The Bursar's Wife (15 page)

SANDRA HAD ALREADY LEFT FOR THE DAY WHEN I SAT AT MY
desk and examined the documents Jason had printed out. There was a map, showing little numbered flags where the Merc had stopped, and a red line marking routes it had travelled. An accompanying sheet matched the flags and detailed when and for how long the car had stopped at each location. It was similar to the one I had given the police that detailed the movements of murdered Trisha Greene. Most of the movements were in Cambridge: the railway station; River Views where Quintin lived when he was in town; then a trip south to the Royston address where the Merc lived when he wasn’t. The unknown for me was a trip north out of Cambridge to Waterbeach from River Views last Friday morning. Judging by the time and date it corresponded with when we’d seen the driver pick the black-haired young woman up from Quintin’s place. There was an address showing the street he’d taken her to. I’d no way of knowing what was there except by going. I went back to the map, which for some reason looked familiar beyond the fact that it was of Cambridge, but I put it down to the fact that I myself had been to River Views. Something bugged me about it though, a sense of déjà vu if you could have such a thing about a map.

I folded it up and stuck it in my inside jacket pocket where I came across the envelope I’d found in the Bookers’ recycling bin, the one with the spiral staircase on it and the PO box on the reverse. I could make a king-sized quilt with the clues I had and yet I had nothing of substance. OK, George, think. Earn your money. I looked at my half-eaten sandwich and made a list – first, find out what the spiral staircase logo was all about; it was on the letter Elliot was holding when arguing with Sylvia and I assumed it was the cause of the argument. Second, track down the woman who’d been dropped off by Quintin Boyd’s driver; maybe she could shed light on what these women were doing at Quintin’s flat. Third, find out who owned the Subaru that had followed us to Royston. Fourth, find out who visited my father, and why? I switched on Sandra’s computer and waited while it took its sweet time to come to life. A yellow Post-it with Megan the care assistant’s number on it was stuck to the screen, just as Sandra had promised. I decided to ring her first then go up to the Waterbeach address on the tracker, and see if I could find where that woman lived, then go home and have a bath. However, all I got when I rang was voicemail so I left my home number.

I took a healthy bite from my sandwich while I brought up the Arts Cinema website to see what films were on that night, just to have something to look forward to later. The Italian crime season was over and I had to choose between something starring a permanently pouting Hollywood darling and a French thriller about a man who happens to see his long-dead wife on the Internet. I settled on the thriller and was looking for Kamal’s number to see if he wanted to join me in a couple of hours of escapism when the phone rang. I wiped mustard from my chin and picked up.

“Hello, Cambridge Confidential. How can we help?”

“Is that George…” I heard the sound of paper rustling and then slowly, as if being read, “Ko… char… yan?” An Essex voice, raspy with smoking.

“This is he,” I said.

“Stay away from Lucy Booker, you and your sidekick,” the voice said. “Or else.” He was going for menace but coming across like an extra in a bad British gangster film.

“Or else what, you fucker?” I said, opening a drawer in my desk and switching on the tape recorder permanently hooked up to the telephone. “Why don’t you come over here and threaten me face to face?”

Again there was the sound of rustling as if the caller were consulting a script from which I’d deviated. Then he spluttered, “I’ll show you, you bastard. You’ll be sorry.” He hung up before I had time to respond. I looked at the telephone display to check the caller ID but it had been blocked.

The call had made what little I had eaten of my pastrami sandwich repeat on me and the rest of it had lost its appeal. I called Jason’s mobile, to see if he was still with Lucy. It went straight to voicemail but I left a message for him to call me. I knew he had classes that afternoon that he wouldn’t miss, not for all the posh-sounding girls in Cambridge. I supposed the message was from Quintin Boyd or someone working for him. But it seemed crude for someone of Boyd’s type. He was a lawyer after all, and they had perfected the art of threatening people using long words on headed paper. But maybe he wasn’t as sophisticated as he liked to portray himself.

* * *

There wasn’t a lot I could do about the phone call except fret so I thought it more productive to fret while driving to Waterbeach. I took the office mobile with me and once I’d found the street on the map and parked I tried Jason’s mobile again: no answer. I contemplated calling Sandra but that would be inviting an avalanche of questions I couldn’t answer. Instead I concentrated on my surroundings.

