The Bursar's Wife (20 page)

Once outside the car Mark opened the driver’s door and retrieved his cap, using it to quickly buff a bit of the wing mirror before putting it on. I wandered back to my own car and got in, retrieving the small pair of binos from the glove compartment. I trained them on the group approaching the Merc. I only recognised Brampton and Quintin, having an earnest discussion. What I mean is he was doing the talking, she was doing the listening. It was an intense discourse, not about the weather. When they got to the car park they shook hands with the other guests and went to the Merc. Mark opened the rear door and Quintin gestured to Brampton to get in. She shook her head and pointed off somewhere. I followed her finger with the binos and saw her car with Stubbing sitting at the wheel, who waved at me without smiling. I waved back; no doubt she’d seen me talking to Mark. I swivelled the binos back to see Quintin say something to Brampton. She gestured to Stubbing to tell her she was going with Quintin and got into the back of the Merc. Quintin got in behind her and Mark closed the door.

I watched them drive off with Stubbing following and was about to put the binos away and follow when I spotted Sylvia and Lucy coming over the grass. They were having an equally intense discussion, a restrained argument really. At least Sylvia was being restrained, Lucy was animated and angry, not the kind of upset you might expect from someone who’d just been to her father’s funeral. When they got to the car park they stood there looking around as if expecting someone to be waiting. I was curious to see how they were getting home since both Quintin’s and Brampton’s car had now left. Sylvia stood there in head to toe black: hat, designer suit, gloves, stockings (I refused to believe that Sylvia was the sort to wear tights) and heels. She looked back at the approaching mourners. Lucy was also in black, but without the hat and gloves. They must have done the condolences thing back at the service and were expecting to have left before everyone else. Now they would have to stand there while all the mourners went past to their cars – they were approaching over the bank. I turned on the ignition and eased the car out towards them.

They took no notice of me and I realised that my car was not one they associated with anyone they knew. I leant across and wound down the passenger window.

“Sylvia.”

“George?”

“Hello.” Lucy blushed at seeing me. “Have you lost your ride?” I asked.

“Judith was going—”

“Let’s just get in, Mummy, please.”

Sylvia glanced at the approaching group who were now in hailing distance and then back at the car. Either way she was going to be embarrassed. Lucy made the decision for her and climbed in the back, moving papers and cans and the large screw-top Tupperware container that I use to urinate in when on a stake-out. I opened the passenger door and Sylvia got in.

* * *

We drove without talking and it wasn’t until I was on the Huntingdon Road and heading towards Cambridge that I realised I didn’t know where I was taking them.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“Back to the reception at the college, please,” Sylvia said. I could feel her eyes on me. “Thank you for coming to the funeral, George.”

“He didn’t come for the funeral, Mummy, he came to look for suspects, didn’t you, George?”

“Don’t be silly, darling,” Sylvia said.

“I’m not being silly, I’m being sensible. Why would he come to the funeral? He didn’t know Daddy. Besides, look at his suit, he’s hardly dressed for a funeral.” Sylvia didn’t say anything and I kept quiet, concentrating hard on the traffic-free road. “He’s looking into Daddy’s death, aren’t you, George? The detective always attends the victim’s funeral because the murderer always does.” Sylvia snapped her head round to look at her daughter.

“Shut up, Lucy.” But Lucy ignored her; I could see her in the rear-view mirror looking at the back of my head.

“Do you think that American, Mr Boyd, had anything to do with it? I discovered today that he knew Daddy at university. Do you think that’s relevant?”

I glanced at Sylvia but she was looking out at the scenery as if seeing it for the first time.

“He knew Mummy as well there, didn’t he, Mummy? Perhaps they were lovers or something.”

I risked a glance at Sylvia and saw her turquoise eyes were bright with tears. I wondered whether Lucy knew that Sylvia knew she was seeing Quintin. I would have bashed their heads together metaphorically had they not just come from a funeral.

“Your father committed suicide, Lucy,” I said. “The police and coroner confirmed it.” Lucy slumped back into the seat. Our eyes met in the rear-view mirror and I could see the hurt but also desperation and confusion.

