The Dying Light (19 page)
‘Can you be more specific now?’
‘One thing I can tell you is that the first section, the part that wasn’t shown in court, was completely wrong. According to the dateline it was recorded just before the main section, but there’s a lot of internal evidence - a clock on the bell tower, for instance, and the angle of the sun, to say that it was morning, not evening. It is pretty obvious stuff. And in the main section there are many weird jumps and pauses, which make me think the whole thing smells. Some of it has been expertly done. The rest is amateur city. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Where and when can I see it?’
‘Anytime; anywhere. I’ll bring a laptop.’
‘Someone will call you. Don’t use this phone again.’
Sensing Kilmartin was about to ring off, Link said hurriedly, ‘And there’s the other thing you asked me about.’
Kilmartin coughed. ‘I think that must be for another time,’ he said quickly.
‘Yeah, OK.’
Kilmartin hung up and sat back in the chair, with the tips of his fingers pressed together. If the film was a fake, only one of two people could be responsible, each with wildly different motives. If the solution he favoured turned out to be right, it seemed impossible that the Andrew Fortunes and Christine Shoemakers of the world were not onto it as well: if he had his doubts they would too. But then ten minutes later something changed his mind. He had crossed the cobbled yard to the house. His sister Helen was up and had just made a cup of tea. She turned on the radio to hear the news headlines at seven thirty a.m. The second item on what appeared to be a fairly slow news day concerned the murder of a local solicitor at the home of the former senior civil servant who himself had died by violent means in Colombia. Two people were questioned overnight by detectives but weren’t detained. Police sources suggested that the victim had been shot by a high-powered sniper rifle as he left the property in his car.
Although the address of the murder wasn’t given, Kilmartin was certain the location had to be Dove Cottage, the place that Kate Lockhart had inherited. He returned to his study pursued by a knowing look from Helen and sat down to think. Perhaps they really were bent on eliminating everyone who knew about SPINDRIFT, in which case Link’s discoveries were even more puzzling. He found the number for Eyam’s landline at Dove Cottage and rehearsed what he would say. ‘It’s about the seeds you ordered from our catalogue, miss,’ he said to himself. ‘You must leave
immediately
to collect them.’ No, that sounded bloody stupid. Before the number rang out he hung up. He would stick to his original plan. Kate Lockhart was capable of looking after herself.
immediately
to collect them.’ No, that sounded bloody stupid. Before the number rang out he hung up. He would stick to his original plan. Kate Lockhart was capable of looking after herself.
She left Dove Cottage in the Bristol at eight and stopped by the police car at the top of the drive to tell the two officers she would be away from the cottage all day and that she had left Newsome a message on his phone telling him of her movements.
She drove slowly, taking her time to get to know the foibles of Eyam’s forty-year-old car, the sluggish steering, the throatiness of the engine in acceleration and a mulish tendency to veer right when the brakes were applied sharply. The trip took just under two hours and at some point she became certain - as certain as McBride’s law of instincts dictated - that she was being followed. Yet if pressed she couldn’t say by which cars or where she first became prey to the sensation. Maybe it was the knowledge that for years the police in Britain had recorded every journey made on every major road with automatic number recognition cameras. She went through a routine to see if any cars were on her tail, slowing and accelerating and twice turning off the motorway and circling a junction roundabout to glimpse the traffic following about a mile behind her. But she saw nothing. She tried playing different parts of the cassette, but found only music on both sides. It didn’t make sense. Why had Eyam gone to so much trouble? She decided to wait until she reached Oxford, where she could look at it properly and maybe buy a small tape player if the ancient tape deck in the Bristol was the problem. But when she arrived in the city from the south and drove into a car park near Magdalene Bridge she ejected the cassette, saw that she had failed to follow the instructions to press ‘forward’ and ‘play’ at the same time, and placed it in her handbag.
She crossed the bridge and walked up the High Street to a cafe near Queen’s College. Kate was impervious to nostalgia of the white flannels and dreaming spires kind and never understood people who pined for their university days, but this cafe still held something for her. During one summer, the year after she had left, she came back to see Eyam when he was haunting New College, light-headed with indecision about his career. He had finished his postgraduate work and could not decide whether to stay at Oxford, accepting the offer of a post at the university, or to find a job in the outside world. She used to fetch supplies from the cafe while he lay on a couch like a doomed juvenile poet. They holed up in his rooms getting sloshed on wine and listening to early music and took some kind of oath of undying friendship, which in Eyam’s case was accompanied by many extravagant quotes. The most unromantic and practical of these was Montaigne’s observation that a good marriage resembled friendship rather than love. It was then that they slept together for the first time, a natural outcome of a day of messing about and also of their whole time at Oxford, and an affirmation of closeness but also - at least in her case - a night of erotic fulfilment never matched before or since. When they went in the rain to the station after four days of speaking to no one but the cafe owner, she to go back to London to her law studies and Eyam to his family in the north where his mother lay ill with cancer, she clung to his arm, certain from his manner that he was closing the door on her.
The cafe had extended the delicatessen side of its business. She ordered a cup of tea and placed herself at a corner table so she had a good view of the street through a display of hams and breads. She was on home ground. If there was a team tracking her they’d have to follow on foot and she knew the university well enough to lose them. Sipping the tea, she watched for ten minutes and saw nothing untoward. She left and walked towards the town centre, then took a right turn and made for Brasenose College. There were several places she could use to sift her wake for watchers. This she did twice with a slight sense of unreality before entering the maze of Blackwell’s bookshop for quarter of an hour. Finally she headed down the canyon of New College Lane and stepped through New College’s ancient door to find an old friend - the head porter, Cecil, who looked up from a clipboard and without missing a beat greeted her by name.
‘Miss Kate, always one of my favourites: now, what brings you back?’
