‘The colleges, on the other hand, are like homes,’ Tulloch had continued. ‘There are thirty-one of them. Each has a chapel, to take care of your spiritual needs, a dining hall for the physical, a library for knowledge, common rooms for recreation, big rooms for the dons and the fellows, little rooms for the undergraduates.’
‘Dons and fellows,’ I’d repeated, wondering if I should be making notes.
‘The colleges provide each student with a tutor, who acts almost in loco parentis,’ said Dana. ‘Your tutor oversees your studies, but also takes care of your well-being. Your tutor, for the sake of this exercise, will be my friend Evi.’
I’d yet to meet Evi. ‘Have you worked here long?’ I asked George.
‘Library on your right,’ he said, as we entered some buildings on the western side of the court. We passed through and stepped out on to a covered bridge of stone. The river was beneath us. ‘I’m the newest member of staff,’ he went on. ‘I’m just covering for one of the senior porters who’s had to take some sick leave. And now we’re in New Court, completed in 1831 in the Gothic style.’
Until that moment, I couldn’t have said what the Gothic style was, but looking around New Court I gathered that Gothic meant over-the-top elaborate, turrets from fairy tales, intricate carving that seemed more suited to a wedding cake than a structure of stone. We passed through another gateway and found ourselves facing much newer buildings.
‘This is where most of the undergraduates live,’ said George, as we headed for an awning at the entrance to the new block. ‘What do we say, Tom?’ He turned back to the man who was following us with my bags.
‘Start them at the back,’ replied Tom, a man in his mid-thirties with dark hair and kind brown eyes. ‘Let them move forward in their second year, then into First Court for their final year. They’re right by the main door then and it’s easier to kick ’em out.’
I gave the smile I knew was expected of me.
We entered the new building, climbing stairs and walking along a corridor that reminded me of a hospital, or a large police station. When we were almost at the end of it, George unlocked a door and stepped back to let me go inside first.
‘Your key is here,’ he said, putting it on a desk that ran the length of one wall. ‘We keep a spare in the porters’ lodge and your room-mate will have one. Nice girl, though we don’t see much of her. Now, no noise between eleven p.m. and seven a.m., parties need your tutor’s approval and your maid will report anything untoward to us.’
The room was some four yards square. Two desks ran along opposite walls. There were two easy chairs, two desk chairs, two wall-mounted bookcases. Two doors led off from the main room. One of them was ajar and I could see a small bedroom beyond it.
George had been watching me look round. ‘Everyone finds it strange at first,’ he said, ‘but you’ll soon get used to it. You’ve got an hour till dinner.’
I blinked hard. There had been tears in my eyes and George had seen them.
‘Good to have you at St John’s, Miss Farrow,’ he said. ‘You know where we are if you need us.’
I listened to their footsteps fade away down the corridor, thinking that their kindness had made me feel even more of a fraud.
‘Better get used to it,’ I told myself, and set about unpacking.
An hour later, I knew I’d never get used to it. I was trapped in a bubble of noise, of confident voices and the incessant chink of silverware. Surrounding me were pale faces above black robes, candles and floral arrangements, crystal goblets like raindrops along the starched linen, and all in a centuries-old dining hall in which Wordsworth and Wilberforce weren’t characters from history but alumni.
‘I think those flowers are expected to last most of the week,’ said the thin-faced, ginger-haired boy across from me. I looked down at the petals I’d unknowingly pulled from a yellow daisy, then back up at the boy, who could boast eighteen years and the kind of self-assured ease I’d never know.
‘Lady’s first time in Hall, cut her some slack,’ said the second-year physics student on my right. He’d taken pity on me earlier as I’d stood at the painted-arched doorway, feeling like an extra in a Harry Potter movie in my borrowed gown. He’d steered me inside, found me a seat and done his best to make conversation. After twenty minutes he’d given up. I was so nervous I couldn’t remember any of my cover story and I’d answered every question he’d asked me in monosyllables. I’d been hungry but faced with a three-course waitress-served dinner found I couldn’t eat. I needed a drink but didn’t dare pick up the impossibly thin crystal goblet. I knew I had to get to know these people and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
I was failing. Everyone who set eyes on me would know I didn’t belong here. Joesbury had made a massive mistake sending me, I’d made an even bigger one agreeing to come. I was so far out of my element I might as well be on Mars. And this was Monday evening, for God’s sake, when I normally work late, stop by the gym and shove a Tesco ready meal in the microwave.
When coffee was finally cleared away and people began to leave the room, I got up and slipped quickly through the crowd. I’d phone him, tell him it really wasn’t going to work.
‘Laura!’ A hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to see that the physics student had followed me out. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry. This place is weird, you just get used to it.’
As I tottered back to my room on borrowed heels, it occurred to me that, personal misgivings aside, the stage show that was needy, insecure Laura Farrow might just have pulled off a pretty impressive first act.
Tuesday 15 January (seven days earlier)
‘IT ISN’T TRUE that the rate of suicides at universities is higher than among the rest of the population. I know a lot of people believe it to be the case, but it isn’t.’
Dr Evi Oliver, the only person at Cambridge University who knew I was an undercover police officer, sipped from a glass of water on her desk. She’d been doing it a lot since I’d arrived, bringing the glass up to her mouth, sipping nervously and then putting it down again. The rest of the time, she was fiddling with a paper clip or rearranging papers. I didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to spot that she was as much on edge as I was. Mind you, given the news of the latest Cambridge suicide, the second-year student who’d decapitated herself early Sunday morning, it was hardly surprising. Something had gone seriously out of kilter in this city.
‘But it is prevalent among the young,’ I said, trying not to get distracted by the steady flow of students milling around a paved area immediately outside. The student counselling service that Dr Oliver led was in the town, a little way from most of the academic buildings. I could see Regency houses, office blocks in the distance, the corner of a shopping centre. We were on the upper floor, but Dr Oliver’s large, bright corner office had floor-to-ceiling windows. ‘Young people get things out of proportion,’ I went on. ‘I think I read somewhere that they see suicide as a grand gesture. They don’t necessarily equate it with being dead for ever.’
I’d spent a fair amount of time, the last couple of days, reading up on suicide. One thing I knew was that the suicide rate in the UK was around sixteen per 100,000 people per year. In a city the size of Cambridge, with a population of nearly 110,000, you would expect between sixteen and eighteen people to take their own lives each year. In that context, some four or five dead students didn’t seem too alarming.
Dr Oliver leaned back and pulled a cord that closed the window blinds, effectively cutting off the view. ‘The sun gets quite intense at this time of day,’ she told me, and I couldn’t help feeling I’d been told off for not paying attention. Still, if she wanted my full attention, she could have it.
Evi Oliver looked like a Russian doll. Her chin-length hair was almost black and shone like patent leather. Her skin was the sort that would tan to a soft dusky rose but in January was creamy pale. She wore a lavender sweater that suited her well. She was younger and prettier than I’d expected. Mid-thirties at the most and, as Joesbury had said, a bit of a babe. She was also, as both wheelchair and aluminium stick told me, semi-crippled.
Catching me staring, she blinked at me. She had long black eyelashes, heavy with mascara, surrounding eyes so deep a blue they were almost indigo. ‘Suicide is the second most common cause of death in young adults,’ she said. ‘And the incidence is rising, especially among young men. But the idea that student populations are