* * *

At Morley Lucy opened the car door before I’d even come to a stop and was up the stairs and at the front door by the time I had. She left the back door open for the heat to escape. I leant back and pulled the door closed, which brought me close to Sylvia’s neck and perfume. Sylvia showed no inclination to get out.

“She’s been through a lot, George, please excuse her,” she said.

I nodded. “What about you?” I asked. “How are you holding up?”

“It would have been better for us if Elliot had been murdered. A suicide is just…”

Her mouth trembled and I wished I hadn’t asked; it wasn’t the time. She recovered and flashed a joyless smile.

“Thanks for the lift; I have no idea what happened to Judith.” I didn’t tell her she’d driven off with Quintin. She got out and I was left with the ghost of her expensive fragrance.

IN MY BEDROOM I LAY ON MY FRONT AND DOZED FOR A BIT
, thinking of my dinner with Nina in a couple of hours and the possibilities that might arise after dessert. I felt like a teenager on a promise of getting to remove a bra, it was pathetic. I had another bath to freshen up, being careful to avoid getting my wound wet. I put on clean underwear and struggled into a fresh shirt. Deciding against the expensive men’s perfume Olivia had bought me, I opted for a splash of Bay Rum. Then I went through the difficult choice of corduroy versus Hugo Boss again. Corduroy hadn’t worked for me last time so I went for the Hugo. Downstairs I remembered Nina’s suggestion to bring a DVD, so I picked
The Cynic, the Rat and the Fist
to take with me.

As I was locking my front door, a paler than usual Stubbing stepped out of the cold gloom like a bad ghost.

“Jesus, Stubbing, you could give a guy a heart attack.”

She handed me a piece of paper. “Your crime number, for the insurance.”

“Thanks. You learn anything you want to share?”

She shook her head. “Brampton knows about the break-in, by the way, and she wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“Yes,” she said, pointing to the street. “She’s in the car.”

“I thought you wanted to keep the break-in to yourself.”

“I did.”

“So how did she find out?”

“There you go, you’re beginning to ask intelligent questions.”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know, George, I’m just the flying monkey, remember?”

My God, Stubbing was feeling sorry for herself.

“So are you telling me Brampton knew about the burglary from the person who committed it?”

She folded her arms. “No comment.”

“Interesting. Did you know your boss and Quintin Boyd were at university together?”

“Quintin Boyd?”

“The guy whose car she got into yesterday at the funeral. You saw for yourself. He practically ordered her in and she jumped to it to like a cat on heat.”

She unfolded her arms and tried to muster a look of indifference. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. They’re still chummy now, that’s all.”

“So they’re part of an old boy network, so fucking what?”

“I’m seeing too many old boy slash girl connections at the moment and I don’t like it.”

“But you’re not linking this Quintin to the break-in are you? Unless you have some information that you’d like to share?”

I wasn’t ready to confide in Stubbing about the thin man, and his connection to Quintin Boyd through Mark, and to be honest I’d not connected him to the break-in before Stubbing brought it up. But I remembered the lingering smell of stale smoke when we’d discovered the ransacked office; not exactly evidence I know, but Brampton somehow knew about it. But then why had Stubbing refused to get the crime scene investigators to the office? Perhaps she was in cahoots with Brampton and Boyd and they were trying to pump me for what I knew, which was zilch.

“I suppose I better see Brampton since she’s made the effort,” I said.

“I think that would be sensible.” We made our way to the street. “By the way, I saw you talking to this Quintin Boyd’s driver at the funeral. Did you learn anything useful?”

“So I’m supposed to tell you stuff, but you don’t tell me anything, is that how it works?”

“Yes it is. Well done for recognising which of us is a real detective.”

“OK then, I’ll tell you what I found out. Brace yourself. Quintin’s driver drives Quintin around,” I said.

She just grinned like a mad thing until we reached Brampton’s car, which was idling in the street, emitting carbon from its rear end to keep her warm. I could just make her out sitting in the back, reading a Cambridge
Argus
. Stubbing opened the rear door and nodded for me to get in. I sat down next to Brampton and was greeted by a cloying perfume; not for her the subtlety of Sylvia Booker. Stubbing opened the driver’s door to get in.

