What Men Say (12 page)

“Please,” Bridget exclaimed, suddenly looking queasy again, “let's change the subject.”

Janet gave her a startled look and seemed to be about to protest but at that moment they all heard the sound of the doorbell stammering its exhausted message. Loretta frowned and glanced at her watch. “It can't be Audrey
yet,” she murmured, and appealed to Bridget: “Are you expecting anyone?” Bridget shook her head.

The men waiting on the path, talking in low voices, hardly needed to show their warrant cards for Loretta to guess their occupation. They stood with their legs apart, balancing on the balls of their feet, and the one with dark curly hair turned to her with a cocky, assessing look which made her simultaneously angry and nervous.

“Dr. Lawson?” he asked, sliding his hand out of his pocket just long enough for her to glimpse an official-looking card in his palm. “Sergeant Brandon, Thames Valley Police.” He jerked his head sideways at his younger, fresh-faced companion. “DC Yate. Dr. Bennett in?”

“Yes,” Loretta admitted, glancing over his shoulder in fear of seeing a squad car which had come to take Bridget away. “But if it's about the press conference—”

“What?” He made it sound as though this was the last thing on his mind. A burst of female laughter drifted up from the kitchen and his eyes narrowed. “Down there, is she?” He leaned over the railings and peered into the basement.

“Yes,” Loretta said again, “we're just having lunch.” This mild attempt to suggest they had chosen a bad moment had no effect; Brandon advanced until he was so close that Loretta could see the five-o'clock shadow forming on his chin and she had no choice but to fall back. The other detective followed, closing the front door behind him, and suddenly the hall seemed crowded. Loretta retreated further, leading the way down the stairs and trying to explain about preeclampsia, but Brandon brushed past her.

“Dr. Bennett?” He strode into the kitchen, with Loretta following and making anxious signs, and gave
Janet the merest glance; he had obviously been well briefed. “Sorry to bother you again, Dr. Bennett, but there's a couple of things.” He felt in his pocket and produced two sheets of paper which Loretta, who was just behind him, recognized over his shoulder as photocopies of the handwritten pages Bridget had prepared for the Inspector that morning. Someone had added notes and question marks in blue biro, and ringed one particular day near the beginning.

“Here we are,” Brandon was saying, “Thursday the twenty-fifth of July. It says here you left home at ten to nine, a few minutes after Mr. Bennett—Mr. Becker. You come into Oxford in separate cars, is that right?”

Bridget nodded, uncomprehending.

“OK, let's see. You arrived at your—at college around nine thirty, worked for a couple of hours . . . You walked round to the Bodleian Library, got there—it doesn't say what time but it would take you, what, ten minutes? Quarter to twelve, say? You worked till about quarter to one, it's all a bit vague, isn't it? Went out for a bite to eat and do some shopping, came back half one. Worked till half past four, nipped back to college to pick up your car and arrived back at Thebes Farm approx five thirty. Mr. Becker arrived half an hour later and you had a friend round for dinner, a Dr. Michie, it says here.”

“Yes, he's a friend of Sam's. From the university physics department.”

“You don't say what time Dr. Michie arrived, Dr. Bennett, or when he left.”

Bridget breathed out noisily, leaving no one in any doubt that she had no patience for such nit-picking. “He came at seven, if you must know. The thing about physicists”—she glanced at Janet as though this might be of more general interest—“the thing about physicists
is they like to eat early, I don't know why. I didn't do anything special, there was some fresh pasta in the freezer . . . You really want to know all this?”

He nodded.

“Well, I wasn't feeling well and I left them to it after we'd eaten, they had work to discuss. I looked into the dining room about half nine and said good night, and I heard Tony leave around ten. I read for a while and Sam came up after he'd seen
News at Ten.
That do you?”

“Mr. Becker didn't go out at all, then, either during the evening or after you went to bed?”

“Of course he didn't go out. What is all this?”

“Just getting it clear.” He lowered his head, stared at the sheet of paper in his hand and then tried a new tack. “It doesn't say where you went for lunch, Dr. Bennett, on Thursday the twenty-fifth. If you could be a bit more specific?” The other detective, standing just inside the doorway, took out a notepad and prepared to write.

