An Early Grave (29 page)

Lying beside his sleeping body, her pleasure fading, she feared terribly for tomorrow.

CHAPTER 46

Outside, the morning was bright sunshine. Early autumn leaves had blown from the sycamore trees in the gardens through the open gates into the quad, swirling around the fountain and rising and falling with each gust of wind. Her mood did not compliment the promise of the new day. Instead, gazing through the window, she felt cosseted in a blanket of regret and fear. Worst of all, a deep-seated loneliness ushered a hollow sensation through her tummy, an urge to eat indulgently, but with the experience to realise it would not satisfy.

Washed and dressed in a blue stretch T-shirt, jeans and boots, she paced the carpeted floor of the student room, retrieving the papers she’d scattered in that urgent moment of desire. She’d found her bra draped over the edge of the waste bin, her pants on the floor close by and Callum long gone. It was still dark when he released his hold of her body, trapped between him and the cold stone wall. A few moments of him searching for his clothes, then the click of the door handle, the squeak of hinges, and he was out. Free. She had never experienced such passion. Certainly not with Simon. But it was like any fleeting moment. She had the memory, but the warmth, the gentle touch, and the love had gone. She couldn’t bear to think that it might not happen again. That she may never again share his bed or feel him inside her. She realised that wanting him may not be enough.

One by one she lifted papers from the floor and placed them on the bed. With each she glanced at the information, mentally assigning some importance, some relevance to recent events and what might be ahead. The sympathy card, sent to Callum on the day Tilly and Emily died. How cruel, like a sponge of vinegar offered at crucifixion. More than any piece of evidence he possessed, she thought this card the one thing that drove him on, had become his obsession. When he had finally discovered the truth about the card he would have the truth about all that had happened in the last ten years. On top of the card she placed one of the news cuttings she’d brought reporting the murder of Peter Ramsey. While Callum persisted with his Justin Kingsley theory she, from the day they’d met Alice and Stephen Hadleigh in Canterbury, was drawn more to suspect Anthony Egerton-Hyde in wanting to protect his past from the glare of the British press. Callum was right; nowadays a homosexual affair was no great scandal, but it wouldn’t stop an over-eager reporter from hanging you out to dry. The story of Baby Isis continued to baffle her. Callum had passed it off as merely a contemporary news item from Oxford, and cited several others from his extensive catalogue of news clippings: a burglary in Abingdon, a sexual assault in Cowley and a hit and run near Bicester. She wondered why the story on Baby Isis seemed more prominent, standing out from the rest like a badly creased playing card. She’d retained the news report of Charlotte Babb’s murder, and considered yet another angle involving Egerton-Hyde. No one, including Callum, had told her much about Charlotte working in the politician’s constituency, the duration of her employment or the reason for her leaving. And Callum had specifically informed Egerton-Hyde of their intention to visit Charlotte. Ollie Rutherford was a man she had interviewed little, and perhaps he would have nothing to add regarding Charlotte, but she intended raising the question over lunch. Considering the city banker, she had learned less about Ollie Rutherford than any of the Latimer alumni, something also to rectify, if not over lunch then she would try to corner his girlfriend Stephanie for an honest run down on her man.

Before leaving her room, she placed all of the papers back in her suitcase, glimpsing as she did so a page of Callum’s notes relating to the going’s on in Treadwater. Why did she feel that everything that happened since the closure of the Audra Bagdonas investigation was somehow viewed by Callum as his reward, his payback? He’d asked her to come to Oxford, insisting that she should see out the investigation as if it were her duty. They’d spent a wonderful day together, an evening making love, and this morning she felt swamped by an overwhelming notion of having been used.

She made no arrangements to meet up with Callum for breakfast. After all he’d taken his leave of her in the early hours without a word. A late sleeper, she imagined, if her previous experience of Callum was anything to go by. Instead, she went alone to the Latimer dining hall and tried her best to feed the empty sensation in her stomach. Orange juice, cornflakes and a full English, minus the beans, were despatched with some gusto and followed by two cups of strong breakfast tea. During her stay in the dining room, a place she did not recall with any great affection; it had featured mainly in her first year, less so in her second and hardly at all by her third, she spoke to none of the eight diners.

