when she’s likely to return and he doesn’t have an answer.’
‘Shit.’ He bowed his head.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What if something’s happened to her?’ He swallowed hard. ‘What if…someone has decided she knows more than she should?’
‘From what you say, she was toying with the idea of getting out of Brackdale. Tash Dumelow’s story backs that up. She’d packed a suitcase.’
‘She wanted to unburden herself to me. Sounds like she was seeking for help. If I’d spent more time talking to her…’
‘You’re not reproaching yourself?’
‘Why not? If only…’
‘Stop it.’ She reached across the table and laid her hand on his. Her palm was warm. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, it’s ridiculous. For all we know, she’s checking in at Heathrow at this very moment. Destination: the Little House on the Prairie.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Well…’
‘The truth is, I could have done more.’ His voice had become hoarse. ‘Should have done more.’
She withdrew her hand and looked him in the eye. ‘You take things seriously, don’t you? So did Ben. Too seriously, most people used to say. I’m not criticising, the same people would say I suffer from the same fault. But it is a fault, make no mistake. You can’t take everything to heart. If you’re not careful, it becomes unbearable. You’re not responsible for Jean Allardyce. Okay?’
When he nodded, she stood up and said, ‘Good. That’s settled, then. Look, I really have to go. I’m sorry, but I never intended to stay this long. You’ve been incredibly helpful and I do appreciate it.’
‘One of these days,’ he said wryly, ‘you must tell me more about what it was like, working with my father.’
‘It’s a deal,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in touch. Goodnight.’
She turned and strode towards the door. They’d shaken hands when she’d arrived, but not on parting. Somehow it didn’t seem necessary. He could still feel the warmth of her palm.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’
The words echoed in his brain as he drove home. How many times had he heard them before? After his father’s desertion, Daniel had confided in a teacher that in a way it was down to him that the family had split asunder. During their holiday in the Lakes, he’d spent too much time with his new friend Barrie; if he’d paid more attention to his dad, the old man could never have brought himself to leave. The teacher had gone to inordinate lengths to make sure the family had support and to reassure her star pupil that he had nothing to feel guilty about. It all became too much for Daniel, who finished up wishing he hadn’t said a word. With Aimee, it was far worse. Once again, everyone was kind, but this time there wasn’t much doubt that he had something to blame himself for. He could have saved her.
As he peered through the windscreen, trying to make out the bends in the road, pictures from the past kept flipping through his head like the leaves of a photograph album. When he reached Tarn Fold, he parked in the spot that had been occupied by Tash Dumelow’s Alfa earlier in the day. He wasn’t ready to return to the cottage and see Miranda. Since moving to the Lakes, he’d pretty much managed to stop tormenting himself about Aimee, but tonight there was no escaping her memory.
Outside he could see nothing but darkness. With the windows wound up, he couldn’t hear the sounds of the unseen creatures in the trees and undergrowth. Here in the heart of the country, he was remembering Aimee’s death in the city.
Familiar images jostled in his brain. At breakfast on the last day of her life, Aimee had been monosyllabic as she nibbled at a few cornflakes, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. She’d been back home from the Warneford for a fortnight, following treatment for severe depression. He’d never found rhyme or reason for the sense of hopelessness that she confessed to in her bleakest moods. She was a senior research fellow with a growing international reputation in the field of comparative labour law, and although her parents’ divorce had left her sceptical about marriage, she and Daniel had been lovers for a couple of years. They hadn’t moved in together — she said she wasn’t ready for that sort of permanence — but neither of them ever looked at anyone else. She had everything to live for, people would say. But what did people know? Depression never respected logic; the illness ran in her family and her mother had taken a fatal overdose when Aimee was only sixteen.
Before going into the Warneford, she’d made a botched attempt to slit her wrists. After a morning’s research in the Bodleian, Daniel had called in at her flat close to the Parks. When there was no answer, he let himself in and found her in the bathroom, lying face down on the floor with nothing on. Her flesh was the colour of chalk, a contrast to the curly chestnut hair spilling on to her shoulders. A lilac smell from pot pourri in a basket on the windowsill masked the sourness in the air. The razor blade was lying where it had fallen, near her toes. A dark stain was spreading over the green vinyl floor.
At first, the belief that she was dead robbed him of movement, but when belatedly he checked for a pulse, he realised she was still breathing. She’d simply fainted from the loss of blood. As he phoned for an ambulance, relief of an intensity he’d never experienced before swept over him like a tide. She was safe.
When she returned home from hospital, he was reluctant to leave her alone. But she insisted that she couldn’t forever use him as a crutch and although he protested, deep down he knew she was right. He took to working in the college library, a ten minute walk from her flat. His favourite corner was beside a window overlooking the small quadrangle. Out of term time, the quiet was disturbed only by the rustle of the leaves on the horse chestnut trees outside. He could sketch out synopses for a new book to his heart’s content. One September afternoon he emerged from the library staircase into the blinding sunlight and bumped into Theo Bellairs. When Theo invited him up for tea, he checked his watch before accepting.
‘I really should be getting back to Aimee.’
‘Nonsense, my boy.’ Theo laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘In the modern jargon, you must let her have a bit of space. Didn’t you say last week that she was on the mend?’
‘I said she has good days and bad days.’
‘There you are, then. My dear fellow, do take that worried look off your face. Tell me about your latest plans over a cup of Darjeeling and you can inspect a Macaulay first edition that I’ve picked up at Sotheby’s. Candidly, it’s a better investment than the college pension. Come on, I promise not to detain you for long.’
Of course he’d said yes and after half an hour of civilised conversation, he’d made his excuses and left. Having switched off his mobile on entering the library, he found he’d forgotten to switch it back on.
Aimee had left a voicemail message. She spoke almost in a whisper and he had to strain to catch the words.
Daniel, I’m so sorry. I’ve tried hard but it isn’t any good. I’m going to the tower. Please don’t think badly of me. I do love you. I do.
He felt dizzy, unfocused, as though in a moment his legs would buckle and he’d crumple on to the gravelled path. She meant to kill herself, he was sure of it. He had to find her, to rescue her for a second time.
The tower. Oxford had plenty, but he was sure she meant St Michael’s, in Cornmarket. It was part of the Northgate Church and its Saxon origin made it the oldest building in the city. Aimee loved the church and sometimes slipped in to pray, though Daniel was never clear what exactly she was praying for.
He found himself running through the college gate, ignoring a porter’s cheerful greeting, brushing past a baffled SCR colleague in the lodge. Cornmarket wasn’t far away. How long would it take her to reach the top of the tower? A student on a bicycle nearly collided with him as he raced across the road without looking and a woman with a double buggy containing two red-faced infants clipped his ankles as he plunged through the mass of shoppers.
Breathless, he turned into Cornmarket. As he raced along the pavement, he could see a crowd that had gathered a little way ahead. Around the foot of St Michael’s Tower. As he found his progress blocked, he turned to a diminutive Asian man who was standing on tip-toe, trying to see what had captured everyone’s attention.
‘What is it?’
‘Someone threw themselves off the tower,’ the man said. ‘A young lady, I heard. And on such a beautiful day, as well.’