“Lunch? This is Thursday two weeks ago we're talking about?” She waited for confirmation and said uncertainly: “I expect I had a sandwich, I did say I'd done it without my diary—”

“Ah, yes, I was coming to that. Can we have a look at it, Dr. Bennett, this diary?”

“My diary—what for?”

“Fill in the gaps a bit, that's all. Things you might've forgotten to mention—you'd be surprised what turns out to be important in a murder inquiry. This sandwich—you make it yourself? Bring it from home?”

“
No.
” Bridget looked comically put out by the suggestion. “I—there's a sandwich bar in Broad Street.”

“Sandwich bar in Broad Street.” He glanced at his sidekick, making sure he was writing down her answers. “Called?”

She shook her head. “I've no idea. You can't miss it, it's on the opposite side from Blackwell's. Blackwell's main shop that is. Near the—not the art shop, the paperback one.” She tailed off, apparently realizing that a shop with no fewer than four branches in the same stretch of street was hardly a useful landmark. “Does it matter?”

“See anyone you know, did you, Dr. Bennett? In the Bodleian?”

Bridget shook her head.

“No one at all? I'd have thought you dons, you'd be bound to know each other.”

Bridget smiled. “It's not just members of the university who use it, you know. All sorts of writers and researchers, biographers . . . I don't know what the membership is but it must be thousands and thousands.”

“You don't mind if I ask—what were you doing there?”

“I . . .” She hesitated. “Research.”

“What sort of research?”

“I was—I had to look something up.”

He nodded, waited.

“Polidori's
Vampyre
. . . for a paper I was writing.”

“Whose vampire?” He turned and grinned at his colleague. “Spell that, can you, Charlie?”

“Polidori. P-O-L-I-D-O-R-I. It's the first vampire story in English.”

“Dracula, eh? Like all those old films?”

“
Dracula
—Bram Stoker's much later, actually.”

“Oh.” He accepted the correction without interest. “Where'd you actually do this work, Dr. Bennett? Big place, the Bodleian.”

“You order the book in the catalog room and then you . . . you collect it and find a place to read.”

“Where's that? Where'd you read it?”

“The Upper Reading Room.”

“In one of those funny cubbyholes?”

“Yes.”

“You remember the number?”

“The number?”

“OK. Just thought you might, staring at it half the day. Staff know you, do they?”

“The staff? I doubt it.”

“Not even by sight?”

“They deal with dozens of people every day.”

“OK. Thanks, Dr. Bennett . . . Oh, this diary. Where is it, actually?”

“Where? It's—I think I left it at college on Friday. By mistake.”

“What's the drill then? All right if we go and pick it up?”

“Pick it up? Good God, no. Donald—Professor Cromer—I'll get it myself if you really think—”

“When?”

“As soon as I—this afternoon.”

Loretta said warningly: “Remember Audrey's coming at four.”

“Oh.” Bridget put a hand up to her hair. “Later maybe, after Audrey's been, my GP.”

“OK, Dr. Bennett, we'll let you get back to your lunch. Come on, Charlie, we've disturbed these ladies long enough.” He gave a stagey wave and went to the door, turning back to Bridget as his sidekick disappeared up the stairs. “Give us a ring, won't you, when you've got the diary. We'll give you a receipt so it's all nice and official. After you.” He stood back to allow Loretta to pass and, when she didn't move, left the room with a slight shrug. Loretta followed him up the stairs to the front door, feeling like an unpaid commissionaire.

“. . . Donald'11 go
berserk
if they turn up at college,” Bridget was saying when she returned to the kitchen. Her face was flushed and she moved about restlessly, trailing one hand along the mantelpiece and looking down in surprise at the dust on her fingers. “Why do they—can they
make
me give them my diary? What's so special about the twenty-fifth?”

“I assume that's when she arrived in England.” Janet poured an inch of water into her glass, drank it in one gulp and stood up. “Do you have a solicitor, Bridget?”