The bright sunshine of the morning did not hint at a cool temperature and a breeze gearing up to be classed a strong wind. Fresh air, however, was what she needed most. With no particular objective in mind she walked at a brisk pace, her heels clicking on the pavement, into Merton Street but sub-consciously selecting the most convenient route to Balliol College. Stephanie’s mention of a stranger watching them in the pub the night before had her thinking.

CHAPTER 47

Disappointed by her morning walking, thinking and searching, and frustrated with all three activities, she resorted to shopping. That too proved a disappointment for she bought nothing more than a pair of fine denier mauve tights from Debenhams. Not long after one o’clock she entered the Randolph Hotel by the main door into the wood-panelled hall and, turning to her right, proceeded directly to the restaurant. A pleasant and foreign maitre’d was intent on escorting her to a table for one, and as she explained that she was meeting friends, she spied them at a round table by a window overlooking Beaumont Street. Ollie Rutherford, Stephanie and, to her chagrin, Callum were already present. She couldn’t manage eye contact with the man who a few hours earlier had shared her bed, and when she stole a glance he seemed more taken with the menu. Quite deliberately, she angled her dining chair to face Stephanie, who looked to have experienced as rough, or perhaps as passionate, a night as she had.

‘One rule before we start,’ Rutherford announced, looking directly at Tara. ‘Please, no more talk about killings and missing friends. Let’s have a good time, enjoy the food, and get to know each other better.’

‘I agree,’ said Stephanie, raising her wine glass. ‘Besides, I need a stiff drink.’

‘Hair of the dog?’ said Callum, raising his glass also.

‘Absolutely.’ Stephanie took a healthy gulp of white wine.

Tara felt cajoled into joining the toast, but as far as she was concerned this was a working lunch. She might have to disguise the fact, but she was there only to get information.

Unfortunately, and piling one upset upon another, what she learned as they dined did not strike as business knowledge, but as a killer punch to her solar plexus. Ollie Rutherford, jovial, loosening up with each mouthful of Sauvignon Blanc, kicked it all off. Tara was struck suddenly by the similarity in his manner to that of her friend Aisling. Potential there, she thought. Maybe she could engineer an introduction.

‘So, Callum,’ Rutherford began. ‘What’s this fresh start you’ve been hinting at?’

Rather than see it in his face Tara sensed Callum’s discomfort, his shifting upon his chair, glancing at her, eyes darting, before attempting an answer to the question. Rutherford wasn’t prepared to wait.

‘You coming back to Oxford?’

‘No. Nothing’s settled yet, but Georgina has offered me a job.’

Tara instantly recalled the conversation in Georgina’s office, when a fairly vague but open invitation had been laid before him. It seemed to Tara that the offer had been made several times over the last three years. She wondered if anything more specific had been discussed since the day they met in Georgina’s office or perhaps when Georgina phoned on the day they found Charlotte.

‘You’ve spoken with Georgina?’ she asked him.

He nodded sheepishly.

‘When?’

‘About a week ago.’

Now she had good reason to feel used. The masochist within her was having a field day. For the second time in her life she’d allowed, heck, she’d encouraged a man to share her bed when he already knew, when he already had plans laid for a future that did not include her. For added humiliation, on both occasions, Oxford had provided the backdrop to her heartbreak.

‘Did you tell her we were coming to Oxford? To the alumni meeting?’

‘I mentioned it, yes.’

‘Why, Callum?’

Tara closed her eyes in anguish. She couldn’t decide on the worst part of the news, his leaving Liverpool to go and work for Georgina, or him telling Georgina they were coming to the alumni gathering in Oxford.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘Come on chaps,’ Rutherford jumped in. ‘I thought we weren’t going there?’

Tara’s head dropped to her chest. She sensed Stephanie’s eyes upon her. While Callum and Ollie plodded on into bland conversation, she felt a growing urge to run. But she was made of stronger flesh. She’d been walked over once before. Never again. She was here to help Callum find a murderer. She was determined to find the truth. That’s what she had resolved to do when she signed the enrolment forms for the Merseyside Police. To hell with upsetting poor Ollie, she ploughed in.