‘Oh, I thought I’d look over the place and see a friend of mine at the same time,’ she said.
Cecil’s expression clouded. ‘I was sorry to read about your Mr Eyam. You were his friend, weren’t you? A fine young man he was too. There was always something special about him. You could tell that from the first.’
She nodded.
‘A bad business to be sure,’ he added.
They talked for a few minutes while she watched the lane. Cecil seemed to sense the alertness in her eyes. ‘Something troubling you, miss?’
‘I just wonder if you could keep an eye on who comes into the college over the next hour or so. I can’t explain now, but it’s very important that I meet this friend in private.’ She paused. ‘And that no one sees us together.’
‘No problem - leave it to me.’ He appraised her with an amused look. ‘Heard you were doing very well in New York. Saw something about you in the college magazine.’
‘And the photograph? I look retarded,’ she said, smiling. Her eyes fell on a phone inside the lodge and she asked Cecil if she could use it. The woman answered at St Antony’s Middle East department and she left a message for Kilmartin to say she’d be at New College for the next hour or so. She gave the number of her cell phone.
Then Cecil told her of a small panelled vestry between the chapel and the hall: they should go there if they wanted absolute privacy and quiet, and he would keep a lookout. Cecil’s ability to spot a wrong’un, as he put it, had not dimmed with the years.
She passed into the Front Quadrangle, the first quad to be built in either Oxford or Cambridge, and turned left to the chapel. It was not quite noon, so she went through to the cloisters where students had walked since the time when the college was founded to replenish a priesthood ravaged by the Black Death. Little had changed in the twenty years since she had been there. The great European evergreen oak shaded a fifth of the grass courtyard; the bench where they’d posed for the photograph after Eyam won the John Hicks prize was in the same position; the atmosphere in the vaulted cloister was still heavy with the devotions of the past. At six on a winter Sunday the place had all the dismal foreboding of a nineteenth-century ghost story: even on a bright spring day its powers of suggestion were strong. She could almost see Eyam on the bench in the middle of the grass with a book. It was his bench - the bench where he read and thought and celebrated. That was why she went to the cloisters: to remember Eyam.
The clocks of the university began to strike twelve and she moved quickly inside the chapel, pausing in the ante-chapel to listen - no sound came from the main body of the building - then passing through the great screen into the chapel. She saw Darsh perched on a carved misericord in the stalls immediately on her left, the exact same spot where she had found the homesick and rather bewildered maths prodigy over two decades before.
He gave her a rueful look. ‘You know what I was thinking, Kate? How my whole life was changed when you took pity on me that evening. All those people you knew became my friends - the sort of friends I’d never had before. Friends for life. I owe you.’
‘What’s come over you?’ she said, grinning and sitting down beside him. His head was sunk in a thick orange scarf. ‘That may be the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me. By the way, that was quite a show you put on at the funeral. I thought you’d be locked up for taking a swing at Glenny.’ She paused. ‘But I wanted to say you spoke the only true words of the service, Darsh.’
His face spread in a surprising smile. ‘Glenny is a bastard. There were so many hypocrites at the funeral; so many complete and utter bastards!’ His voice rang out in the religious chill of the chapel.
They made their way along the chapel to a door on the left and found Cecil’s ecclesiastical cubbyhole. It smelled of a mixture of cleaning fluid and antique incense.
‘Were you followed here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so. What about you?’
He shook his head. ‘I lost them in the Mathematics Institute.’
‘You lost them with
that
scarf - it’s like a beacon.’
that
scarf - it’s like a beacon.’
No second smile. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘since the funeral my rooms have been turned over by the police - everything searched and picked apart. Imagine, one of the great mathematicians of our time treated like a common criminal.’ He said this without irony. ‘I am followed everywhere and snooped upon at every turn and now I’ve had enough. England has become intolerable. I’ve decided to take up a position at Yale. I leave in June.’
She moved a vase and a broom and sat down on the edge of a table. Darsh arranged himself on a high stool that was covered with dried droplets of paint. The gloved hands brushed dust from his suit. His domed forehead glistened in the light as he directed a look of hooded inquiry at her.
‘You should check your computer,’ she said. ‘Someone put a lot of child porn on David’s.’
‘I don’t use computers of that sort,’ he replied as though talking about public transport. ‘David told me all about that. It was the moment he knew he was beaten; that they would stop at nothing to destroy him.’
She leaned forward. ‘What the hell did he do? I mean, Eyam was like the head prefect, the chief boy-scout. He never stepped out of line. He was far too grand to be a whistleblower. Tell me, Darsh.’
‘He made an honest man of himself. He took the ultimate test. His principles triumphed over ambition, vanity and the love of power.’
‘How?’
‘He went to a parliamentary committee and told them the truth about a secret that only a few know about. The committee suppressed it - naturally; this is England.’
She shook her head. ‘Take it from the top, Darsh: I want the whole story.’
He sniffed and looked out of the window. ‘All I know is he was asked by John Temple to become the head of the Joint Intelligence Committee while a new chairman was found.’
‘Surely that job goes to someone who has experience in the intelligence services, someone much older,’ she said. ‘It takes a lot of skill to coordinate and make sense of raw intelligence for policymakers. Eyam had a few months’ training in SIS, that was all.’
‘I have no idea about these things, but you’re forgetting his analytical powers. I once heard that he was respected even by foreign delegations for his agility of mind at the negotiating table. Temple trusted him and I guess he persuaded him to take up the position for a few months. That appealed to him. He was fascinated by the big strategic issues of power, food and water and maybe he felt he could influence the government on them.’
‘Then what?’ she said, realising how little she had known about Eyam’s life in government, an ignorance only in part due to Eyam’s discretion and reserve about his work.
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