‘And is she a medically trained and qualified midwife?’ asked Bambawani.
‘Eh?’
‘Does she, maybe, know more about medicine than you?’
‘Oh,’ said Hardin. ‘Yeah. S’pose so.’
‘Well then.’
There were six identical student blocks. Three facing three, the slight incline between them laid with wide paths and grassy banks. A semi-circle of women sat on one, books open, phones busy. Each block had four floors studded with scores of windows, almost all of them pushed wide open. A vain attempt to catch some non-existent breeze. Just one window was shut. The academic and the chaplain stood under block C, looking up.
‘Guess which is his room,’ Bambawani said.
Hardin squinted. ‘Third floor, second along?’
‘Correct.’
They were hesitating by the block’s stairwell. By leaning against the brickwork they could stand in the shade.
‘No one has seen him for a good few days,’ Bambawani continued. ‘Missed an exam, which is unlike him. I’m his personal tutor, Don, I should know what’s happening. I need at least some idea before we go to his family and then the police. His scores have been impressive until the last few months.’
‘You know him?’ asked Hardin. ‘You have loads of students.’
‘I do. Well, I thought so anyway. I liked him. Earnest. Clear-eyed. Committed to the courses he was on. Courteous. Always asked me about South Africa. About Durban. He’s the only student in five years who’s asked me to teach him some words in Xhosa.’
The chaplain smiled. ‘I like the sound of this guy. What words did you teach him?’
‘He wanted to be able to greet his grandmother. She speaks Bengali, I think, but he thought he’d try Xhosa. Thought she’d like it. Said she considered herself a citizen of the world.’
Hardin waited. ‘Well? How do you greet a grandmother in Xhosa?’
‘Molo makhulu,’ said Bambawani.
‘Nice,’ said Hardin. ‘Very useful. I’ll remember. Was our student religious at all?’
The academic pondered the question. ‘Don’t know. Hindu by culture certainly but seemed secular to me.’
Hardin laughed. ‘Everyone seems secular to you, BB. When we find a copy of the Vedas on his desk you can buy me a drink. He might even have a bible somewhere, you never know.’
Bambawani removed a key from her jacket pocket. She turned to Hardin, eyebrows arched. ‘If we find a bible in there, I’ll come to Mass myself.’
The student’s room was a furnace. Curtains wide open, the sun had super-heated the room. Hardin dived for the window lever, pushed down and flung the pane as wide as it would go. ‘Good grief,’ he muttered.
They scanned the room. A single bed, duvet, bed made. Twenty or so books on his shelves, some rotting apples on a plate on his desk; their sweet vinegary smell made Hardin wince. A laptop charger plugged into the wall, no laptop. A photo of two young smiling girls stuck on the back of the door.
Hardin peered under the bed. ‘The laptop’s under here,’ he said.
‘OK,’ said Bambawani. ‘Leave it there. We don’t need to move anything.’
On the wall above the bed, a battered poster, peeling away from the wall at one corner. Bambawani reached out and stuck it back again. It showed a white hammer and sickle against a livid background. Beneath the sickle, in yellow type, the letters CPI-M. Then, in brackets, in case the reader was unsure, the words COMMUNIST PARTY OF INDIA (MARXIST). Bambawani and Hardin stared at it for some time.
Eventually Bambawani spoke. ‘Like I said, Don, he seemed secular to me.’
A knock at the door, then it swung open. ‘Hello?’ A frowning white face, stubble, baggy shorts and stripy T-shirt. Possibly pyjamas, possibly day wear. ‘Can I help you?’ he said. ‘I’m Paul. I live next door.’ He jerked his thumb at the left-hand wall. ‘I heard you … rattling around.’ He sounded both suspicious and surprised.
Bambawani introduced herself and Hardin, explained their business.
Paul relaxed, stepped into the room. ‘We haven’t seen him much, to be honest with you.’
‘Really?’ said Hardin.
Paul found another frown which said ‘Why should I trust you?’ Then he noticed Hardin’s dog collar and shrugged. ‘He was always part of everything,’ he said. ‘Start of the year he was always here. Cooked his meals with us, you know. Then he started going to some weird meetings. He got all political. Saw him hanging out with an older woman. She was nice, like, don’t get me wrong. But not a student. Not from here anyway. He went with her more and more. And with us less and less.’
‘And in recent weeks?’ said Bambawani.
‘In recent weeks barely at all. Drifts in sometimes. Probably joined a cult or something. Got a job. No idea.’
‘How did he seem?’ asked Bambawani. ‘When you did see him.’
‘He seemed fine,’ said Paul. ‘Busy,’ he added.
‘How so?’
‘Preoccupied.’
‘Should the university be worried?’
Paul thought about that. ‘Nope. Don’t see why. Don’t sweat the small stuff,’ he said. He looked from priest to academic. ‘Anyway. Shouldn’t you guys know? Isn’t that the kind of shit you’re supposed to tell us?’
Hardin and Bambawani exchanged glances.
‘Yes,’ Bambawani replied, ‘that’s exactly the kind of shit we should know. But I’m not sure we do. Thank you for your help.’
Paul shrugged. ‘Any time,’ he said.
27
Monday, 11 June, 5.30 a.m.
WHEN FAMIE HAD said disappear, she meant a cheap hotel at the end of the Piccadilly Line. Sophie had packed clothes, toiletries and the laptop, Famie had borrowed some T-shirts. What Sophie couldn’t lend, Famie had bought from a market trader on the High Road. It wasn’t quite her smartest underwear but it would last until she got her flat back.
The hotel was a two-storey celebration of 1960s concrete and glass. Equally it could have been a school or police station. A blue and green painted board offered rooms and WiFi for £49.95.
Famie and Sophie’s box room somehow managed to be twin-bedded, with beige and cream carpet, beige and cream walls, beige
