A Matter of Trust (16 page)

Markie watched Callum unlock his door with a decided feeling of anticipation. They had decided to go back to his place to set out a plan of campaign, and she was surprised to find him leading her to St Bede's.

‘You actually live in the college itself then?' she asked him, rather redundantly, as he opened the door and allowed her to precede him.

‘Yes. I find it convenient,' he said, not liking the implied criticism. And it was a very easy
way
to go on. The College scouts kept the rooms clean and he took all his meals in the dining hall. His rooms consisted of a sitting room, where he taught his students, and a large bedroom with en-suite bathroom. Both had big bay windows that looked out over the gardens, and famous weeping willow trees. It was a peaceful, quiet and well-ordered way to live, and it had suited him for many years.

So why did it suddenly feel so inadequate, once Markie Kendall stepped over the threshold? He watched her walk around, examining things like a wary cat just released into a new environment. He too, looked around, seeing the place where he lived through new eyes.

It was a very masculine room, filled with books, of course, that lined three of the four walls. A fireplace lay unused at the moment, although he sometimes had a real fire in the depths of winter. Big heavy furniture, comfortable for his large frame, dominated the room. Wooden floors—centuries old and original oak, played host to a large oriental carpet. He supposed that, according to the latest fashions in modern living, his home must strike her as an anachronism.

Markie watched him as he went to a small sink set in one corner, where he could make tea and coffee and toast, and put the kettle on.

‘Tea?' he asked.

‘I prefer coffee if you have it.'

‘I
do. Milk, sugar?'

‘Milk, no sugar.'

Callum nodded, feeling a rare sense of intimacy as he made her, for the first time, a hot drink. It felt like a landmark of some kind, and again he felt a warning siren sound in his head.

This woman was getting way too close to him, way too fast. It made him feel both hunted and deliciously excited at the same time. His relationships in the past had always followed the same tried and true pattern. He would meet someone, usually a visiting academic, and a mutual cautious sounding-out period would begin. Were they both single or at least unattached? Were they compatible. Were they both sure they were seeking the same thing? In Callum's case that always fell a fair distance from a one-night stand, but well short of a long-term relationship.

His affairs tended to last between three and six months, and usually ended when the lady concerned went on to pastures new. He never promised anything, and never took anything for granted. He enjoyed being friends as well as lovers, and none of his partings had been anything but mutually amicable, with just enough regret on both sides to be healthy, but never enough to make either one heart sore.

He'd always felt that that was both sensible and to be desired.

Somehow he couldn't see that pattern
repeating
itself with a woman like this. She was a supermodel, for pete's sake. Men adored and wanted her. She could have her pick of men.

And yet, he was fairly sure, she was interested in him.

And, OK, he'd learned from the college gossip mill that she was in Oxford only for a few months, whilst she was sorting out some sort of perfume launch. So in theory, she met at least some of his criteria.

But it was pointless even speculating about it. There was no way he was going to allow anything to happen as far as this woman was concerned. He hardly needed to have all his degrees in psychology to know that she spelt trouble with a capital T.

He made her coffee and took it over to her. She was sitting in a chair opposite the window, and the light fell over her, highlighting her fabulous high cheekbones and the glory that was her hair. He felt his breath catch, and took a long, slow inhalation of breath.

She reached up and took the mug from him, smiling a thanks and watching him as he took his own mug of tea and stood looking out of the window with his broad back to her. He was so damned tall—and fit! More than ever, Markie was determined to see him naked. The thought of it thrilled her in a way she'd never felt before.

‘I'll have to talk to June,' Callum said softly. ‘Sir Vivian's wife,' he added, when she gave
him
a questioning look. ‘If he confided to anyone about what was bothering him, then it would be her. But she's in the hospital, so I'll have to be delicate.'

Markie sipped her coffee, but her eyes couldn't help but stray to his large, capable hands. She could almost feel them being ‘delicate' on her skin, and she caught her breath on a wave of sudden, giddying desire.

