‘Which puts him back in the frame for the murder.’
‘If it was murder.’ It was Naysmith’s turn to twist in his seat so he could make eye contact with Fox. ‘What if Alan Carter wanted to get his nephew in even deeper shit? He’s already decided to do away with himself. He phones Paul so it’ll be on record as the last call he made – knowing Paul will then have some awkward questions to answer.’
‘Been watching Midsomer Murders, Joe?’ Kaye asked with a snort.
‘It’s a scenario,’ Fox conceded. Having finished his coffee, he pushed the plastic lid into the crushed cup. ‘Have you got anything for me about Gavin Willis?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You could try asking Alec Robinson.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The desk sergeant.’
‘He looks at me like I’ve just nicked all his pens,’ Naysmith complained.
‘Other person who might help is Superintendent Hendryson – he ran the show before Pitkethly was brought in.’
‘Steady on, Foxy,’ Kaye said. ‘The lad’ll start thinking he’s a proper grown-up detective.’
‘How about you, Tony? Enjoying being your own boss?’
‘I like it fine.’
‘But you’re starting to think maybe the case against Paul Carter was flawed?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Don’t be so sure. I had Carter on the phone on Friday, just after they lifted him. He admitted that he’d “pulled a few stunts” down the years.’
‘His exact words?’
Fox confirmed as much with a nod.
‘Why did he phone you?’ Naysmith asked.
‘He’s not sure who he can trust.’
Kaye seemed to ponder this. ‘I was going to try talking to Teresa Collins again,’ he confided. ‘Neutral territory – maybe a cafe or a pub. You know she’s out of hospital?’
‘The shrink gave her the all-clear?’
‘All I know is, she’s back home.’
‘You’ll be sure to go easy on her?’
‘I can do the empathy thing,’ Kaye stated.
‘A nation rejoices,’ Malcolm Fox said.
The geography of St Andrews defeated Fox.
On paper it looked fine. A road led you into the town, after which there were a couple of main shopping streets parallel to one another. But he had an hour to explore the place on foot, and kept finding new angles. Golf course – yes, there was a golf course, naturally enough. Two beaches, one at either end of it. But there was also a ruined castle. A tower. And tucked between venerable college buildings, he caught glimpses of new architecture: glass and steel. And a harbour – St Andrews had a harbour, too, not far from its sea pool. There were no bathers brave enough today. Cliffs… with signs warning the unwary, and regular jet-fighters screaming across the sky, reminding him that there was an RAF base not too far away.
Plenty of students seemed perfectly at ease, running around this maze without getting lost. Elderly residents shared relaxed pavement gossip. Smiling tourists sought cream teas, tartan travel rugs and whisky miniatures shaped like golf balls. But having parked his car on what he thought was the main drag, it took Fox several goes to find it again, by which time he was flustered and annoyed with himself. Two main streets: how hard could it be?
He was kicking his heels because, having eventually found the right person at the university, they had then informed him that it might take an hour or two to come up with anything. The assistant in the registry and admissions office had made it sound like Fox only had himself to blame. She had jotted down what details he had – Alice Watts/Politics and Phil/1985.
‘Date of birth?’
He’d shaken his head.
‘Home address?’
Another shake. ‘Term-time, she stayed in Anstruther.’
‘Year of entry?’
‘I’m not sure. Sorry.’
So there he was, exploring the town and finding himself intrigued by the way its disparate elements somehow didn’t drive everyone slightly mad. He compared it to Edinburgh: students, tourists and residents, all finding space and creating the place in their own image. He had passed up an elegant glass box of a restaurant on the seafront for a tuna-melt panini in the cafe attached to the Byre Theatre. He had jotted down some notes based on his morning conversation with Kaye and Naysmith. He had forgotten to take a contact number from the assistant, so couldn’t check whether enough time had elapsed. Buying a newspaper for company, he headed back to her office but she was nowhere to be seen. A young man was there instead. He wore a sleeveless jumper and a bow tie, and asked Fox to take a seat. While Fox skimmed the Independent, he was aware of the man studying him surreptitiously. No doubt he had been warned that Fox was a police officer. Whenever Fox tried meeting his stare, he would go back to his computer screen, his fingers busy with keyboard and mouse.
‘Sorry,’ the female assistant said, entering briskly by the same door as Fox. She returned to her own side of the desk, removing her coat and hanging it on a peg, then patting her hair back into place. ‘Took quite a bit of digging.’ She had been carrying a large brown envelope. As Fox approached the counter, she pulled a few A4 sheets from it.
‘This is what we have,’ she said.
Alice Watts had been born in Glasgow in March 1965, making her twenty at the time of Vernal’s death. She had enrolled at St Andrews in September 1983. There were two passport-sized matriculation photos of her, one from 1983 and the other from ’84. She had changed dramatically inside a year – mousy and deferential-looking in the first; tousle-haired and determined in the second. In her first year she had stayed in a hall of residence; by second year she was renting the Anstruther address.
‘Bit of a hike,’ Fox commented as he read.
‘But Anstruther’s lovely,’ the female assistant argued.
Her home address was a street with a Glasgow postcode. There was a phone number too. Fox flicked to another sheet and saw that it listed her exam passes along with progress reports from relevant members of staff. He would have called these reports ‘glowing’ to begin with, but then tutors had started to notice that Alice was spending more time ‘on demos than essays’. She was ‘increasingly active in student politics, to the detriment of her studies’. Fox turned the sheets over, but they were printed on one side only.
‘Nothing after second year?’ he commented.
‘She left.’
‘Kicked out?’
The assistant shook her head and pointed to the relevant text. Alice had stopped attending St Andrews altogether. Letters had been sent to her Anstruther address and eventually to her family home. She had responded to none of them. Fox checked the relevant dates. As the widow had said, after Francis Vernal’s death, Alice had wanted nothing more to do with her university.
‘Never heard from again,’ the assistant said. Then, leaning towards Fox and dropping her voice: ‘Has she been murdered?’
Fox stared at her and shook his head.
‘What then?’ Her eyes had widened, eager for details. Her male colleague had stopped typing and was paying close attention.
Fox kept his counsel, holding up the sheets. ‘I’m taking these with me,’ he informed the assistant. ‘All right?’
‘The originals need to stay here,’ she said, failing to hide her disappointment in him. ‘I’ll have to make you copies of them.’
