The Bursar's Wife (25 page)

I thought I was beginning to understand what was going on.

“He still has the recording, doesn’t he?” I asked, thinking of the VHS tapes I’d seen in his collection. She removed her hands from her face and looked at me.

“It’s like a sword hanging over me. It was a terrible mistake, and something he’s used against us for eighteen years.”

“Us?”

“Elliot and me.”

“And Brampton?”

She hesitated then, almost imperceptibly, nodded. I put my drink down on a coaster. It had the Morley crest on it with the motto underneath,
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam
. I had no idea what it meant. What she had told me explained the hold Quintin had over her, the investments Elliot had made with him, the fact that Brampton was in his pocket. Something else occurred to me.

“Why did Elliot go to Legacy Labs?”

Her head shot up and she frowned. Strands of hair stuck to her wet cheeks.

“How did you… No he didn’t…”

“Was it Lucy? Did he suspect Lucy wasn’t his?”

“No, no he didn’t suspect…”

“Well what is it then?” I said, raising my voice. Then I remembered that Elliot’s name wasn’t on the system at Legacy Labs.

“Was it you? It was you, wasn’t it, who requested the test.”

“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong.”

“How have I got it bloody wrong?” I shouted.

“Shush,” she said, looking at the door. “It was Quintin.”

“What? Quintin? You mean…”

“He got the test done,” She lowered her voice, glancing again at the closed door. “He must have suspected Lucy wasn’t Elliot’s. Elliot didn’t know, it didn’t even cross his mind that Lucy wasn’t his. So Quintin ordered the test and got the results sent to Elliot.” She looked out of the French windows into the dark. “It pushed Elliot over the edge, what with the bad investments Quintin had made him put college money into. The timing couldn’t have been worse.”

Or better, I thought, if that had been Quintin Boyd’s intention.

“So Quintin is Lucy’s father?” I said more quietly.

She dried her face and took a long drink, avoiding my gaze. If she nodded it was slight.

I was about to push her again but the door opened and she managed a fixed smile to greet her daughter. Lucy asked her mother about some missing item of clothing and Sylvia got up unsteadily and left the room.

I felt weary and my shoulder began to throb. I had the painkillers with me but I wasn’t sure they mixed well with single malt. The truth is I liked the throbbing, it kept me awake. Awake enough to do some maths. Sylvia must still have been at college when Lucy was conceived. Perhaps Elliot had done the right thing by her after she’d found out she was pregnant; perhaps she’d got pregnant at this session they’d filmed. However, I didn’t really trust Sylvia to be completely honest, despite her sudden revelations. She came back into the room.

“Lucy’s nearly ready. It’s probably for the best that she goes with you; there’s the alumni gathering all day here tomorrow. Quintin is giving the keynote and I’d like to avoid a confrontation between them. Obviously I would expect you to charge me for looking after her.”

“I won’t charge you for babysitting. It was Sandra’s idea, anyway.”

“Ah yes, the woman who phoned me last night.”

I stood up, draining my glass. “Will you be alright here on your own tonight?”

“I won’t be on my own; there’s a formal dinner I have to attend here.”

“They expect you to attend?”

“I usually accompanied Elliot to High Table; it was thought it would send the right message if I took his place.”

I shook my head; these people were crazy. To put her up there for all the students to gawk at. “You’re going on your own?”

“Quintin will be there,” she said, lowering her eyes.

No doubt sitting in Elliot’s chair, I thought.

She stepped forward and placed her hand on my arm.

“Would you get the tape for me, George? I’ll pay you well, whatever you want.” I could see the desperation in her strange-coloured eyes, smell it in the gin, feel it in her grasp. That American brute had kept her guessing for over eighteen years and it was becoming too much for her to bear.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “What time is he here tonight?”

“Seven. He’ll be here for a couple of hours at least.”

“You have my mobile number. Ring me if he leaves early for whatever reason.”

Nodding, she mouthed, “Thank you.” But no sound came out.

“I can’t promise anything,” I said.