‘Can either of you men, distinguished alumni of Latimer College, suspects in a murder investigation…’ She saw Rutherford blanch at the suggestion. ‘Tell me why Charlotte stopped working for Anthony Egerton-Hyde?’

Rutherford, in a fluster, helped himself to more wine from the bottle. Callum filled the silence.

‘I don’t think she worked that closely with him. She was more a party member, a constituency worker.’

Tara looked at Rutherford for input.

‘Matter of trust, I believe,’ he said finally. ‘She helped Anthony get elected. Once he’d sat his bottom in Westminster, he didn’t think she could be trusted, having access to the information available to an MP.’

‘How do you know this?’ Tara asked.

‘Told me himself. What the silly sod never seemed to realise was that Charlotte worshipped him. She would never have done anything to hurt him. Not intentionally.’

‘I wonder if Georgina has ever told him that Charlotte was in love with him,’ said Tara.

‘Might well have done, and he chose to ignore it,’ said Rutherford.

‘Hardly matters, now that she’s dead,’ said Callum.

‘Not relevant either, if Kingsley is your man, Tara.’

She tried to ignore Rutherford’s comment, but for a man who, two minutes earlier, wasn’t keen to discuss the subject, now he wasn’t about to let all suspicion settle upon Anthony Egerton-Hyde.

‘Kingsley’s the one with the axe to grind, isn’t that right, Callum?’ Rutherford continued.

‘I think so,’ Callum replied.

Rutherford stared with a glib expression at Tara, while she for a brief second clung to his metaphor. An axe to grind, was that coincidental or Freudian in origin? Did Rutherford realise or was he well aware of the weapon used to cut Peter Ramsey to pieces?

‘And what says our resident beauty from the Merseyside Police?’ he said.

She took it in the manner in which he’d intended it: sarcastic, patronising and arrogant.

‘I’d be very surprised if Justin Kingsley turns up in Oxford this weekend,’ she said. ‘Firstly, he’s been missing for ten years, and no one has seen him. Secondly, he has no reason to attend the alumni meeting, because he never graduated. Thirdly, he’s unlikely to show just to quench Callum’s thirst for justice, especially when he is not the murderer. If he is alive I doubt that he is even aware of these murders. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some fresh air.’ She dropped her napkin on the table and rose to leave.

‘Come on Tara,’ said Callum with some incredulity in his voice. ‘You said yourself that Justin has probably been in contact with his father all this time. He’s no longer listed as a missing person. If he’s alive he must be the killer.’

‘Aren’t you going to eat something?’ Stephanie asked.

‘No thanks. Not that hungry, and I’m tiring of the company. You fancy a walk, Stephanie?’

‘Wouldn’t mind actually.’ She, too, rose from her chair. ‘You boys stay and enjoy the wine. We’ll see you later.’

The girls had reached the door of the restaurant when Tara turned swiftly and marched back to the table. Leaning both hands on Rutherford’s shoulders she faced Callum and said.

‘Here’s something for you to mull over while you have lunch. I still haven’t figured out why Zhou Jian was murdered, but guess who was attending the same conference in Lucerne when he was killed?’

Rutherford was already reaching for the wine; Callum stared at Tara in amazement. Now he would know how it felt to be drip-fed information. Assuming neither man would contribute an answer, she filled in the blanks.

‘Our junior minister for health.’

CHAPTER 48

After they’d wandered about town for half an hour, Stephanie suggested a walk by the river.

‘Ollie talks so much about his rowing days at school and at Oxford. Sometimes,’ Stephanie said with a sigh, ‘I wish he would take it up again. I told him he’s getting lazy. He goes to the gym a couple of times a week, but that’s about it. I’ve asked him to come running with me. But no. Thinks running is for people who don’t have a life. I told him he’s absolutely right. ‘Not much life living with you.’ He just scoffs.’

