Secret Asset (19 page)

41

I
t was the Young Farmers Dinner Dance, but Charlie Hancock was not so young any more. He was too old for dancing. He'd spent the greater part of the evening, after the meal, drinking pints with the other older farmers at the village hall bar. He'd had the one obligatory bop with his wife, Gemma, then let her dance with her girlfriends, while he discussed the impact of the dry winter on the corn crop with his pals. She now sat half asleep in the passenger seat.

By one o'clock they were both ready to leave, and though he was pretty sure he shouldn't really be driving—even the weakest bitter added up after a while—he took the wheel since Gemma's eyes weren't so good in the dark. He'd stuck to the back roads, through the tucked-in village of East Ginge, and the feudal holdings of the Lockinge estate, then relaxed as he climbed up into the Downs, since here at this hour he was unlikely to encounter anyone at all, much less a panda car with a policeman keen to breathalyse a farmer with a bellyful of brew.

He felt a bit sick and he needed to pee quite badly, so though he knew he was less than ten minutes from their farmhouse, he pulled over at the crest of Causewell Hill, where the dead-end track down to Simter's Pond started. Gemma stirred only slightly when he clambered out, breathing in the cool air and looking up to admire Orion in the clear sky as he went about his business. He saw the deep marks of fresh tyres on the track, and would have thought nothing of it—it had become a bit of a lover's lane, this remote stint of a road—had he not breathed in through his nose and caught the strongest whiff of smoke. He sniffed again, more carefully, and the smell was stronger. Something was burning.

Charlie couldn't leave it, no way. This was no time to be stubble burning—not in June, and not in the middle of the night—and fire was a farmer's nightmare. He wasn't sure whose land he was on, since Simter had sold it recently to an outsider, but he assumed they'd want to know if a field were burning, or, worse, far worse, a shed or outbuilding had somehow caught fire.

He got back into the car and started down the lane. Gemma, jogged awake by the rough track, asked him what he was doing, but before he could answer they had turned the corner and before them, just in front of Simter's Pond, they saw a car on fire. It must have been burning for some time, for only its shell remained. The flames had subsided, though they still lapped now in short, erratic breaths in the cool night air, casting a light caramel glow across the surface of the pond.

He stopped then, and got out to check if anyone was in the vehicle—but the heat was still so intense that he couldn't get close enough to make sure.

“Joyriders,” he said to Gemma as he got back into the driver's seat. “Bloody kids.”

“Hadn't you better ring the police?” she asked drowsily.

He sighed. Part of him was wary of ringing after a night out. There were so many horror stories of even good Samaritans getting done—like that manager of a golf club who, rung by the police after the place had been broken into, drove over at three in the morning because they asked him to, and then got breathalysed and arrested.

But Charlie knew the right thing to do. After all, what if there were bodies in the car? And, of course, whoever owned this land would want to know that someone had dumped and burned a car, stolen in Wantage or Swindon most likely, in the middle of their lane.

He used Gemma's mobile phone to dial 999, gave his name and said what he had seen. When they asked what make of car it was, he told them to hang on a minute, went and looked, then said he thought it was a Golf—a black Golf, though that might just be the effect of the fire. T-reg, he added, since the plates had not yet been burned away.

And fortunately, after taking his name and address, the dispatcher said he could go home himself, which he did, driving extra carefully. Charlie and Gemma were almost asleep by the time the patrol car made its way to Simter's Pond. Unusually for what seemed just another joyriding wreck, a fire engine was sent from Wantage, after an alert duty officer learned that it was a T-reg Golf that had been dumped.

42

T
hough Liam O'Phelan had been scornful of his ex-pupil, Liz had never thought Michael Binding was a fool. It was his manner she objected to, not his brain. “Patronising” and “unfriendly” were the words which usually came to mind, though this morning as Binding sat angrily across the conference table, she thought “hostile” was more apt. She was grateful for Peggy Kinsolving's presence, though she couldn't blame her assistant for keeping her head down and concentrating on her notes.

