Two hours later Laura was on the London train, peering through a grimy window onto dew-covered fields as they sped along. She hadn't woken Philip but had left him a note which said simply that she was going to London for the day to follow a lead, and that if there was any news he must call her on her mobile right away.
The idea of visiting Charlie Tucker now seemed obvious. He had been one of her best friends during her student days, and they had stayed in touch for a while after college. He was one of the most exciting and dynamic people she had ever met. His working-class Essex family had provided him with a colourful background. His father was a stallholder in a fruit market in Southend, and his mother, a former stripper, had died from cancer at thirty- nine. He had entered Oxford with the highest grades in the country that year, but had loathed almost everything about the city and the university. A socialist activist, on at least three separate occasions he had just escaped being sent down, and before he was twenty-one he had been investigated by Ml6 for his involvement in an extreme left- wing group. In his third year he had spent so much time on hunt sabs, demonstrations and covert anarchist activities that he almost missed a crucial final. Most astonishing of all was the fact that he still ended up with a First in mathematics.
Laura had never shown the slightest interest in politics, and that had probably been at the root of their closeness. Being an American, she hadn't cared much about modern British politics even though the politics of previous centuries fascinated her and had informed her studies in Renaissance art. She liked Charlie for his energy, his wit and his razor-sharp intelligence. He liked her, she supposed, because she didn't care about his views: she was a blank sheet upon which he could write any political slogan he wanted.
Just as Laura was leaving Oxford, Charlie had started a PhD on the Group Theory of Encryption, a topic, he claimed in letters to her, that was as far removed from human trivia as one could get. This seemed to satisfy him until, for no apparent reason, he dropped out and disappeared. In the last letter that Charlie had sent her from Oxford, he'd said simply that he was leaving — no explanations, no details.
And that had been that until, a year earlier, a postcard had arrived at Laura's apartment in Greenwich Village. It had been from Charlie and was postmarked London. He was going to be visiting the States, he'd written — would she like to meet up with him in New York?
He had of course despised the place, even though Laura could see in his eyes an irrepressible admiration for the undeniable glamour of it all. They had gone to a bistro on West 34th Street and she had listened to him mock the vanity of Manhattan, but he could not disguise from her entirely what she interpreted as a deeply buried acknowledgement that this city really was something amazing.
Charlie had turned forty a few years earlier, and he was, he could now admit, tired: tired of radicalism, tired of seeing so little coming from his efforts, tired of life. He had all but given up, he had told her. About ten years earlier he had started to write a book about the circle of thirteenth-century mathematicians who became known as the Oxford Calculators: William Heytesbury, Richard Swineshead, John Dumbleton and, most prominently, Thomas Bradwardine. But he had never completed it. Instead, his research had drawn him into a line of investigation that took him to the heretical philosopher Roger Bacon, and from there to the entire world of medieval occultism.
The upshot, he told her, was that a few years earlier he had exchanged his political cap for a fascination with alternative lifestyles. He had gone deep into mysticism, the occult and what he referred to as 'the rich underbelly of the intellect'. He had even opened a little shop — near the British Museum in Bloomsbury — called White Stag, which specialised in arcane and alternative literature. He made a living of sorts from the place and it gave him the time and resources to pursue his own researches.
Laura had been a little surprised by these twists in Charlie's life. She herself had never been at all interested in the occult. But after a while, as she listened to him speak, it seemed to make sense that Charlie would have become absorbed with such ideas. And, indirectly, it was Charlie's visit that had given her the idea of a thriller about Thomas Bradwardine and a plot to kill King Edward II. Now, as she headed towards London hoping to find Charlie sitting quietly in his little shop, she felt a pang of guilt that she had failed to make contact with him during the entire three weeks she had been in England. Nor had she even told him that she was going to be coming over.
Arriving at Paddington Station a few minutes after eight-thirty, Laura caught the Underground to Warren Street. Emerging into heavy morning traffic, she realised she would be too early for Charlie. To kill time, she stopped for a coffee and a croissant at a Starbucks and then walked south down Tottenham Court Road. At an Internet cafe she stopped to check her e-mail, bought a newspaper and nursed a second cup of coffee, before heading east past Centre Point and along New Oxford Street to find the lane off Museum Street where she knew White Stag was situated. On the way she called Philip's mobile but all she got was an answer service.
As Laura turned along a street no more than four yards wide and within sight of the British Museum, she spotted the tiny shopfront, whose window was piled high with books. Above the door was an old-fashioned painted sign of a magnificent white stag.
From the outside the shop looked dark, silent and closed, but the door opened gently as she pushed. She smelled old paper and the fug of cigarette smoke. A single light bulb dangled from the cracked ceiling; the bare floorboards were scuffed and scratched. Every inch of wall space was covered with shelves packed with books of all shapes, colours and sizes. It was dingy but oddly comforting.
At the far end of the room stood an old desk. It had ugly, carved ash legs and the top was strewn with papers. An ancient-looking computer stood to one side, an overflowing ashtray the other. A waste-paper bin beside the desk was also over-brimming with scrunched-up paper and other detritus. Behind the desk a door leading to a pantry in the back of the shop stood open. Dull orange light emanated from inside and Laura could hear a kettle whistling. A few moments later a man emerged from the doorway and walked over to the desk. He seemed completely unaware of her. From his mouth dangled a cigarette and in his hand was a large grimy-looking mug. Laura gave a little cough.
'My God!' Charlie exclaimed, and put the mug down on the desk so carelessly that milky tea spilled over a pile of papers next to it. Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, he bounded around the desk, his arms outstretched in welcome. 'Laura, baby,' he said as he embraced her.
She giggled and hugged him.
He held her at arm's length. 'You've lost weight, girl, and your 'air's too short.' His accent was pure Essex, untainted by Oxford, arcane literature or half a decade in Bloomsbury. 'Fancy a cuppa?'
'No, thanks, Charlie, just had enough caffeine to last me a year. But, boy, it's good to see you.'
He pulled over an old and battered chair and wiped the seat with his hand. Then he strode over to the door, locked it and flipped over the 'open' sign. 'You never know — the 'ordes we get in 'ere.' He laughed as he threw himself into the chair behind the desk.
Charlie had never been precisely the model of health and had always been underweight and pasty, but now he looked positively haggard and far older than his forty-four years. Laura had last seen him just a year ago but since then he had lost hair, lost weight, lost even more colour from his skin. He looked very unwell, as though he was suffering from a terminal illness, she concluded.
'Charlie, I hate to say this but you look dreadful.'
He shrugged. 'Been working 'ard, Laura. I feel great, though. Just me 'air falling out,' and he tugged at the thin greasy brown strands that hung down over his ears. 'Anyway, don't worry about me.' He grabbed a packet of cigarettes from beside a pile of papers on the desk, fished one out and lit it with an old-fashioned lighter. 'What brings you to this neck of the woods, then?'
'Actually, it was you. .'
'Pull the other one!'
'I was starting a new novel, a book about Thomas Bradwardine. Remember we talked about him that night in New York? After you left I began to weave a little web.'
'You said you started — past tense. You hit writer's block?'
Laura looked around at the thousands of books lining the walls from floor to ceiling. Suddenly she felt very small. 'No, just a better idea.'
'Goon.'
'You've seen the news about the Oxford murders?'
'Yes,' he said quizzically.
'Well, can I trust you? As an old friend?'
'Of course.' He looked both surprised and a little hurt. 'You know that. .'
'Yeah, I'm sorry. It's just. . Well, the police haven't told the public everything they know. But then, they're
