The Queen's Cipher (20 page)

“Good day Milton,” she said crisply before hanging up the phone.

1 MAY 2014

Dawn was breaking over the Oxford skyline when the rain arrived, drenching those waiting on Magdalen Bridge to celebrate May Day. Drunken revellers in tuxedos and ball gowns howled at the elements while more sober onlookers raised a forest of umbrellas against the unwelcome squall.

Huddling under Freddie’s large black canopy, Sam looked on in wonder as male students entertained their girlfriends by dropping their trousers and leaping off the bridge into the icy water below. What a bewildering race the British truly are, she thought, loving tradition and tomfoolery in almost equal measure, perhaps as an antidote to their dreadful weather.

On the stroke of six, soaring voices greeted the new day. The whole of Magdalen’s college choir, men and boys alike, had climbed up the church tower to give their traditional recital.

Now is the month of Maying, when many lads are playing! Fa la la la la!

Each with his bonny lass, a-dancing on the grass. Fa la la la la!

In spite of the downpour, a crowd had gathered, heads tilting up to catch the angelic sound of the boy sopranos as they segued into John Milton’s beautiful ode to a May morning.

Hail, bounteous May! That dost inspire

Mirth and youth and warm desire

There was plenty of warm desire around. A kilted Scotsman lurched across the bridge giving his stiletto heeled partner a piggyback ride. Sam wondered why anyone would do such a thing. And yet here she was shivering in a damp mackintosh, watching her partner cavorting around with a bunch of inebriated youngsters feeling pangs of jealousy. This was a new emotion, a sickening combination of possessiveness, suspicion and anger, and she wasn’t comfortable with it.

The green-eyed monster, as Shakespeare called it, had begun to gnaw at her when she caught an attractive graduate girl flirting with Freddie at an all-night party. It was one of those peculiarly Oxford affairs where arrogant young men and women with vaguely familiar surnames competed to be the centre of attention. Freddie had been swept away on a tide of student admiration – he was much more popular with them than any of his fellow dons - leaving her an obvious target in her short black chiffon cocktail dress. Not that she minded men talking to her. What she didn’t like was the masculine assumption that it might lead to something.

Bottle in hand she had made her way to a moth-eared sofa. Goyte’s requiem for a doomed relationship was playing on the multi room audio system. The music was loud and percussive and made her believe that everyone else in the room was having a better time than she was. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt herself being groped. A good-looking student in a beautifully cut jacket was running his fingers over her knee.

“You’ve got the prettiest legs I’ve ever seen,” he shouted at her.

Sam removed the offending hand. “Don’t even think about it,” she said.

“What are you doing here then?”

“Dying of boredom, if you must know,” she countered.

It was time to find Freddie. He’d been gone at least an hour. As she edged through a crowd of hip-grinding, air-punching dancers her way was blocked by a bearded anthropology graduate babbling on about the socio-cultural implications of a woman’s dress code. No sooner had she escaped his clutches than she was accosted by a dandy in a dinner jacket who wanted to explain the British political system to her.

“Far from the ‘welfare-state’ socialism rendered unobtainable by Thatcher, this coalition government is trying to build community cohesion from the ground up,” he told her. “The trouble lies in deciding how to deal with those who fail to do their duty.”

Sam wanted to scream at him. Shut the fuck up!

“Look,” he said, sensing her hostility, “I’m trying to tell you what matters in Britain today.”

“And I’m telling you I couldn’t care less. Find someone else, why don’t you?”

Finally she reached the hall and picked her way upstairs, forcing necking couples to part sufficiently to let her pass. She found Freddie holding court in the spare bedroom, sitting on the edge of a divan, a glazed look in his eye, with three young girls at his feet.

One of them, a serious looking student in full frame glasses, was talking about a survey published in
The Oxford Student
in which three quarters of the feminine intake had admitted to playing down their intelligence for men’s benefit. A second girl, heavily made up with bronze mascara and pink lip gloss, interrupted her rival to say that intelligence simply wasn’t sexy any more. Standing in the doorway, Sam decided to tell these silly harpies that Dr Brett had a prior engagement. Feminism, after all, allowed women to make choices for their men.