I was on a row of 1980s box houses, half clad in rotting dark timber and topped in mossy concrete tiles. I was outside what I thought was the right house according to the map but GPS is notoriously inaccurate and besides, the driver might have dropped her the opposite side or she might been asked to be dropped further down from her house. I took a charity ID badge from my glove compartment and a clipboard from the back seat. I got out of the car and tried Jason’s phone again. Still no answer. I was deciding which end of the road to start at when a taxi drew up and the woman got out. Same cropped black hair shorter at the back than front, same build, same black shiny coat. At a distance she looked young, but she had a confidence in her manner that made her older. I put the badge and clipboard back in the car and approached her as she was paying the taxi. She looked up and saw me. Close up she was definitely older, tired-looking with a smoker’s leathery skin and the jaundiced look of someone on a bad diet. I gave her a smile since she didn’t look in the welcoming mood.

“Can I help you, mate?” She took out a coffin nail and lit it, holding her smoking arm at the elbow with her free hand and blowing smoke sideways from the corner of a big mouth.

“I work for Quintin Boyd,” I said, in lieu of a plan. She looked wary.

“Oh yeah? I’ve not seen you before. I usually deal with that Mark bloke.”

“You mean his driver?”

“Dogsbody more like. What the fuck does Quintin want so soon?”

“He just wanted me to check that everything was alright after the other night.” She took another drag and exhaled sideways, her eyes not leaving mine.

“He’s worried about me is he, all of a sudden?” She smiled sarcastically. “I hadn’t pegged him as a geezer who gives a fuck as long as he got his take.”

“His take?” I asked, stupidly. She looked at me with new interest.

“What exactly do you do for dirty old Quintin then?”

“I watch his back, that’s all.”

“Well go and fucking watch it then, sunshine. We’re done.”

“It’s been charming,” I said.

“Fuck off,” she said, and went down a path losing a battle with weeds to a door that had lost its paint to the weather.

* * *

By the time I’d parked in my drive, rain was pounding down on the car roof. I tried Jason again – he should definitely be out of class by now. I wanted to tell him to stay away from Lucy Booker for the time being. It went straight to voicemail again and I left another message asking him to ring me. When I hung up the little screen said I’d missed a call from Kamal. At first I thought perhaps he was ringing about going to the cinema, but then I remembered that I hadn’t got round to ringing him in the end. He’d left no message so I rang him back – maybe he’d found a publisher. He picked up on the second ring.

“George, I’m glad I caught you.” He sounded anxious, not elated, and I could hear a lot of people noise in the background.

“What is it, Kamal?” I asked, skipping the banter.

“I’m at work, George,” he said. “At Addenbrooke’s,” he added, unnecessarily. He was uncharacteristically hesitant and I could feel my heart pumping.

“Stop dithering, man, and give it to me straight.”

“Your boy, Jason? Jason Pike?” He paused again and I shouted into the phone.

“What’s happened to him, for fuck’s sake?”

“I’ve just wheeled him up to the ward from A&E. Someone broke his fingers.”

WHEN I GOT TO ADDENBROOKE
’
S HOSPITAL I HAD NO
recollection of the journey itself except that it was raining hard all the way. I parked somewhere I wasn’t allowed to and ran into the main entrance with my raincoat over my head. As promised Kamal was there in his porter’s uniform. He filled me in as we walked up to the observation ward where Jason was being kept overnight.

“He had a couple of punches to the head, so it’s just a precaution,” Kamal explained.

“Is his mother here?” I asked.

“Yes, she got here when he was in A&E, that’s how I knew who he was. He looked familiar but I remembered his mother from that barbecue you and erm…”

“You can say her name, Kamal; I’ve stopped blubbing whenever it’s mentioned.”

He smiled paternally and patted my shoulder. We stopped outside some double doors.

“He’s in here. Oh, and there are a couple of coppers with him, taking a statement.”

“Thanks for ringing me, we’ll catch up soon,” I said. We embraced, as was his wont, and he went on his way. I took a deep breath before entering the ward.

