I give her a quizzical look.
‘He’s here,’ she replies. ‘Alistair March is in Scotland.’
I force myself to exhale, slow and steady. ‘Where?’
‘What?’
‘Where is he staying?’
‘No, no, no,’ says Julia, holding her hands up in protest. ‘Confirming he’s in Scotland is one thing, but giving you his personal details, that’s another.’
‘But how am I going to speak to him?’
‘You won’t,’ says Julia sharply. ‘If you really believe Desra has been having inappropriate relations with her students then this is not just about your niece and this boy, but a wider safeguarding issue. You have to go to the authorities.’
It feels like my carefully constructed facade is crumbling.
‘It’s just supposition Julia. I have no concrete proof. How can I go to the authorities without proof?’ I remember trying to convince a reluctant Lisa to come to the police station with me – I won’t go back there – and I add, ‘That’s why I need to speak to him.’
Julia downs the last of the vodka from her plastic cup, crumples it and throws it in the bin. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I can’t help you with this.’
I attend dinner with a pasted-on smile and a plan in mind. I let Julia and Marie-Claire get far too close. Now I need to step back and make sure they do too.
During the starter we talk about the weather, and throughout the main course I persuade the couple to tell me all about their wedding plans.
‘Bali,’ says Marie-Claire with a sigh. ‘Sun, sea and no family.’
‘Are they a problem?’ I ask, after a bite of cod wrapped in prosciutto.
‘No,’ responds Julia brightly, ‘just annoying.’
She seems to have put our earlier conversation aside, satisfied with my promise that I will go to the police on Friday with what evidence I have.
By the pudding course, we are on to our pieces for Friday’s masterclass.
‘It’s about love, fidelity and honesty,’ says Marie-Claire, describing a sestina she has been working on.
‘Sunsets,’ mutters Julia, when asked about hers.
Claiming a headache, I beg out of the literature quiz in the boathouse, and retreat to my room to prepare. I have put together as much evidence as possible, including the diary; the photograph of Michael, Lisa and Desra; the photograph of Alistair; and a screenshot of the poem ‘Carnation’. I’ve also written up everything Lisa told me.
‘It’s not enough, though, is it?’ I throw the documents on the bed in frustration. I know now more than ever that what I need is an eyewitness; or even better, a victim.
I get through the next morning’s session like an automaton; smiling and nodding when necessary, when really all I can think about is this afternoon’s free time. The minutes seem to tick by with intolerable lethargy. Desra manages the session, based on how to read poetry aloud, with her usual minimal attention combined with an infantile self-centredness. ‘Watch how I do it.’ By twelve o’clock I am ready to scream.
‘Okay, everyone,’ she says, finally. ‘I’m impressed with the work you’ve done today and I’m confident none of you will embarrass yourselves tomorrow.’
‘Cheers,’ mutters Julia.
‘What’s he like?’ asks Sally. ‘Professor Cardew. I’ve heard so much about him.’
‘All will be revealed tomorrow,’ Desra replies, clasping her hands together. I wish I had the courage to step up onto the stage and punch her right in her self-satisfied face. ‘I’ve still got a lot to do to prepare for tomorrow’s reading, so as a surprise I’ve brought in a guest who will be leading a session after lunch on editing – the most important skill of all,’ she adds glibly. ‘That will finish at two, and afterwards you can spend the time writing, practising, or using some of the sports facilities on site.’
Everything seems to be fitting right into place.
35
After the editing workshop I tell the group that I’m planning to go hiking and probably won’t be back until dinner.
‘Don’t forget to let reception know your route,’ says Becky cheerfully. ‘In case you get lost, or break a leg or fall into a bog.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
I put on my hiking boots, but instead of taking the path that leads to the loch, I double back to my car. Then I make the forty-five-minute drive to St Andrews and Agnes Blackadder Hall, the hall of residence Julia inadvertently let slip earlier.
When I arrive, I’m surprised to see it’s not the damp, crumbling Georgian building I’d expected, with poor security and blocked-open back doors. It’s a modern structure with over three hundred rooms. It looks more like a conference centre than student digs.
I berate myself for my carelessness. I must have clicked on the wrong link when I was looking it up on the website. How on earth am I going to find Alistair in this labyrinth? I wish now that I had paid more attention when Julia was entering her login details to the student database.
I drive to a nearby Starbucks for a coffee and a chance to think. I’m struggling with what to do next when I see a small group of people emerging from the superstore next door. They’re carrying cartons of wine, boxes of beer, and what appears to be the makings of a barbecue. I throw my cup of coffee in the bin and head into Tesco.
I wait outside the key card entrance into Agnes Blackadder Hall with my bottle of Jack Daniels, bag of snacks, and bale of towels.
‘Excuse me?’ I say to the first studenty-looking girl I see approaching. ‘I’m here to see my nephew.’ I hold out my offerings. ‘I’ve brought him a little something to settle in, and, well, I wanted to surprise him.’ The student – young, pretty and trusting – smiles politely. ‘I wonder if you might know him. His name is Alistair. He’s Canadian. He arrived early.’ She