Binding was a tall man, dressed today in a check flannel shirt, dark grey flannel trousers, and clunky brown brogues. He sat uncomfortably on the front edge of his steel-framed chair. Liz had begun with what was by now her standard explanation of what she was doing and why she needed to see him. But Binding wasn't buying any of it. “News to me,” he'd said. “When did these new guidelines come down? And why weren't we told?”

Liz tried to seem nonchalant. “You'd have to ask B Branch for the details.”

“Ah, I see,” said Binding, scratching his wrist with the scrubby, bitten fingernails of his other hand. “You're only following orders.”

She decided patience with his rudeness was only going to encourage it. “That's right,” she said snappily, “like we all do.” Binding's pale blue eyes widened—Liz could tell he didn't like the challenge. She continued, “And one of those orders was that if anyone was obstructive I should report the fact right away.” She noticed that Peggy was sinking even further down into her chair. “It's up to you,” Liz declared. She gazed vacantly at the wall behind Binding to indicate how tiresome he was being. “We can take this higher, or you can answer my questions. Either way we're going to end up back here doing the same thing. So which is it going to be?”

Binding propped his hand under his chin and stared defiantly at Liz while he considered this. Sighing audibly for dramatic effect, he said at last, “Very well. What do you want to ask me?”

“I want to talk to you about Liam O'Phelan.”

“The late Liam O'Phelan? Why on earth do you want to talk about him?”

“He wrote a reference for you when you initially applied to the Service.”

Binding seemed surprised by this. “What did it say?”

“I have to say he was not very flattering. Thankfully for you, your other referees were. I went to see him last week, just before he was murdered.”

Binding frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What did he say about me when you saw him?”

“He said you didn't see eye to eye about your thesis.”

Binding laughed out loud. “If only.” He shook his head dismissively. “It wasn't that at all. But what is your point, Liz? I fell out with my supervisor fifteen years ago, so I decided to strangle him?” His tone was scathing now. He made a little show of raising both hands to inspect their murderous capabilities. “Am I a suspect?” he asked.

“I shouldn't have thought so, though obviously it's a police matter over there. So far their view seems to be that O'Phelan probably picked up somebody who turned nasty.”

“Picked up? As in rough trade?” Binding looked horrified.

“Yes. He was single. The thinking is he was gay.” She added casually, “Wasn't he?”

“Far from it.” Binding was emphatic.

What? thought Liz. If Binding was saying that O'Phelan had been heterosexual, she'd yet to see any evidence of it. “So he had lots of girlfriends?”

“I didn't say that,” Binding retorted. “Listen to what I'm saying.”

Liz gritted her teeth, then said calmly. “I
am
listening. But I'm not sure I get your drift.”

Binding sighed again, and Liz resolved that he would not make her angry. God, how I pity his wife, she thought. I wonder if she lets him get away with it. Probably not, which is why he's like this at work.

Then Binding said, with exaggerated patience, “O'Phelan wasn't homosexual.”

“How do you know that?” Liz said challengingly.

“Because for a time I knew him rather well.” And suddenly, as if tired of sparring with her, Binding sat back in his chair and began to talk.

         

There had been a party that spring, one Saturday afternoon in Trinity term, in the grounds of St. Antony's College in North Oxford. He'd been invited by his supervisor O'Phelan, who was a Fellow there, though Binding's own college was Oriel.

Binding had spent the earlier part of the afternoon on the river—the Eights Week races were only a month off, and he was already in serious training. He'd hesitated before going all the way to St. Antony's, which was at the other end of town, for what promised to be a free glass of plonk and some cheese titbits. But he decided it would be prudent to go—his supervisor had made a point of inviting him.

