

“Yet when you tell her who the daughter is seeing she does not reveal that she already knows this man?”

I nodded.

“Why is this, do you think?”

I recalled how Sylvia had recoiled from Quintin at the railway station. I’d seen no love there but it didn’t mean it hadn’t existed at some point.

“Because she’s afraid of what he might want with the daughter, of his motive for seeing her. She tried to see him soon after her husband killed himself, and they didn’t get on from what I could see. Let’s say they were an item when they were at university. Maybe she jilted him in favour of the guy she married. Maybe she’s worried he’s getting his revenge on her through her daughter.”

“A lot of maybes there, my friend. But there is something missing: what is she so afraid of with this man – what is he again, a lawyer? Why doesn’t she just tell the daughter the truth? If she just told her that she used to date this man it would put the girl off, no?”

“That I don’t know. Maybe she’s worried the daughter would get a kick out of it, use it to get back at her mother.”

“Get back at her why?”

“For being her mother.”

He chuckled. “Maybe you should be the writer.”

“I learnt something else on Tuesday,” I said. I told him about the film club and he conceded that a woman as worried about her image as Sylvia would be embarrassed about such a thing.

“I can’t help feeling there’s something missing though. This guy with the knife seems a bit over the top.”

“I agree with you there.” He studied me and smiled.

“I can see you’ve got that glint in your eye – I’ve seen it before. Your interest is piqued, is it not?”

“Let’s say I’m more curious this evening than I was this morning.”

We batted it back and forth for a while without much result except finishing the first bottle of Jack Daniels, but it was good to use him as a sounding board. Sometimes he could be a bit earnest, like when he banged on about me not being in touch with my Armenian roots, but he was a good listener. In return I gave him an opportunity to moan about the lack of balls in the publishing industry until it grew late and I grew weary. When I stood up to go to the bathroom I knew I had drunk too much to drive home.

“Best for you to stay here tonight,” Kamal said. “I’ll set up the sofa bed.”

The sofa bed took up all of the living room when laid out, and I’d stayed on it a few times before quite happily, especially in the days after Olivia had left.

I can’t say I slept well; it was impossible to lie on my back due to the pain. And I can’t sleep on my front even if I haven’t been knifed. I must have drifted off to sleep at some point though because I had lurid half-dreams of the woman in the green dressing gown wielding a baseball bat and a thin man with a blade emerging from his fist. They were both smoking cigarettes and laughing as they approached me from front and back.

* * *

I woke on my front and covered in sweat to find Kamal’s flatmate in the room with his medic’s bag.

“Sorry to wake you. I’ve come to check your wound. I just got back from my shift and was going to bed but I saw you in here…”

“Of course. Help yourself.”

“Please, stay as you are.” He pulled up a chair and peeled off the dressing to have a look.

“I’m very grateful for your help,” I said.

“It was no problem. Thank you for the whisky, it was very generous.”

“Least I could do. Ouch.”

“Sorry. I brought you some codeine from the hospital, you might find it helpful at night. Also, a course of antibiotics and some sterile dressings. The wound looks OK but you need to keep it clean and dry. Do you have someone who can change the dressing?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking of Sandra. “I have someone.”

MY CAR HAD A FROSTY TICKET ON IT BECAUSE I
’
D PARKED IN A
residential bay the previous afternoon, not really caring at the time. It took me several minutes to clear the screen of ice using a credit card that had no available credit on it and using the arm connected to my good shoulder. The back of the driver’s seat boasted an espresso saucer-sized blood stain, as did my raincoat, jacket, shirt and vest, increasing until it was the size of a side plate on my vest. Kamal had washed, dried and ironed the last two items overnight, which is when he did most of his writing and washing. He’d even, bless him, had a go at cleaning my jacket and raincoat, but it was a dry-cleaning job.

The car didn’t have time to heat up in the time it took me to drive to the office – the best place, I thought, to think about what to do next.

* * *

Outside my building Stubbing was hunched against the cold, a sensible shoulder bag at her feet. It was too early for anyone to be in yet.

“Are you stalking me?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“What, no comeback?”

She gave me a tired smile.

“Do you want coffee?” I asked.

“That would be a life-saver.”

We walked round to Antonio’s who told me that it would be a few minutes before he could get his ancient coffee machine (imported from Turin by his father in 1965) up and running. We took our coats off and sat down at the back of the café.

“What happened to your coat?” she asked.

“I caught it on something,” I said.

“What, a sword?”

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I went to your house and then came to the office.” She tightened her ponytail, something I didn’t think possible. My wound was starting to throb.

“Is this about Jason again? Because I’ve nothing to add to what I said the other night.”

She examined her bitten nails then said, “It’s about the Trisha Greene case.”

“I’ve nothing more to say about that either,” I said. Gurgling and hissing sounds came from Antonio’s espresso machine. She clasped her bony fingers together on the table and looked me in the eye.

“You gave us some evidence relating to the murder in the Gogs car park. You know, the tracker details and dogging photos?”

“Yes of course.”

“Well, they’ve gone.”

“They’ve what?”

She looked round to see if Antonio had heard my exclamation, but he was busy grinding coffee.

“How can they have gone?”

“The tracking details and the photos have gone,” she repeated, in lieu of an explanation.

I shook my head and laughed. “Brampton must be livid.”

Stubbing’s face remained impassive and she said nothing.

“They got copied onto a computer or something, didn’t they, the photos? I thought it would go to the techies. How do they disappear?”

Antonio came over with some good-smelling coffee. As he placed the cups on the table Stubbing and I eyed them like dogs eyeing bowls full of chopped sirloin being lowered to the floor. We waited for Antonio to head back to the counter.

