his knees and sort through the files himself if necessary, rather than talking, talking, talking. The muscles in his back were tense. For over three weeks now he had had that same taut feeling in his body: that every minute not spent searching was a minute wasted. But he forced himself to be polite — and patient.
McAndrew closed his door and took off his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. Whether that was in recognition of the heat, mitigated in this room by the whirr of the ceiling fan, or a cue that they were now having a less formal conversation, James was uncertain. Though when he saw McAndrew head towards a drinks tray in the corner of the room and pour two glasses of Scotch, he concluded it was the latter. And he knew precisely what topic the Dean was about to raise.
‘This is turning into an afternoon of apologies,’ he began, handing James a heavy tumbler of whisky, ‘but I wanted to say how much I regret that you were drawn into this very unfortunate business with the Assistant Dean.’
‘Yes.’ James paused. ‘Very tragic.’
‘Tragic is the right word. The Yale Police Department are zealous — as they should be, of course — and they pounced on you, I’m afraid. When anyone could have told them, as I now have told them, that this was hardly unexpected news.’
‘Oh?’
The Dean looked into his glass. ‘I’m afraid so, yes. A very troubled man, Dr Lund.’ McAndrew hesitated, as if unsure how much he should let on. ‘You’re too young to have served in the last war, but I saw it there too.’
‘Saw what?’
‘Men in the grip of demons, Dr Zennor. Demons. I believe they had been tormenting poor George for some time. Why he latched onto you, I don’t know. Who can know what fantasies rage through such a troubled mind? But I guess he told himself that you had some role in his nightmares.’
James drunk from his glass, tasting what he knew instantly was a malt of the highest quality. He decided to take a risk. ‘And what about Wolf’s Head? The badge in the mouth and all that.’
McAndrew did not react; confirmation that this had not come as news to him. He swirled the liquid in his glass for a moment or two, then smiled. ‘Such a lot of nonsense is spoken about these clubs, you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Perhaps Lund didn’t think it was nonsense. He went to some lengths to connect Wolf’s Head with his death.’
‘Is that what the police said?’
‘That’s what I assumed. That his killer had been wearing the pin and Lund managed to tear it from him in the struggle. Shoved it in his mouth, so that the police would find it. You’re not convinced.’
‘Well, I suppose it could be that. If this were the movies, Dr Zennor, the killer would have left the pin there deliberately, as his “calling card”.’ The Dean gave an indulgent smile, the crows’ feet crinkling in the corner of his eyes. ‘But I suspect the truth is much more humdrum than that. More humdrum and infinitely more sad.’
‘And what is the truth?’
‘Lund had a first-class mind, you know. Really one of the best in his class at the Medical School. But it began to unravel. I suppose his past membership of Wolf’s Head went into the stew, along with everything else, including his meeting with you.’
‘So the police told you he was a member?’
The Dean gave another smile, the wistful expression of an older man speaking about a wayward son. ‘The police didn’t need to tell me, Dr Zennor. I already knew.’
‘I thought these clubs were all terribly secret.’
‘Oh, they are. But the members tend to know who’s who.’
James sat back in his chair. ‘So you too, then?’
‘I’m afraid so. It was me who brought George in.’
James took another sip of the whisky, enjoying the warmth of it in his throat. ‘And your view is that Lund took his own life?’
‘I’m certain of it. More than that: I had feared it. For some time now.’
There was a light knock, followed by the appearance of Barbara’s head around the door. ‘Dean McAndrew, I’m afraid I’ve looked. There’s nothing there.’
‘You’ve checked thoroughly?’
‘And checked again, yes, sir.’
Briefly soothed by the alcohol, James had, for a minute or two, allowed himself to forget about the files and the missing information on Florence and Harry. But that made the disappointment now all the heavier. He had been sure the Dean, backed by the full bureaucratic muscle of his office, was about to solve his problem; he had half- expected the secretary to come in waving a piece of paper, telling him she had tracked down the errant Mrs Zennor and that she was living twenty minutes away.
The Dean stood up, placing a consoling arm around James’s shoulder. ‘I know what a letdown this is for you. I also find it very frustrating. But I promise to get to the bottom of this. Would you please let Barbara know how we can be in touch with you? One way or another, we will reunite you with your family — I give you my word.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
James left the administrative building, stepping into the summer evening. His son Harry had once called this ‘the orangey time of day’, when the sun begins to dip, turning the sky pink, crimson and every shade in between. It felt like midnight, such was his exhaustion — from the heat, from the whisky, but above all from the disappointment. Sitting in the office of Preston McAndrew, he had allowed himself to believe that his journey was all but over. Each moment in the Dean’s office had pumped him ever fuller with hope. And now that hope had been punctured.
He always thought of himself as a rational man, a man of science. Faced with any conundrum, he always favoured the explanation that was both simple and supported by evidence. He had no patience for theory, for hypotheticals or speculation. And so, no matter how curious Lund’s behaviour had been, no matter how bizarre his death or connection to the mysterious Wolf’s Head society, James had believed that the true explanation for Harry and Florence’s disappearance would turn out to be straightforward and mundane: a mislaid file, a document that had been filled in incorrectly. There would be apologies, perhaps even laughter at the rotten luck of it all and the whole ordeal would be over. At bottom, that was what James had believed throughout — and wanted to believe still.
But it was becoming harder to hold onto. Lund was dead and all the rational, empirical evidence pointed to murder rather than suicide. Florence and Harry were proving impossible to trace. Again it was now logical, not hysterical or paranoid, to conclude that something had happened to them, even that they could be in serious danger. Lund had been agitated when he made his offer of help, hardly the behaviour of a man aware of a mere administrative mix-up that, once resolved, would reveal Florence’s whereabouts. He had acted as if he were privy to information that was itself dangerous.
James suddenly became aware that he was walking very fast, adrenalin pushing him into a rush he could hardly control. What was more, though it took him another moment to realize it, he had no idea where he was going.
It was as he headed into College Street that he sensed someone behind him. He didn’t turn at first, his training telling him to wait. His brain automatically offered up the options: McAndrew catching up with him, to tell him they had found Florence’s address after all; the men who had killed Lund, now come to kill him; Florence herself. That last thought — however unlikely — made him turn and what he saw made him wonder why he had not considered this possibility first.
‘Hold up, Dr Zennor. Some of us are wearing heels.’
‘Christ, you gave me a start.’ He realized he was panting. ‘How long have you been following me?’
‘And there I was, expecting a nice “Thank you, Miss Lake”.’
James stopped, looked down, then said, ‘I’m sorry. And thank you for doing what you did. But it was no good. They have details for every Oxford family but mine.’