O'Phelan was young, not much older than Binding himself. He was an Irishman who'd only been in Oxford for a couple of years. He had a Junior Research Fellowship, which normally would have kept him from supervising a postgraduate student, but he'd already got his DPhil, and besides he was considered brilliant. Which Binding wouldn't have disputed—for the first two terms he thought Liam O'Phelan was the most stimulating teacher he'd ever had.

Not that he always agreed with him, especially not about Ireland, where even in the changed atmosphere of the early 1990s O'Phelan continued to see the British presence in the North as a colonial occupation. But there was humour to their exchanges, and O'Phelan didn't take offence, in fact he seemed positively to relish their jousting.

Binding was confident he'd earned O'Phelan's respect for his work, which was on his tutor's own particular passion: Charles Parnell. O'Phelan had been especially encouraging about the draft of a chapter of his thesis, and had begun urging him to do a DPhil, instead of the more modest MLitt he was embarked upon. For the first time, Binding thought he might have a chance of an academic career.

“You have to realise,” he said to Liz, “I didn't come from that sort of background. Neither of my parents went to university. Becoming a don was a dream I'd never seriously thought possible.” Liz understood. She'd reread his file that morning. He'd had to win scholarships every step of the way until reaching the pinnacle of Oxford, where a don had actually said that the unthinkable might be within his grasp.

Anyway, continued Binding, that afternoon he'd hurried up the Banbury Road, freshly changed from his sweaty crew clothes, wearing his rowing blazer, little realising that the next hour was going to change his life completely.

The party was quite a large affair—all the postgrads and all the Fellows had been invited—and because it was warm for late April, it was held in the College grounds, on the lawn down from the main building. Nothing fancy—no marquee—just a few trestle tables holding bottles of wine, cans of beer and plastic cups. He didn't know many people, but he spotted O'Phelan in the crowd and, taking a cup of wine, started working his way over to him to say hello.

Then he'd noticed a girl he'd never seen before. She was tall, with blonde hair and a strikingly pixie-pretty face. She wore a short pink skirt that was just within the bounds of decorum, and looked very sure of herself—and of her appeal. Running into a postgrad he knew named Fergusson, Binding asked him about the girl, and learned that she was visiting O'Phelan from Dublin. “Rather lively,” Fergusson added, and watching her Binding saw at once what he meant. For the girl was talking to another student Binding knew, a handsome sporty guy, and she was flirting with him, pretty obviously—stroking his arm, making the kind of eye and body contact that looked destined to head past mere flirtation and into the realm of serious intent.

It was then he noticed O'Phelan's reaction. He was standing slightly further up the slope of lawn, stuck with the Warden and his chatty wife. But every few seconds O'Phelan's gaze moved round to the girl, as if a magnet drew him there. He looked half possessed, watching her seductive performance with the postgraduate student. Fergusson also noticed O'Phelan's reaction, for he noted dryly, “Liam doesn't look too happy.”

There was only one conclusion: O'Phelan was besotted with this girl. And embarrassed by his tutor's obvious jealousy, Binding decided to try and do him a favour.

“All right,” he admitted to Liz, “I suppose I was sucking up. But I was young then, and keen to get on.”

So he had gone up to the girl and introduced himself, ignoring the obvious irritation of the sporty student at this interruption. Possibly because she was a couple of sheets to the wind, the girl seemed equally happy to turn her attentions onto Binding, and within seconds she was flirting with him. She had lively green eyes and a saucy smile, and if she had been anybody's guest but O'Phelan's, Binding would have reciprocated.

She made no bones about being Irish: she seemed to find the very Englishness of the party amusing, and she teased him about it.

“Do you remember the girl's name?” Liz interrupted.

Binding shook his head. “You'd think I would, given what happened. But it must have gone straight out of my head immediately she told me.” He added plaintively, “It was just a drinks party.”

And standing there with his own second glass of wine, as the girl became increasingly familiar—at one point she'd asked if his room was nearby—he was anxiously wondering how best to transfer her apparent interest in him onto O'Phelan when he made his mistake.