“Well?” I asked.

She squinted at me through the steam rising from her cup.

“The memory stick was blank apparently, when the technical guys looked at it,” she said.

“What? I checked it after I’d put the files on it. Everything was there.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t.” I looked at her for clues but she remained emotionless. Then I thought about the time frame.

“But I gave it to you over a week ago. Surely it was checked before now?”

“It seems the techies didn’t get it the day you came in, and then they had other priorities, like checking hard drives for child porn. Then I got caught up with Elliot Booker’s suicide, remember? Look, we’re facing cutbacks like every other public body, and we didn’t have unlimited people to start with.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “But this is a murder case.”

“Yes, but we have already charged the husband, remember.”

“So what do you want with me?”

“Copies.”

“You want copies?”

“Yes please.” She sipped coffee and said, her tone level, “Do you have any other photos you took, or notes that you didn’t give us to start with?”

I shook my head. “I gave you everything. I’m happy to go though them with you. You can even have the scribbles I made when I followed her around; they’re in the file in the office.” Something was nagging me about her request. “I don’t really understand – why are you bothered about the photos if you’ve already charged the husband? You have his belt which was round her neck.”

“We do,” she said, “but the photos would help.”

“So you still have a case then?”

She nodded and leaned forward. “Listen to me, George, I need to get hold of any information you have on Trisha Greene, even if you think it’s not relevant.” It was the first time she’d called me George. My wound had progressed from throbbing to sharp pain; I’d forgotten about it with all my gesticulating. I don’t know why I was getting worked up, it wasn’t really my problem.

“OK, let’s go to the office. Have you got something to copy the files onto?”

She patted her shoulder bag.

“I’ve brought my own portable drive.”

* * *

Hills Road was now busy with nine-to-fivers arriving for work, dragging themselves out of bed into the dark and wet morning to face the daily drudge – young men and women in cheap suits. Nina was outside the front door of my building as we got to it. She was in jeans under her mac and I conjured up a brief image of her changing into her white coat upstairs. She regarded Stubbing with open hostility as she put her key in the mortise lock, perhaps wondering why we were arriving together so early in the morning. But then I remembered that they’d met when Stubbing had come looking for me and upset waiting clients.

“Morning, George. A bit early for you isn’t it?”

“The early worm gets the bird,” I said, and wished I hadn’t.

Nina contemplated Stubbing, who gave her the paint-stripping stare. Nina seemed to be struggling with the mortise lock and turned to the door to take out the key. “Whoever was last out of here yesterday didn’t double-lock the door.”

She put her Yale key in the cylinder lock and the door opened. We trooped inside and I put the door on the latch. Nina grabbed my arm as I ushered Stubbing up the narrow stairs before me.

“We still on for tonight then?” Shit. I’d forgotten all about it.

“Of course we are.” She smiled and I wondered if she’d had her teeth whitened. She touched my hand.

“Eight o’clock. Bring one of your films,” she said, and the way she said it sent a nice shiver down my spine.

Stubbing was waiting at the top of the stairs. She wasn’t smirking, even though she’d witnessed our brief interaction. I led the way to my office and took my keys out.

I didn’t need them. The door was open. Crowbarred open by the looks of it. Stubbing stepped in front of me.

“Don’t touch anything,” she said. She took a biro from her jacket and eased the door open with it then used it to flick on the light.

The place was a shambles. The computer monitor thrown to the floor, the actual computer box opened up, its insides a mess of wires and electronics. The lockable filing cabinet had been forced open too, files scattered everywhere. I could smell stale cigarette smoke. I went to the small safe; it had been bashed but not opened. I started to pick up the files and put them on the desk; then I noticed the opened drawers.

“Is anything missing?” she asked.

I couldn’t find the digital cameras – both were gone, including the expensive infrared Fuji I’d used for night-time shots of Trisha Greene.

“It’s not the only thing that’s gone,” she said. She was standing over Sandra’s desk looking into the computer’s innards. I couldn’t see what she was so interested in.

“What is it?”

“Someone has removed the hard drive. Is there a backup?”

“I think so,” I said, remembering Jason muttering about doing one, but a search revealed nothing.

“They probably took that too,” Stubbing said.

“I’d better check to see if anyone else has been burgled.”

Stubbing was dry-washing her face with her hands.

“No, nobody else will have been burgled,” she said. “Do you have a printout of Trisha’s car movements from the tracker?”

“Good thinking; they’re with the notes I told you about.” I looked through the files on the floor and found the Greenes’. I grinned triumphantly and held it up for Stubbing to see. The grin fell from my face when I opened it – it was empty.

“
AT LEAST I WON
’
T NEED TO RING THE POLICE, SINCE YOU
’
RE
here,” I said to Stubbing after she’d poked around a bit and I’d established that the tracker was also missing.

“I’d rather the police weren’t involved,” she said, with no suggestion of irony.

“Why not? What about scene of crime techies?”

“I don’t think looking for fingerprints is going to yield anything. Besides, it’s hardly good publicity for you, is it?”

She had a point. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, but I need some time to find out, preferably without the whole of Parkside knowing.”

“You think this was someone from Parkside?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What’s going on, Stubbing?” Her face went blank and she made for the door. I told her I was going to need a crime number for the insurance. She said she’d sort one out.

When she’d gone I started to clear up but my heart wasn’t in it and I couldn’t really do much because of my shoulder.

The only person who would be interested in the pictures I’d taken of Trisha Greene would be the person who had really killed her. The only people who had seen them were the police, except now they were saying they hadn’t seen them. This did not bode well. Too much was happening at once. I decided to head home – I needed a change of underwear and time to think.