‘You do a lot of running?’ Tara asked.

‘I still compete. Middle distance stuff. I’m cutting back now; Ollie isn’t keen on me travelling all over the place.’

Tara realised how the ultra-slim, bony physique and pale complexion were typical indicators of an athlete. For now though she was more interested in what Stephanie had to say about her partner.

‘How long have you two been together?’ she asked.

Tara had steered them into Christchurch Meadow, taking a path leading down to the Isis. Her feet were getting sore from wearing the high-heeled boots, having spent the morning traipsing the streets, but she managed to slow the pace as she chatted with Stephanie. Having just learned that the girl was an athlete, there was no way she could maintain a brisk walking speed should her companion decide to treat their stroll as a workout.

‘We’ve been living together for a year. Before that we were on and off for about two.’

‘You seem to get along all right.’

‘Sweetheart at times, selfish bastard at others. That’s Ollie.’ Stephanie sounded neither happy nor sad with her description of her boyfriend. She walked with her head down, concentrating on her feet in blue espadrilles, kicking out at pebbles strewn on the path. Tara got the impression that Stephanie was keen enough to talk openly of her relationship, sensing also that she was looking for some advice.

‘Is there any reason why Ollie is particularly nervous about being here this weekend? You said that he didn’t want to come.’

‘Big coward, isn’t he?’ Stephanie laughed.

‘Understandable if you believe your life may be under threat, but do you know if Ollie has any reason to be more frightened than the rest of us?’

‘You mean does he have enemies among this bunch of people?’

‘Justin Kingsley, for instance. Has Ollie ever mentioned anything that happened between them?’

Stephanie shook her head as they came to a halt by the water’s edge. Two scullers, having passed Cox Stone and made the turn, were now headed downstream towards the boathouse. She watched them gather speed.

‘He has only ever spoken about the night Kingsley disappeared,’ Stephanie replied. ‘And that’s only since we met you in London.’

‘They didn’t have a fight? Ollie doesn’t believe that Kingsley would hold any grudge against him?’

Stephanie shook her head.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘What about Ollie and Anthony?’

‘They’re pretty close friends, although they fight all the time.’

‘What do they fight about?’ They remained on the spot, Tara hoping for a break to help ease the discomfort in her feet.

‘Money and things… Look, Tara,’ Stephanie nudged her and whispered. ‘That’s the guy who was staring at us in the pub last night.’

To their right, thirty feet and closing, was a couple walking hand in hand. The man wasn’t tall by any means, about five-eight or nine. He had a fine complexion, delicate, as if his face might be his living, a model or an actor, perhaps. Casually dressed in brown slacks and a brown chunky-knit cardigan, his face broadened to a wide smile revealing artificially whitened teeth. His companion was taller by at least two inches, although her black ankle-boots had heels much higher than Tara’s. The girl had long brown hair, blowing around a narrow face with a rather prominent upper lip and pushed-up nose. Attractive, but Tara would not have said she was pretty. She wore tight-fitting black jeans and a half-length brown tweed coat. So many emotions flooded Tara’s head before the man spoke. She’d spent all morning searching; walking through Balliol, wondering if the man Stephanie had observed watching them the night before was her Simon. She cringed at even thinking of him now as her Simon.

‘Hello, Tara,’ he said sprightly as if he’d purely by accident, by a freak of time, nature and fate, bumped into her. When he added, ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she could have lashed out at the supercilious face. Deep breaths, she thought.

‘Hello, Simon. How are you?’ She attempted to add a smile, aimed more at his girlfriend, but she was sure it looked a snarl.

‘Great,’ he replied. ‘You remember Louisa? From our year?’

‘Hi,’ the girl said with a smile and a slight wave of her free hand.

‘Sorry, Louisa, I don’t think I remember you,’ she lied, proud of herself for doing so. Louisa had indeed been in their year, but not in their social circle. Evidently though she now fitted the picture for Simon, her background seemingly more agreeable than North of England middle class. ‘Very surprised to see you in Oxford, Simon. I thought student days were consigned to the past for you?’ Unfortunately, her sarcasm seemed lost on her former lover, the man she thought she’d be spending her life with, the man who had stamped on her dreams and gouged out her heart.

