The Bursar's Wife (30 page)

“You’re telling me that you’ve got footage of Brampton’s henchman strangling Trisha on the night of her murder in some sex game and that’s not enough? And didn’t you say she suggested going up to the Gogs afterwards?”

“Think about it: we can’t yet prove it was actually filmed on the night, just because Quintin wrote a date on it. There’s no time and date code on the actual video. And even if there were and we could get at the camera, it would mean that the camera would have to have the correct date and time set on it. As it is we have fuck all.”

I was pretty sure that if Quintin was anal enough to date his films then he was anal enough to get it right, but I could see Stubbing’s point. I was still confused though.

“I don’t know much about it but it seems to me that you’ve got enough at least to get a warrant, I mean they’re using the same belt on her for fuck’s sake. I’ll bet you anything he has a copy on his hard drive and your techies will be able to establish when it was put there which will narrow it down.”

It went quiet and I could hear only the sound of ice.

“Hello?”

“You’re right,” she said, then belched. “You don’t know much about it. I’d have to go to Brampton, right, who would warn Quintin and he’d get rid of anything more he might have on his computer. Or, I’d have to bypass her and explain to someone why I was doing it. Do you know what that means, going above your boss’s head? No, of course not, you’re a free agent, you don’t have a career to worry about, feeding at the bottom of the swamp as you do.” If I’d hoped Stubbing would be a pleasant drunk then I was wrong.

“OK. I’m going to hang up now.”

“George…” she said, her voice softer. Then another belch. I hung up in case she offered to come round and tuck me in.

I hooked up the video player to the TV in place of the DVD player and popped the VHS cassette in. I settled down to watch Sylvia Booker have sex.

THE GRAINY FILM STARTED WITHOUT PREAMBLE, THE CAMERA
wobbling everywhere. Then it settled on an empty room, high-ceilinged with a chandelier, sofas and armchairs, an upright piano in the corner. A large fireplace formed the centrepiece, logs burning in its grate. Above it an oversized mirror with peeling silver backing that revealed in its reflection floor to ceiling heavy curtains that kept the outside from view. Before the mirror were candles that were the only lighting in the room apart from the fire. I assumed it to be a common room at Morley; it had that sort of shabby opulence that lacked any personal touch, photographs or knick-knacks. The camera defocused then focused until finally fixing on a large sofa in front of the fire. The scene shook briefly and a blurry form came into view very close, then disappeared off camera. It was very unclear on my small black and white screen and for the first time I wished I had a bigger, colour TV. I leaned forward and turned the sound up but there was no sound.

Some minutes went by with nothing happening and I noticed a carriage clock on the mantelpiece that said it was five minutes to twelve. Then three people entered the frame from the right, a woman between two men. Even in the gloom the woman was obviously a younger, incredible-looking Sylvia. Dressed only in a flimsy-looking white cotton shift that reached mid-thigh she was being helped along by the two men. It was difficult to see who they were as they had eye masks on; the elaborate sort you see in costume dramas when they have fancy balls. And that’s all they had on. I wondered if it was Quintin and Elliot. One of them was taller and thin, not so confident in his nudity, whereas the other seemed assured in his bearing, his measured steps marking this as a sense of occasion.

Sylvia looked drunk, having to be helped to the middle of the room, her head lolling occasionally. Another woman came into frame from the right, naked, solidly built, but youthfully firm-bodied. She wore a mask like the men that revealed only her mouth. From her build I took her to be Brampton but it was too grainy to be sure. Whoever it was stepped forward and stood before Sylvia. She took hold of her flimsy dress at the neck and ripped it open from top to bottom. Sylvia didn’t seem to react at all; her head flopped back and jerked forward again. The woman in the mask knelt down and kissed Sylvia’s breasts and stomach. Then Sylvia was lain on the sofa, one foot on the floor, the other on the arm of the sofa, the leg bent at the knee.