‘Perhaps she'll give me permission to go through his papers,' he carried on, seemingly oblivious to her thoughts. ‘And I don't think Sin Jun would have any objections to me searching Vivian's rooms at college. Not that he was there much, but he might have left something of interest behind. Because Sir Vivian was an academic through and through, and he would have left research, and well-documented notes behind. I just can't see him making such an allegation without having solid proof as back-up. Are you listening to me?' he asked sharply.

Markie, who'd been wondering what his bedroom looked like, and if he had one of those old-fashioned but really roomy fourposter beds in there, abruptly blushed at his sudden question and sat up straight guiltily. Instantly sloshing hot coffee onto her top.

‘Oh damn!' she said, standing up.

‘The bathroom's through there,' he said, his lips twitching in a suppressed smile, and indicating the door further across the room.
‘Help
yourself to a towel.'

‘Thanks.'

But Markie had no sooner gone through into the bedroom, than he heard a knock at the outer door. He frowned, knowing that he wasn't expecting a student for a tutorial for another hour at least. He answered the door and sighed when Rosemary Naismith sailed past him before he could even attempt to stop her.

She was wearing a long brown, orange and black dress that clung to all her curves, and she shrugged off a beige mackintosh as she passed him, slinging it across the back of one of the chairs.

‘Well, congratulations on the Prize,' she said dryly. ‘I didn't get the chance to say it at the party. You were too busy being feted by everyone else,' she added waspishly.

Callum took a long, slow breath. ‘Rosemary,' he said flatly.

Rosemary laughed, a brittle tense sound that made his eyes sharpen on her. He noticed that she'd lost weight recently, and was suddenly looking her age. Was she ill?

‘Would you like something to drink?' he asked, and as expected, she immediately requested a Scotch. She'd always preferred alcohol whenever she could get it, he remembered, as he poured her a small quantity into a tumbler. As he did so, he cast a quick, anxious look at the open bedroom door.
He
thought he could detect, just faintly, the sound of running water. But he wouldn't have long before Markie came back.

‘Look, Rosemary, I'm busy right now,' he began, but to his dismay, when he turned with the drink in his hand, she was right behind him. She took the glass from his hand and swallowed the drink in one go.

‘Relax will you?' she purred. ‘Anyone would think you were frightened that I was going to ravish you.' Her voice dropped to a husky purr. ‘Unless of course, that's what you're hoping for? Because you know I'd be only too happy to oblige,' her voice carried clearly across the space to the woman who was just emerging from the bathroom.

Markie Kendall froze.

‘Rosemary,' she heard Callum say, and his voice seemed to have a warning edge. Then she strode forward, and stopped in the doorway, surveying the scene.

A blonde woman had wrapped herself around the stiff and immobile figure of Callum Fielding, and she was kissing him as if her life depended on it.

Markie felt a fierce flash of jealousy and possessiveness, and forced it down. After all, what had she expected? Callum was a gorgeous, unmarried man. There was bound to be a woman in his life.

As she watched, his large hands came up and forced his companion away. Then she saw
his
eyes fall on her, and his jaw clenched.

‘Sorry, didn't mean to play gooseberry,' she called gaily, and heard the other woman gasp as she turned to look at her. But already Markie was making her way to the door, barely giving her a glance.

‘I'll probably see you around some time, Dr Fielding,' Markie tossed casually across her shoulder as she forced herself to walk nonchalantly to the door and let herself out.

Once outside, she scowled ferociously at an innocent passing student, and stomped off towards her hotel.

In his room, Callum stared at the closed door, then shot Rosemary Naismith a curious glance as she laughed grimly.

‘Sorry about that,' Rosemary lied. ‘I had no idea you had some floozy waiting for you in the bedroom.' She grabbed her coat and sauntered to the door.

‘When you've finished with her, why don't you give me a call, Callum?' She laughed again, but it was strained and tight, and again Callum wondered at the stress in her body language.

‘Rosemary, are you all right?' he asked softly.

Rosemary, sensing the pity in his voice, turned on him furiously. ‘Oh go to hell, Callum,' she hissed. ‘You're a joke, do you know that?'