“A—only the one we used for conveyancing. I'm going to ring Sam.” She peered round the room as though she'd forgotten where the telephone was and Loretta, who was standing in front of it, held it out to her.

“Talk to him about getting a solicitor,” Janet said seriously. “You need someone who's used to dealing with these people.”

Bridget was already dialing. “Elaine? Is Sam there? When're you expecting him back? Could you? At Loretta's. Thanks.” She replaced the receiver, handed the phone back to Loretta and said bleakly: “He's gone to the press conference, apparently. I've left a message.”

Janet checked her watch. “I have to go—I've got a student coming at half past three.” She rested an arm lightly on Bridget's shoulders. “You will do something, won't you? About getting a solicitor?”

“Mmm.” Bridget nodded distractedly and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for—I'll come up with you,” she added, suddenly changing her mind and moving towards the door. “They can't just turn up at college without permission, can they?”

“Just a second.” Janet turned to Loretta, whom Bridget seemed to have forgotten. “Goodbye, Loretta. Thanks for lunch.”

“You're welcome,” she said automatically and listened with relief as the two women went upstairs, returning to the subject of whether the police could enter college premises without seeking formal permission from someone in authority. The discussion continued on the pavement outside the house and Loretta fell back into a chair, staring into space and rubbing her tired eyes. The kitchen grew dark as unseen clouds passed overhead and she shivered.

“Let's go for a walk.” Bridget reappeared, her color still high and her eyes darting round the room as though she was trying to memorize its contents.

Loretta looked up. “A walk? Now?”

“Why not? Audrey won't be here for an hour.”

“Shouldn't we—if you've got the key to your room I could go and get your diary.” She made the offer unenthusiastically.

Bridget shook her head violently.
“Please,
Loretta—just for half an hour.” She turned towards the window as a shaft of brilliant light illuminated the kitchen and said wistfully, if not very accurately: “It's such a lovely day.”

Loretta breathed out, throwing back her head and allowing her shoulders to sag. “All right,” she said, conceding it was a more attractive way of spending the afternoon than driving into the center of town and looking for somewhere to park near Bridget's college. “Just give me five minutes to clear these things away.”

By the time Loretta had loaded the dishwasher, found her sunglasses and persuaded Bridget to borrow a cotton sweater, the sun was no more than a pale disc behind thick clouds. She followed Bridget out of the house, flinching as a gust of wind seized her hair and flung it across her face. Momentarily blinded, she
bumped into Bridget, who had stopped without warning at the wrought-iron gate.

“Miss Bennett?”

Loretta pushed her hair back as a dark man in a flashy suit levered himself away from a parked car and strode towards them. His smile faded slightly as he saw Loretta and his eyes flicked back and forth between them as though he was no longer sure which was his quarry. “I've been trying your bell but it doesn't work.”

“Who are you?” Loretta insinuated herself between Bridget and the gate. Something in her brain murmured “journalist” and for a moment she thought she'd met him before; then she realized he reminded her of an old NUJ recruiting poster, a film still with a satirical caption which John Tracey used to have pinned on the wall above his desk at the
Sunday Herald.

“Barry Webb.” Discomfited by her scrutiny, he thrust out his hand and muttered the name of a tabloid newspaper. When Loretta ignored it he converted the movement into an introduction, waving forward a woman who had just got out of a car parked on double yellow lines further down the road. “And this . . .” He waited for her to join him by the gate.
“This
is the Contessa Davvero.”

Loretta blinked; it was the sort of name she had encountered only in
Hello!,
leafing through back numbers in her sister's loo. The Contessa didn't remotely resemble a reporter or a photographer—she radiated the confidence of a minor celebrity, posing on the pavement like a film star about to be interviewed about her new lover or her new Mercedes. Loretta couldn't imagine why she was here, with this raffish tabloid hack, and she stared in amazement at the Contessa's honey-colored hair, shocking-pink suit and spectacular gold earrings.

“Adviser to royalty and the stars,” the reporter said rapidly, like an actor who has belatedly developed doubts about his script, “including the Prin—”