She was trembling. I instinctively opened my arms and she came to me gratefully, her head against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, her body soft and warm under the silk gown. Lucy came to the door, bag in hand. She looked at me in disgust and withdrew to the hall. A second later the front door slammed and Sylvia was jolted out of my embrace.

IN THE CAR LEAVING MORLEY LUCY LOOKED OUT OF HER
window, saying nothing. I’d come out of the house and found her sitting in the passenger seat studiously looking ahead as I descended the steps. On the Huntingdon Road I spotted the McDonald’s I’d stopped at the night I’d found Elliot. I turned off into the car park.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Are you sleeping with my mother?” She was still looking out of the window.

“No I’m not. She’s going through a rough time, that’s all. What do you take me for?”

“A man.”

I parked, silenced the engine and looked at Lucy. She looked down at her feet, rubbing a pair of worn silver ballet pumps together. Not what I would call sensible autumn wear.

“The food here is made for people who are hung over,” I said.

* * *

I sipped coffee while Lucy devoured a cheeseburger, checking her face for any resemblance to Quintin. I couldn’t see it, myself, but then these things sometimes skip a generation. Cathy, the woman who I’d talked to the night I’d found Elliot Booker dead at Morley, came over carrying a glass pot of coffee.

“Can’t keep away eh?” she said, giving me that smile I remembered. Maybe I was too much of a sucker for women’s smiles.

“How’d your essay go? What was it? Don’t tell me… erm… hybrid polymers.”

“Yeah, well done, you get a free coffee refill.”

Lucy got up and excused herself.

“Is she a relative?” Cathy asked when Lucy had gone towards the toilets. Her smile had transformed into what I took to be a smirk – had she said ‘relative’ with virtual quotation marks round it?

I shook my head, annoyed at the second implication in the same hour that I was some sort of letch taking advantage of the recently widowed and their impressionable daughters. The annoyance must have shown in my face.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said. “It’s just that—”

“Forget it, I’m tired,” I said.

She poured some coffee, saying, “Yeah, you look knackered.”

“Thanks.”

She smiled – her teeth weren’t as straight as Nina’s, but that gave her smile authenticity. “By the way,” she said. “A rude detective stopped by my house a few days ago, wanted me to give you an alibi for Sunday night. What happened?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sorry you got dragged into it.”

She shrugged. “It’s no biggie. In fact it’s the most excitement I’ve had all week.”

“Really? I thought student life was a continuous round of binge drinking, May Balls and punting.”

“Yeah, right. Some of us have to work evenings to make ends meet so drinking is out. May Ball is a hundred quid at least and I’ve never been in a punt.”

I nodded understandingly and sipped coffee, the sole virtue of which was its heat.

“Well,” she said, “if you need another alibi you know where to find me. I’m usually here Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays, six ’til closing. I’m just filling in for the other work-shy manager today. Just ask for me.” She pointed at her name badge and walked off as Lucy came back to the table.

I watched Cathy walk away. Lucy sat down and let out a long belch.

“My goodness, excuse me. I’ve not eaten one of those before,” she said, looking at the mess of greasy paper in front of her. She nodded in Cathy’s direction. “She’s pretty. Is she the reason we came in here?”

“No.”

She put on a contrite expression. “Look, I’m sorry I accused you of sleeping with my mother.”

“Don’t worry about it, it made sense for you to ask. Let me ask you something.”

“What about?”

“About Quintin Boyd.”

She frowned and pursed her lips. “What about him?”

“Well, where did you meet him?”

She started to fold up the paper wrapper from her meal. “This is going to sound weird, but I met him after my first bridge club, through a girl in the photography club. I didn’t know her particularly well but she told me he was a semi-pro photographer who had seen me and wanted to take my picture. He said I had an interesting face, which I thought at least was honest. I know I must sound naive, but he was very respectable and treated me with courtesy. He’s the first real man to pay me any attention, not counting the drunk boys at college.”

“Do you think that’s all he wanted from you, to take photos?”

She blushed and cocked her head. “What makes you think I didn’t want something from him?”

I sat back, thrown by her answer. She folded the wrapper into smaller and smaller halves.