Before she could exercise this right, Freddie’s remaining admirer rose from the floor and cuddled up to him on the bed. Her appeal was obvious: long legs, faded low-slung jeans, scoop necked blouse, shoulder length copper hair and a golden piercing in the left nostril to convey attitude. What’s more, this man-eater seemed to be on familiar terms with him.

“Fuck intelligence,” she said emphatically, stroking his stupefied cheek with the palm of her hand. “If you really want to learn something, you should have a tutorial with Dr Brett here. He can bring Shakespeare to life. Can’t you, Freddie?”

Apart from a twitching muscle in his trouser leg the object of her attention hardly seemed to notice what she was saying. As an appalled onlooker, Sam could see his bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils. When he spoke his words were hesitant and slurred.

“My charms are all o’erthrown, and what strength I have …” His voice faded away. Prospero had left the building, sailing off to a land of chemical dreams.

“You’re stoned, you are,” the girl said in a throaty whisper, rubbing her coppery tresses against his shoulder, “and here’s me wanting to tell you about my big day out.”

She did so anyway, supplying an eye witness account of what went on in the National Stud’s covering shed during the breeding season. “So I’m taking a butcher’s when the mares arrive and most of them have what are called ‘foals at foot.’ That means they can’t be separated from their offspring during the sex act. Apparently, it’s in the foal’s best interest to watch mummy being boffed by a stallion. If this happened to us we’d call it child abuse. Guess how long a mare gets with her hunk in hooves? I’ll tell you. It’s all over inside a minute. Far too quick, I’d say.”

Like a snake, the girl was coiling herself around Freddie without any noticeable resistance on his part. He seemed intent on studying her pale face and pre-Raphaelite hair as if he was John Everett Millais and she his model.

Sam had seen enough. “So this is what you get up to, Freddie? Well, don’t let
me
interrupt you,” she shouted at him.

The redhead gave her a cheeky grin. “What’s
your
problem then?”

“My problem, as you so eloquently put it, is that you are pawing my boyfriend.”

“Sorry, I’m sure. I didn’t know he was yours. Hoy Freddie, do you belong to this woman here?” She spoke like a London market trader.

Freddie seemed incapable of speech while the girl’s companions sniggered unpleasantly.

Sam wasn’t going to let this Cockney sparrow get the better of her. “Listen cutie pie,” she said in voice as sweet as acid. “You’re out of your league here. Why don’t you scuttle off like a good little girl?”

“No, you fuck off Yank, back to wherever you came from.”

“What a delightful use of the English language. You really are something. I’m already visualizing the duct tape over your mouth.”

“And who’s going to put it there. Not a madam like you.”

“You arrogant stick insect, I’ve half a mind to …”

By now, Freddie was showing signs of life, flapping his arms around like a boxing referee, but the damage was done. Sam felt humiliated and banged the bedroom door behind her in a blind fury. The sound of laughter reached her ears as she rushed downstairs and stormed out of the house.

Out in the cold night air, walking along a wet pavement towards the city centre, Sam quickly regretted having flounced off in such a dramatic manner. Yes, the young slut had been coming on to Freddie and no, he hadn’t objected, but what had she expected? He was as high as a kite and easily led. As for the girl, she had a sexy body as well as a foul mouth.

A taxi pulled up alongside her and the pliable man opened the door. Sam clambered in without a word. It was warmer and safer inside the vehicle. Freddie did all the apologizing: he hadn’t meant to desert her. He hadn’t known what he was doing. To deal with his deep-seated depression, his doctor had him on benzodiazepine but it didn’t go well with booze. He wouldn’t do that again. And she was inclined to believe him – up to a point at least – and had raised no objection when the taxi dropped them at the end of High Street to greet the dawning May Day with Magdalen’s choristers.

That was a couple of hours ago. Now she was wet and tired.

“Let’s go home, darling.” Freddie had read her thoughts.

