notes began leaking. The gloss began wearing off Bingham like cheap nail polish and underneath was something ugly and rank.
2
Oxford is blanketed by snow, surprised by its own silence. Mounds of dirty ice have been plowed to the sides of the roads or shoveled from driveways and footpaths. The dreaming spires look particularly pensive, shrouded by mist and guarded by gargoyles with beards of ice.
I’ve spent the morning preparing my conference speech, sitting on a sprawling armchair in the lounge of the Randolph Hotel. There is a Morse Bar-named after the fictional detective-with photographs around the walls of the lead characters.
Charlie has been shopping all morning in Cornmarket Street. She’s standing in front of the open fire, warming up.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“How about sushi?”
“I don’t like Japanese.”
“It’s very healthy.”
“Not for whales or for dolphins.”
“We’re not going to eat whale or dolphin.”
“What about the blue fin tuna?”
“So you’re boycotting all things Japanese?”
“Until they stop their so-called scientific whaling program.”
My left arm trembles. My medication is wearing off and an unseen force is tugging at my invisible strings like a fish nibbling on a baited hook.
I can give you chapter and verse about my condition, having read every paper, medical journal, celebrity autobiography and online blog about Parkinson’s. I know the theories, the symptoms, the prognosis and the possible treatments-all of which will delay the progress but cannot cure my condition. I haven’t given up the search. I have given up obsessing over it.
Glancing over Charlie’s shoulder, I see two men in the foyer, shrugging off their overcoats. Beads of moisture spray the marble tiles. They have mud on their shoes and a farmyard smell about them.
The older one is in his forties with a disconcertingly low hairline that seems to be creeping down his forehead to meet his eyebrows. His colleague is younger and taller with the body of an ex-fighter who has slightly gone to seed.
A police badge is flashed.
“We’re looking for Professor O’Loughlin.”
The young receptionist is ringing my room. Charlie nudges me. “They’re asking for you.”
“I know.”
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We’re going to lunch.”
The suspense is killing her. She announces loudly, “Are you looking for my father?”
The men turn.
“He’s right here,” she says.
“Professor O’Loughlin?” asks the older man.
I look at Charlie, showing my disappointment.
“Yes,” I answer.
“We’ve come to collect you, sir. I’m DS Casey. This is my colleague Trainee Detective Constable Brindle Hughes.”
“People call me Grievous,” says the younger man, smiling awkwardly.
“We were going out,” I say, pointing to the revolving door.
Casey answers, “Our guv wants to see you, sir. He says it’s important.”
“Who’s your guv?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Drury.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He knows you.”
There is a pause. My attitude to detectives is similar to my views on priests-they do important jobs but they make me nervous. It’s not the confessional nature of their work-I have nothing to feel guilty about-it is more a sense of having done my share. I want to put a sign up saying, “I’ve given.”
“Tell your boss that I’m very sorry, but I’m unavailable. I’m looking after my daughter.”
“I don’t mind,” says Charlie, getting interested.
Casey lowers his voice. “A husband and wife are dead.”
“I can give you the names of other profilers-”
“The guv doesn’t want anyone else.”
Charlie tugs at my sleeve. “Come on, Dad, you should help them.”
“I promised you lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“What about the shopping.”
“I don’t have any money, which means I’d have to guilt you into buying me something. I’d prefer to save up my guilt points for something I really want.”
“Guilt points?”
“You heard me.”
The detectives seem to find this conversation amusing. Charlie grins at them. She’s bored. She wants some excitement. But this isn’t the sort of adventure anyone wants. Two people are dead. It’s tragic. It’s pointless. It’s the sort of work I try to avoid.
Charlie won’t let it go. “I won’t tell Mum,” she says. “Please can we go?”
“You have to stay here.”
“No, that’s not fair. Let me come.”
Casey interrupts. “We’re only going to the station, sir.”
A police car is parked outside. Charlie slides into the back seat alongside me.
We drive in silence through the near-empty streets. Oxford looks like a ghost city trapped in a snow dome. Charlie leans forward, straining at the seat belt.
“Is this about the body in the ice?”
“How do you know about that?” asks Casey.
“We saw it from the train.”
“Different case, miss,” says Grievous. “Not one for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of motorists were stranded by the blizzard. Most likely she wandered away from her car and fell into the lake.”
Charlie shivers at the thought. “Do they know who she was?”
“Not yet.”
“Hasn’t anybody reported her missing?”
“They will.”
St. Aldates Police Station has an iron and glass canopy over the front entrance, which has collected a foot of snow. A council worker perched on a ladder is using a shovel to break up the frozen white wave, which explodes into fragments on the paving stones below.