‘Louisa dragged me along. She’s really into all this reunion caper. It was either come along with her, or stay at home to look after the sprogs.’

‘You have children?’ Tara felt her heart sink to her feet. One shock laid upon another. Simon a father, a painful twisting knife in her gut.

‘Two girls, four and two,’ said Louisa, proudly. ‘My husband loves them dearly, but he’s not terribly domesticated, not when it comes to potty training.’

Tara scoured her mind for something meaningful to say. How should she react to learning that Simon was married and a father?

‘I’m sorry, this is Stephanie,’ she managed. Simon and Louisa shook hands with Tara’s companion.

Suddenly her attention shot past the couple. Twenty yards behind them, under the shade of a sycamore, a man dressed in dark trousers and leather bomber jacket stood with his shaven head bowed. She could hear Simon prattling on, networking with Stephanie about living in London, while she strained to see the man’s face. She really needed to see him close up.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said, stepping around Louisa while keeping her eyes on the man beneath the tree. She didn’t think he was aware of her approach, but she’d only taken a couple of steps when he swung round. Now she felt certain. The strong jaw, serious eyes, her mind switched rapidly to the first time she’d ever seen him. The photograph in Callum’s box-file, now in her handbag. The man came towards her. She couldn’t help staring at him. But he didn’t know her. He must have been faintly aware that she had been watching him, because he looked startled as his gaze met with hers. He strolled on by, taking the path through the meadow towards Christchurch. When she turned around, Simon, Louisa and Stephanie were looking on in silence. So many things she wanted to say to him. She wanted to demonstrate that she was fine now. He’d destroyed her for a time, ruined her memories of a student life, her hopes for the future, but she was over it. Over him. She realised, too, what the previous night with Callum had been all about for her. Oh, she’d been with other men after Simon, had slept with a few, but she had never loved anyone. She hadn’t really made love to anyone until Callum. Simon laid to rest at last. Although she was dying to speak all those truths to his face, she couldn’t do it. She wanted to make him feel like she was his loss, not that he had dumped her. She wanted him to regret. But there was no time. The man in the bomber jacket was getting further away.

‘Sorry, I have to go.’

‘Tara?’ Stephanie called after her.

‘Maybe we can meet up later, Tara?’ Simon said.

‘Nice talking to you,’ said Tara, sarcastically, already on the trail of the man she never believed would show up in Oxford. She’d been so terribly wrong, instead building a case in her mind against Egerton-Hyde.

‘What’s wrong, Tara?’ Stephanie said, jogging to catch up. Tara glanced over her shoulder; Simon and his wife watched them go. She’d abandoned him. Great to think it was poignant, but she hadn’t time. She stopped dead.

‘Tara?’ Stephanie, fast becoming a bystander looked confused as Tara suddenly rushed back towards Simon.

‘Tara? Is there something wrong?’ Simon asked. She veered to her right, under the trees, a grey squirrel hopping out of her way. Papers, news cuttings, lists and photographs rolled through her head like movie credits on a cinema screen. The question of what the man had been doing under the tree lay before her, and yet she believed somehow that she already knew the answer. Stephanie walked by her side as they moved under the sycamore to the place where she’d first noticed him.

‘Tara? Can I help you with something?’ Simon called out.

‘Fuck off, Simon. That’s all I need from you. Just fuck off.’ She never even bothered to view his reaction, her mind already lost in something else, something more important. She stood before a small rectangular plaque made from brass but pitted black from weathering, and welded to a single metal stake pushed into the earth beneath the tree. Her former lover and his wife moved away, whispering between each other, but Tara was no longer aware of their ever having been there. She had moved on, too. She read the inscription on the plaque.

‘The Baby Isis?’ said Stephanie. ‘In memory of Baby Isis whose remains were discovered here. What’s this mean, Tara?’

‘Not sure yet.’ She hurried away. ‘Come on, we have to follow him.’

‘Who?’

‘Justin Kingsley.’