I fast-forwarded the film at this point. Suffice to say that Sylvia was the object of intense sexual activity, and Quintin was right about the future DCI going down on the socialite. It seemed easier to watch sped up, making it seem less like what it really was. The two men took turns, the taller one first then the other, who had to be Quintin. I stopped and rewound the tape to where he got up from between Sylvia’s thighs. He leant over and grabbed Sylvia’s head with his hands, lifting her head from the sofa and spitting a word at her, then he stormed off. She was on her own and I played the video at normal speed. The picture was like this for thirty seconds, then a minute, and I began to think it had frozen except the fire was still burning. Then she pulled her legs together and turned onto her side facing the room. She drew her knees up and tried to cover herself with the torn fabric of her shift. Another minute and nothing much happened except one of the candles went out and the fire died a little. The clock now read twelve-thirty. I was about to turn it off when I remembered Sylvia’s insistence that I watch it to the very end.

Another long minute later a figure, fully clothed in black, came into frame from somewhere behind and to the left of the camera. He looked back from where he’d come, his face away from the lens, seeming to listen to someone, nodded, then he approached the sofa warily, as if afraid to wake Sylvia. The way he walked and stood looked familiar. He sat straight-backed on the edge of the sofa and started to stroke her hair. She turned her head and it looked as if she was smiling. I couldn’t see the man’s face but could see his hand move over the curve of her body. Then he stood up, his back to the camera, and removed his jacket. I thought he was going to cover her with it but then he draped it over the back of an armchair. He removed his trousers and placed them neatly on the same chair. This act seemed so familiar and domesticated that the next thing he did, even though it was expected, seemed all the more shocking. He gently rolled Sylvia onto her back and got between her legs, pulled his underwear down and lowered himself. I grabbed the remote and fast-forwarded; I just couldn’t watch any more. The speedy jerking up and down made comical what was obscene. I pressed play when he had finished and watched him get dressed just as carefully as he’d got undressed. Then he went to the mirror over the fireplace and adjusted his tie in it. His face became visible close to the candles and fire.

I stood up, appalled. No wonder the clothes-folding had seemed so familiar. I had seen it before. Just as I had seen the face in the mirror every day of my childhood. I stood mesmerised as he turned, picked up the coverlet on the back of the sofa and pulled it over Sylvia, who had resumed a foetal position on the sofa. He then walked off screen the way he had come.

I DIDN
’
T SLEEP THE REST OF THE NIGHT. I FELT SIMULTANEOUSLY
sick and wired, not helped by the mixture of coffee and whisky I absorbed in a bid to clear my head and cope with what I had seen. My own father – a… I couldn’t quite say it. Was it rape? Perhaps it had been consensual. I was kidding myself, of course. Clearly it was why Sylvia had wanted me to watch the tape, but what was she expecting from me? An apology, or just to get back at him through me? I needed to speak to her: I think at the very least that’s what she was expecting me to do.

At five-thirty I threw up and felt better. I took painkillers with a pint of water, washed my face and armpits, brushed my teeth and gargled, then put on a clean shirt.

At six-thirty I sat in the Golf in the dark outside the bursar’s residence at Morley for a few minutes, glancing up at the dark house, mulling over what I was going to say, just as I had all the way here. I mean, what the fuck
could
I say? The light in the porch lit up as the front door opened and Sylvia looked down at me then disappeared, leaving the door ajar. Picking up the tape from the seat beside me I dragged myself up the steps into the house.

We sat in the same seats we had the day before. I put the tape beside me on the sofa. Sylvia brought in a tray of coffee with proper cups and saucers and matching milk jug and sugar bowl, which was filled with crystals of brown sugar. She was dressed in a dark suit with a faint stripe and wide lapels over which white shirt lapels neatly sat. Her hair was tied up at the back and she looked professional and unrecognisable from the woman who had needed comforting the night before and who had begged me to help her. She sat with her back straight, knees hard together, and poured coffee.

“Milk or sugar?”

“Neither, thanks.”

She passed me the fragile cup and saucer which I held precariously on my lap.

“I’m assuming you’ve watched it, George?” she said, nodding at the tape. Her voice was cool and businesslike, her eyes remained steady – it was as if she was interviewing me for a job, not asking me if I’d watched a film of her being drug-raped nearly twenty years ago.

“Yes I have.”

“Did you watch it right to the end, and not when it seemed to have finished?”