* * *

It was easy to find Jason by the small crowd round his bed – two uniforms, a nurse and his mother. The side curtains were drawn to give an illusion of privacy. When I approached it seemed the police were winding up, one of them folding up his notebook and promising to look into things but there not being much to go on. The other uniform, female, looked at me as if I might be Jason’s assailant come to have another go, and Sandra, well, Sandra just ignored me. And I mean she didn’t even give me a glance. Jason was propped up against some pillows with his hands resting on his lap, three fingers on the left and two on the right with metal splints on and taped together. I’d pictured his fingers individually plastered up like big sausages, like in a cartoon. The nurse, who’d been waiting for the police to finish, was sticking a thermometer in Jason’s mouth and holding his wrist. The police went off and Jason tried hard to give me a smile. A nasty-looking bruise was blooming on his temple, and his right cheek was cut and raised, with strips across the cut. I had an awkward minute as the nurse measured his pulse and Sandra ignored me. Jason rolled bloodshot eyes at her but she just sat there with her hand on his knee. I ignored her right back; she’d talk to me when she was ready to give me an earful. The nurse checked the thermometer and wrote something on the chart.

“I’ll be back with painkillers. Are you his father?” she asked, addressing me.

I shook my head.

“Then you’ve got three minutes.” I took her place beside Jason, my mac dripping onto the floor. I pointed to his fingers.

“How long will you be strapped up like that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, a few weeks,” he said.

“He won’t be playing the keyboard for a while after that either,” Sandra said, her voice dripping like an icicle.

“I’m more worried about other stuff I do with my hands,” Jason said.

“George is more worried about who’s going to take his beatings for him,” she said.

“Mum!”

I turned to her, mustering up what assertiveness I could.

“I know you’re itching to have a go at me, Sandra. But why don’t you save it for when we’re alone, like after I’ve talked to Jason?” There were a couple of seconds when Sandra glared at me, her eyes bright with anger. I kept eye contact and my nerve. She got up and kissed Jason on his good cheek.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, baby,” she said gently, and walked off. I exhaled and turned to Jason.

“OK, now tell me what happened.”

* * *

Jason and Lucy had finished lunch and then he’d walked with her to Emmanuel College, not ten minutes from the sandwich bar. It seems that they’d hit it off and were continuing their conversation afoot. He’d then walked over Parker’s Piece to get to his college on East Road by which time it was getting dark. He was passing the small park on the right going down East Road, opposite the fire station. After the park there is a church that houses a homeless shelter and a path beside the church leads into the park area, an area often frequented by winos waiting for the shelter to open. Someone called for him just as he was reaching the church. As I recalled the park had mature trees in it.

“At first I thought it was one of the winos wanting some money but a bloke grabbed me and punched me on the cheek. Then he dragged me into a doorway.” He lifted a hand and pointed to his cut cheek. The guy must have had a ring on.

“Did you see him?” He shook his head.

“It was dark in there and it happened quickly. He was small and thin but like, impossibly strong. The weird thing was that he was wearing like a suit and tie. That’s why I wasn’t that worried at first when he called.” He paused and smiled. “Never trust a guy in a fucking suit. Anyway, then he had me by the fingers and was pushing them back until I was on my knees with the pain. His other hand was over my mouth to stop me…” He pointed to the water on the cabinet by his bed. I poured some and held it to his mouth. He sipped at it and nodded to indicate he was done and I could remove the glass.

“I wasn’t ready for the pain, boss.” His eyes teared up and I put a hand on his shoulder. “He told me to stay away from Lucy Booker and let go of my mouth. That’s when I told him to fuck off and he did the other hand.” He lifted the hand in question in case I was in any doubt.

“Then he said to pass on the message to you and had I got it.”

“He mentioned me by name?”

“Yes, but he couldn’t pronounce it of course.”

“What did he sound like?”

“Essex born and bred. Heavy smoker by the sound and smell of it.” My mystery caller from that afternoon. He hadn’t lost any time between the threat and carrying it out. Perhaps he hadn’t liked my telephone manner. “I didn’t tell the police anything, boss, nothing about the case or Lucy Booker.” I nodded, although I wasn’t bothered whether the police knew. But Sandra and Jason had had their fill of the police from the time when her husband had been a professional criminal. One thing you didn’t do if related to a criminal is tell the police anything, whether it benefited you or not. Sandra may have been glad when Jason’s father had run off to Spain, but that didn’t mean she helped the police get their hands on him and his money once he’d gone.