“He made me feel special, like I was the only person that mattered. He’s very charismatic and has always been a perfect gentleman, at least the first few times.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he’d been taking photos, just portraits, you know. Like I said, I wasn’t being naive, I knew, at least I thought I did, what he really wanted. And to be honest,” and here she reddened again, “I would have gone further – I gave him enough hints, tarted myself up…” She studied the table. “Then I realised that he wasn’t interested in me in that way. I mean why would he be, I’m not beautiful or anything.”

I considered telling her that she was beautiful or that beauty was in the eye of the beholder but I didn’t think she was fishing for compliments or would put up with being patronised.

“Then something changed,” she continued. “He changed, became more pushy. He asked me if I would take my top off, maybe pose for some more risqué photos. Artistic of course, nothing sordid.” She blushed again, perhaps realising how silly it sounded out loud.

“When was this?”

“The last couple of times I saw him. Anyway, after wanting him all along to suggest it I got cold feet when he did. Besides, I never had much time before getting back for the end of bridge club.”

The timing of this change of attitude didn’t make sense to me. Presumably that was when he’d done the DNA test and discovered that she was his daughter. What sort of sick fuck was he?

“What does your mother say about him?”

“She refuses to talk about him. When I discovered, at Daddy’s funeral, that he knew my parents, it came as a bit of a shock. All she told me was that they were at Morley together. And the fact that he never said that he knew them…” She shook her head and looked at me. “Do you think he and my mother were… you know?”

I kept my face noncommittal, draining my coffee, and looked towards the counter where I caught Cathy looking at me. I wondered whether I should leave her my card on the way out.

“Let me get you back to Sandra’s.”

I stood up and so did Lucy.

“What do you think Quintin wanted with me? Why didn’t he tell me that he knew my parents?”

“I really don’t know, Lucy. All I know is that despite his appearances and charm, he’s a bit of a shit and you’re better off avoiding him.” Even if he is your father, I thought.

I didn’t leave Cathy my card, because of how it would look to Lucy.

AFTER DROPPING LUCY OFF I CONSIDERED STOPPING OFF AT
Nina’s to apologise for last night but I felt shattered. The whisky I’d had at Sylvia’s hadn’t helped and I could only think of getting home to have proper coffee followed by a microwaved pizza from the freezer, maybe washed down with a beer. Then bed. I decided, as I pulled into my drive, that I would ring Nina between the coffee and the pizza. I didn’t see Stubbing until I put the key in my front door.

“Jesus Christ. Do you live in the fucking hedge or something?” I said.

“Can I come in?”

I went inside leaving the door open and put lights on. The door closed as I went to the kitchen and filled the kettle. Stubbing came into the kitchen. She was dressed in jeans and a woolly jumper under an unzipped puffer jacket. The jeans made her look more stick-like than her work suit. The suit hid the fact that you could pass a paperback between her thighs when her feet were together.

“What are you doing here on a Saturday night?” I asked. “Is there nothing on TV?”

“Nice suit,” she said. “Although it’s a bit upmarket for you, isn’t it?”

“It was a gift.”

“I meant style-wise, not money-wise.”

“Nice. It’s a wonder you’re still single, it really is. Seriously, why are you here?”

She stood against the wall next to the fridge as I put ground coffee into the pot.

“What did the boss say to you in the car?” she asked. I poured hot water onto the coffee grains and watched them swell and rise to the surface before pushing down the plunger.

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

As I led Stubbing past the dining room I saw the computer was still on as I’d left it, although the screen had gone to sleep. The sheets in the printer tray reminded me that the computer had been in the middle of printing the GPS information from Trisha Greene before I’d gone out. I ushered her into the living room and as she passed me I caught a whiff of her stale sweat. I put some lamps on and we sat down.

“Your boss wanted to know whether I had copies of the missing photos, but you knew that already. What gets me is why she would be so interested in something that made no difference to the case. Since the husband confessed and you’ve got his belt, why the interest in the photos?”

She just looked at me and took off her puffer jacket.

“Did she have access to the USB stick before you did? Before the techies did?”

“No comment.”