He began to tease her back, assuming that since she had been teasing him she would take it in good part. She might mouth the platitudes of the need for a united Ireland, he told the girl, but surely the last thing she and her countrymen wanted was to regain the burden of the six counties of Ulster. Wasn't it ironic, he continued, feeling the wine himself and warming to his theme, that so many IRA members, sworn enemies of the British state, actually lived off that state? They couldn't bite off their nose to spite their face, he added, because their nose was stuck, feeding in a British trough.

“Maybe it wasn't as pointed as that,” Binding said now, looking at Peggy Kinsolving as if noticing her for the first time, “but it wasn't far off.”

And the effect had been of a match striking touchpaper.

Tight as she was, the girl had listened to him with a disbelief he noticed too late—for by the time he had, it had turned to fury. Her voice rising, she'd launched into a tirade, her tone no longer light, her great green eyes suddenly narrowed into mean little slits. Her target was the English: their elitism, their racism, even the way their youth were educated, typified by the awful man she was talking to. This meant him.

Binding was completely taken aback by her reaction to what was meant to be a joke, and he tried to calm her down. But she wasn't having any of it, and her abuse continued. He'd started to feel slightly panicky, afraid they were making a scene, and he'd looked wildly around for help, but no one came to his rescue—O'Phelan was still taken up with the Warden and his wife, and the sporty student had fled the minute the girl had turned on Binding.

And then something in Binding had snapped. He'd tried placating, he'd tried apologising, so finally he too lost his temper. Doubtless he said something abusive.

“Doubtless,” said Liz at this stage of his story, having witnessed minutes before something of Binding's choleric side. “Do you recall what you said?”

Binding stared ruefully at the expanse of table between them. “I said, ‘Why don't you go back to your peat bog?' I'm not proud of it,” he admitted. “But I was provoked.”

Enraged, the girl suddenly lifted her glass and tossed it right at his face. Then she stormed out of the party, followed by a clearly agitated O'Phelan. Binding stood there, mortified, with red wine dripping down the front of his blazer.

The next day Binding had written to the don to apologise, but didn't receive an answer. Then some days later O'Phelan left a message at the Oriel lodge, cancelling their next supervision; ten days later, he cancelled again. With his deadline looming, Binding submitted his thesis chapter to O'Phelan for formal approval. An ominous silence ensued. It was broken by the tersest of notes:

Dear Binding,

I am writing to inform you that I will be leaving Oxford to take up a position at Queen's University Belfast in Michelmas Term. I am afraid therefore that it will no longer be possible for me to supervise your thesis, though after reading your sample chapter I cannot in any case advise the Faculty to give you leave to continue.

Yours sincerely,
L. K. O'Phelan

“I never saw or heard from him again,” said Binding with a shake of his head. “Not that I wanted to. I was too busy at first trying to keep my place. I went to the Faculty and they weren't very sympathetic—O'Phelan had written to them saying I'd failed the first year chapter requirement. At the last minute I found someone in my own college willing to take me on, but he knew far less about my subject than I did.

“That effectively ended any chances I had of an academic career—you need powerful backers to get a university teaching job. So I took my MLitt and started looking for other kinds of work. When I applied here, naturally I didn't list O'Phelan as a referee. But I guess he got dug out of the woodwork. After what he must have said about me, I'm surprised I was accepted.”

“It wasn't
that
bad,” said Liz. Why had O'Phelan encouraged Binding's aspirations, then tried to destroy them? Or had he—what exactly had O'Phelan been up to?

“Anyway,” said Binding, looking relieved to be finishing his story, “I was sorry to hear he'd been killed, but don't expect a lengthy mourning period from me. As for why he died, all I can say is he wasn't gay. Not in the least.” He shook his head in disbelief. “To think I was actually trying to help him, by talking to that stupid girl.” He laughed with undisguised bitterness. “No wonder they say no good deed goes unpunished.”