“Yes.”

“And what were your impressions?”

“My impressions?”

“Yes. What was your feeling when you saw it?”

“I felt sick,” I said.

She nodded, as if I’d told her the coffee tasted nice. “My part in it wasn’t as voluntary as it might have appeared.”

“I didn’t think it was. Did you know you’d been drugged?” I said.

“No. We’d taken it once before, but I didn’t like it. Quintin put it in my wine. I believe it’s now known as a date-rape drug, but at the time it was more of a relaxant.”

“So you knew what was going on?”

“Yes I did, but it was like being in a dream you can’t escape. What I didn’t know was that Quintin was filming it. He showed it to me straight after Elliot and I got married.”

“And took great pleasure in doing so I imagine.”

She nodded and sipped at her coffee.

“And he used it to blackmail you?”

“Yes. Among other… things, he wanted me to convince Elliot to listen to his investment advice. I thought he just wanted to make some money out of the college but really he wanted to destroy Elliot’s reputation.”

“I think he wanted to destroy Elliot full stop, not just his reputation. Hence the paternity test showing Elliot that Lucy wasn’t his.”

She sighed. “You’re not curious as to why he wanted to do all this?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps he was envious of what you and Elliot had, including Lucy. Maybe he wanted Lucy for himself.” Then I remembered Lucy telling me that he’d changed a gear up with her around the time he’d learnt Lucy was his, although he’d told me I was on the wrong track when I’d confronted him with that. “Perhaps he’s just psycho.”

“Well actually he does satisfy most of the criteria that define a psychopath.”

“So do most of our captains of industry and politicians. It’s more common than we think.”

She nodded distractedly and studied her cup.

I put my cup down on the Latin-engraved coaster and sat forward.

“I’m not sure how to say this…”

She sat back and watched me. “Just say it, George.”

“I feel I need to apologise, really, for what happened. At the end of the film, I mean.” Jesus, I sounded like I was clarifying a misunderstanding over the splitting of a bill.

“You mean when your father raped me?”

It came out loud and sharp and I sat back, unable to even acknowledge what she’d said with a nod.

“Sorry,” she said, blushing, “that was a little harsh of me.”

“But the truth, nevertheless,” I said.

She glanced down at the china on the table, then out of the French windows at the light now appearing, then returned her gaze to me and exhaled though parted lips. “Look, I’m under no illusion that Quintin put him, your father, up to it, even convinced him I was OK with the idea. He’d seen what sort of parties we had, the screenings of Quintin’s films. He cleaned up after them so it wouldn’t have been that unreasonable for him to assume I was a willing participant. I wouldn’t judge him too harshly.”

“It’s not you who should be making me feel better about it.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Do you think it’s why he retired early?”

“I’m not sure what happened. As far as I know nothing came out. The only person who knew apart from me, and of course your father, was Quintin, and I certainly didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“But I thought Elliot saw the film.”

“Not the end of it, he didn’t. Quintin kept that up his sleeve. He kept threatening to show it to Elliot if I didn’t…” She faltered in her self-composure for a second but I looked outside as if I hadn’t noticed – I had a pretty good idea by now of the nature of Quintin’s abuse. When I looked back she’d recovered. The issue of whether my father’s retirement was caused by what he’d done was going to be something I would have to take up with Quintin.

“There is something else,” Sylvia was saying.

“What’s that?” I put my cup on the tray. She did the same and placed her palms on her thighs, looking down and taking a breath. The doorbell chimed. She sighed and looked at her tiny gold watch. The doorbell was pressed again. She stood up, smoothed her skirt and excused herself. I stood up as she left the room and went to the French windows.

Then I heard his voice, the American twang, brash and confident in the hall.

“Is he here?”

A mumble from Sylvia.

“And have you clued him up?”

More mumbling.

“You stupid bitch. I’ll do it myself.”

“No, Quintin, please.” They were in the room. I turned and saw her composure shattered, her face pleading, pulling at his sleeve as he strode towards me. It made me wince, to see her like that.

“Ah, here’s the poor Armenian sap, blinded by the femme fatale. Have you fucked her yet, Junior, like your dad?”