“Give us a minute, Stubbing, if you don’t mind.” I tried to throw a smirk Stubbing’s way but she avoided looking at me, closing the door with exaggerated care. With the newspaper down I saw that Brampton was dressed in a sequinned evening gown, a black shawl over her shoulders. Something glistened at her throat. Her hair was different, tied up like Lucy had done hers. It was stifling in the car with the blower going and the perfume. I tried to make conversation.

“Going out, Detective Chief Inspector?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she said, treating it as a genuine inquiry. “I’m going to dinner at one of the colleges.” My father had worked many of those dinners, not coming home until after midnight.

“High Table I suppose?” I said.

She looked unsurprised that I should know what High Table was. “Look, George, I’ll keep this brief. As you know there’s been a bit of a cockup, a technical failure of the USB stick you gave us.”

“It was OK when I handed it over. I checked it.”

“And you’re sure there’s no backup.”

“Stubbing’s already asked me if I have a backup. I’m not going to tell you anything different.”

“Yes I know she’s asked you; I just wanted to check that there’s nothing you’ve found since then. Not that the case rests on your evidence, the belt round Trisha Greene’s neck was definitely the husband’s.”

“You have DNA evidence then?”

“We have enough of a case to present to the Crown Prosecution Service. So, you haven’t suddenly found a backup at home or anything?” Still banging on about a backup. I was tempted to ask her how she knew about the break-in but it’s always good to have something up your sleeve. So I shook my head and watched her face. She gave nothing away. With Stubbing at least I could tell she was trying not to give anything away, Brampton however was masked by a professional veneer that allowed no emotion unless it was calculated. A woman in the police didn’t get to Brampton’s seniority by being labelled emotional; you had to appear tougher and be smarter than the men. She sat back against the seat and arranged herself in a more informal pose, her eyes masking what was behind them.

“Are you still working for Sylvia Booker?” she asked, checking her watch to show how offhand a question it was. Attack, I decided, was better than defence.

“How well do you know Quintin Boyd?” I asked. She reached for the newspaper, even though she’d just set it down.

“Is that who Sylvia has asked you to check up on?”

“Why would I need to check up on him? She already knows him.”

“Knew him, George, at some point. They were here at Cambridge together.”

“Yes I know, at Morley. You were all there. You, Quintin, Sylvia and Sylvia’s husband. You all belonged to the same club.”

Her thick eyebrows flicked and she put the newspaper down again. Her hands found something urgent to do in her clutch bag. I should have left it at that but I couldn’t; I’d found a nerve and I wanted to keep pressing. I wanted to puncture that mask.

“I haven’t got that wrong have I, you were a member of the Cambridge Blue Club?”

This time I was rewarded with a blotchy reddening of the neck and face.

“I can’t remember, I belonged to a lot of clubs.”

“You’d remember this one; you watched porn films together.”

Her eyes betrayed a quiver of something I couldn’t identify then she leant forward and said, in a low voice, “Don’t dig too deep, George, or you might fall in the hole you’ve made.” Then she regained her professional façade and sat back and it was as if it hadn’t happened.

“Is that a threat?” I asked.

She generated a fake smile. “Thanks for meeting up with me on a Friday evening, I appreciate it. Let me know if you find anything on Trisha Greene. No need to go through DI Stubbing, come straight to me.”

I kept quiet and looked out to see Stubbing hugging herself to keep warm; her coat was on the front passenger seat. Brampton coughed gently into a fist – our meeting was over.

I opened the door and stepped onto the pavement, inhaling the perfume-free cold air deep into my lungs. “You can get in now,” I told Stubbing.

* * *

I put Brampton and Stubbing from my mind and stopped off at the supermarket for a bottle of wine. Feeling in an optimistic mood, or at least wanting to be prepared, I supplemented it with a packet of condoms. At the five-items-or-less till I was faced with the same bloody checkout woman I’d had the other night. I ignored the people behind me who were eye-balling my purchases and held her gaze as she scanned my two items. I pocketed the condoms as soon as they came down the moving belt.

“Have a nice evening,” the checkout woman said with a straight face.