And her taunting words seemed to echo
around
the room long after she left, leaving him feeling very uneasy.

Was he a joke? He was not yet thirty-five, but what did he really have to show for his time on the planet? Suddenly, he knew he was at a crossroads, and knew that there was only one person to blame for this sudden upheaval in his once orderly and comfortable life.

Markie Kendall. Or shouldn't he really be calling her Marcheta the supermodel? A woman used to the glitz and glamour of a world far removed from his dreaming spires. Now that really had to be a joke, didn't it? A woman like that, and him? They were chalk and cheese. Oil and water. He was insane to even contemplate it.

‘Damn that woman,' Callum Fielding said with feeling.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lisle glanced out of the window of the incident room, watching a group of amicably arguing undergraduates sprint across the Wallace quad, towards the main gates.

Lord St John James had acted swiftly to his request for a room in college, where he and his team could work in peace, and had allocated them a large lecture-cum-theatre room in Webster. The stage that ran the length of one
entire
wall was empty now, and the police computers, bulletin boards, desks and other paraphernalia looked oddly out of place in the high-ceilinged, elegant room.

He sighed and got back to the report he was reading. It was not only dry stuff, it was getting him no farther forward. Although it was only the third day, and after a few good nights of reasonable sleep, he was feeling much more alert and fresh, he was getting that sinking feeling in his stomach that told him that a case was going nowhere, and not particularly fast at that.

He had yet to interview the widow, a task he was definitely not looking forward to, and all the preliminary reports to get through, where he might just come across the odd nugget or two if he was lucky.

An image of flashing green eyes swam across his vision and he blinked them away quickly. Had he really kissed one of his prime suspects! Hell, if his superiors ever found out . . .

He made a grim sound low down in his throat and tried to concentrate, and forget about her. He'd left Nesta Aldernay's bedsit, shaken and utterly stirred, but that was all over now. Unless something else came up, there was no reason to ever see her again.

Which was just as well, considering. He was getting too damned old, and had always been too damn mean, to get bowled over by love's
sweet
dream. Red hair and green eyes or not!

The report he was reading was by one of the men who had sealed off Sir Vivian's room in his old college. Although no longer strictly active, the old Don's status had ensured that his office remained his domain, and probably would have remained his for life, if he understood the way Oxford Colleges functioned.

The neat and conscientious handwriting listed lots of academic papers, the beginnings of a new book, diaries (nothing juicy) and the usual run-of-the-mill finds. Nevertheless, Lisle knew he'd have to look the office over for himself, in more minute detail. He could afford to miss nothing.

The antiquated telephone on his desk, ferreted out by a disgruntled Bursar, trilled like a canary with a bad cough. He reached for it quickly, glad of the distraction, and listened to a report on the last of the party-goers to be questioned. As with most of them, they'd seen or heard nothing out of the ordinary that night.

Lisle thanked the detective constable for the report and hung up, and then began to pace. Every few minutes he'd glance at his watch. Two constables, who were collating data, watched their chief anxiously. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of DI Jarvis.

Again the phone rang, and again it was bad news. The forensics people assigned to St
Bede's
archery room had been through every bow and arrow in the place. The bolt found on the victim did not match any bolt used by the students or staff of the college. Nor could it be forensically linked to any of the various bows and crossbows in the St Bede's arsenal.

He again thanked the messenger of bad news, sighed, and walked to his car. No point in putting it off any longer. He headed up the Woodstock road, turning off up Bevington Road to get onto the Banbury Road, telling himself it was always best to get unpleasant duties over with quickly. He turned onto the Marsden Ferry Road towards the suburb of Headington, trying not to think ahead too much.

Long before he got there, the big white building on top of the hill was clearly visible—the John Radcliffe Hospital. The big white elephant, as his mother had always called it. One of the finest teaching hospitals in the world, it was closely allied to the Medical school within the Oxford University system itself. No wonder Oxford had to turn away more potential students in Medicine than almost any other subject.