Back at the flat his hands gently undressed her as he talked about the unconditional state of the heart. No ‘ifs’ or ‘buts.’ And no clothes either. Soon she was lying on the bed, her legs apart, writhing in pleasure. Then the bell rang and kept on ringing. Her partner reluctantly put on his dressing gown and went to the door. She heard voices in the hall and the sound of the kitchen door closing.

Something wasn’t right. She could sense that. Slipping on a short, terry-cloth bathrobe and a pair of flip-flops, she rushed to join him. Freddie and a dark-haired man were sitting at the kitchen table. Their morning caller was a tall, slightly rumpled version of Paul McCartney in a belted black raincoat who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Chris Owen of the Counter Terrorism Command.

“Sorry to disturb you, miss.” She struggled to make out what he was saying. The detective spoke with a nasal accent and strangled his vowels.

“There are questions I need to ask. That’s if you don’t mind, sir.” The inspector was looking at her legs as she stood protectively behind Freddie’s chair.

“Fire away,” he said casually.

“I’m investigating the death of Professor Cartwright. I believe you knew him.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” She could feel her heart thudding. “He was once my tutor.”

“That’s right, sir, and you fell out, didn’t you. Rather badly I would say.”

“Yes, that’s a matter of public record. What’s your point?”

“His car exploded not far from here.”

“I think everyone knows that,” Freddie snapped.

DI Owen nodded affably. “Just so, but for the record, where were you when the bomb went off.”

“He was in bed with me, inspector.” Sam intervened. “I’m his alibi. We were staying in Stratford and you can check that out with the hotel if you like.”       

“That won’t be necessary, miss – not for now anyway.”

The inspector produced a pocketbook and made a note. He seemed in no hurry.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” she asked.

“That would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Sam put the kettle on and dropped Earl Grey tea bags into a pot.

“What is the Counter Terrorism Command?” Freddie was eager to make conversation. “Is it like Special Branch?”

“That’s right, sir. SO15 took over from Special Branch a few years ago. Our chief role is to protect London from the threat of terrorism but in order to deliver our operational objectives going forward we also support terrorist investigations outside the capital.”

DI Owen was obviously up on the latest police jargon and he had the presence to go with it. He was like an American television cop, she thought, compulsive viewing.

“Professor Cartwright was killed by a remote controlled car bomb. Perhaps you read about it in the papers.”

“No, I can’t say I did.”

Sam took a tentative sip of tea and her stomach heaved. Owen was obviously leading up to something.

“Do you know anything about bomb-making,” he asked.

“Really, inspector, what kind of question is that.”

“A relevant one, sir, and I’d be made up if you answered it.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, what are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. But it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Professor Cartwright claims to have new evidence about your role in a plagiarism scandal and he gets blown up. This must give us pause.” DI Owen raised an eyebrow.

Sam’s blood ran cold. The inspector had segued from management speak into Hamlet’s famous soliloquy for a purpose. What he was really saying was, whoa there, you limp-wristed academic, you’re a murder suspect and don’t forget it.

Time to end this, she thought. “Look inspector, if you’ve no further questions, we’d like to get back to bed.”

The detective hadn’t quite finished. “Just one more thing, sir, I’m looking at that kitchen shelf over there and wondering why you possess a book called
Buda’s Wagon: A Brief History of the Car Bomb
? A strange choice of bedtime reading, wouldn’t you say?”

She could see Freddie’s distress. “You may not know this, inspector, but my parents were blown up by an IRA bomb in Northern Ireland. I wanted to understand what had happened. Davis’s book traces vehicle bombing back to a horse and cart that detonated on Wall Street in 1920. Since then it’s been like an implacable virus, a cheap way of fighting a guerrilla war with ever-increasing amounts of collateral damage. Davis calls the 9/11 planes car bombs with wings.”

“And did knowing all of this help in any way?” Owen seemed genuinely interested.

“No, I can’t say it did. Reducing decent law-abiding citizens to dust doesn’t further anyone’s cause. But terrorists don’t think like that, do they. They’re so righteous about what they are doing. Deep down, I think they enjoy inflicting pain and misery.”  

DI Owen closed his notebook and rose to leave. “My commiserations on your loss, sir, I’ll trouble you no further. Thanks for the tea, miss. I can see myself out.”