She shows Everett into the office and closes the door behind her. Ev takes a seat on one of the uncomfortable plasticky chairs.
‘I just wanted to say,’ starts Baylis, taking her own seat and tucking her skirt neatly under her – her mother would have been proud – ‘we’re really pleased your father is settling in.’
Ev wonders if she’s speaking on behalf of the whole staff or if it’s some sort of Royal We.
‘But?’
Baylis frowns. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘It sounded like there was a “but” coming.’ She smiles. ‘Or perhaps I’ve just spent too long interviewing suspects.’
Baylis looks momentarily wrong-footed. Now there’s a first, thinks Ev.
‘I just meant,’ she says, sitting forward now, ‘that it’s always a relief – for everyone – when a resident starts to feel at home.’
Ev waits. There’s something else coming. No question. Like she said, she’s been at the interrogation game a very long time.
Baylis sighs. ‘I know we talked about this before, before your father became one of us.’ She makes it sound like the Masons. ‘But I feel I do need to say it again. Meadowhall is a residential home, not a nursing home. We don’t have specialist resources –’
‘The Alzheimer’s.’
She blinks. ‘Yes, the Alzheimer’s.’
‘The GP says it’s still very early stages. He prescribed those drugs –’
‘I know, and we’re making sure he takes them. But that’s about all we’re able to do.’ She emphasizes the words. ‘We don’t have full-time medical staff. We wouldn’t be able to cope –’
‘If it got worse – yes, I know. You told me.’
Baylis gives her a long look, not unkindly. ‘It’s not a case of if, Miss Everett. It’s a case of when. Alzheimer’s always wins in the end.’
Ev’s throat is suddenly tight with tears.
‘I know,’ she says after a moment, her voice betraying her. ‘I do know that, I just want – I just want him to be somewhere normal for as long as he can. Somewhere that feels as much as possible like home.’
Baylis nods. ‘And that’s what we’ll provide. But only for as long as possible. I just wanted that to be completely clear.’
Everett gets to her feet – if Baylis really was a suspect she’d have exactly the right whip-smart response, the perfect form of words to re-establish the balance of power between them, but something about this office is radio-jamming her brain.
‘Sorry,’ she mutters, ‘I’ve got to go.’
* * *
The head of the university computer science department was easy enough to track down, but rather harder to persuade to see them at the weekend. When he opens the door of his Abingdon Road house he’s rather pointedly dressed in slippers and a purple-and-turquoise dressing gown.
‘You’re not Moonies, are you?’ he says jovially. ‘The last bloke who knocked here wearing a suit like that asked me if I wanted to be saved.’
Quinn steps forward, showing his warrant card. ‘Acting DS Gareth Quinn. This is DC Asante. Thank you for making the time to see us, Professor Sandford.’
Sandford takes a step back and waves them through. ‘I’m in the kitchen. At the back.’
It’s a Victorian semi, but unlike most people who live in houses like this, Sandford hasn’t knocked through any of the downstairs rooms, so there’s a railway carriage feel of doors opening off a passageway that doesn’t get enough light. That, combined with the heavily patterned wallpaper and the piles of newspapers and magazines, makes the place feel much smaller than it really is. The kitchen is in a modern extension, but ‘modern’ is a relative term. Eighties, at a guess. Out the back, what’s left of the garden has been slabbed over; there’s a white plastic table and chairs on the grubby paving and neglected tomato plants withering in a growbag against the fence. And Sandford clearly isn’t much of a domestic goddess within doors either. The kitchen’s not that clean under the clutter and the only item less than thirty years old is the large Nespresso machine. The rest is vintage 1985 – the mug tree, the matching tea and coffee jars, and the enamel toaster in the corner that’s definitely an original rather than a trendy repro. There’s a mug of coffee steaming on the breakfast bar and a plate of newly buttered toast, but Sandford doesn’t offer either. He just pulls out a bar stool and gestures for them to do the same.
‘Must be serious, to get you chaps dolled up to the nines this early on a Sunday.’
Quinn gets out his tablet. ‘We’re making enquiries in relation to Professor Fisher.’
Sandford raises an eyebrow. There’s a half-smile trying to get out. ‘Marina? Well, well, well. Who’d ’a thought it, eh?’
‘It’s a confidential matter at present, sir. And it’s very important that it remains so. I’m sure you understand.’
Sandford does a zip gesture across his mouth. ‘Rest assured, my lips are sealed.’ He reaches for a slice of toast and coats it liberally with blackcurrant jam. Asante feels his stomach start to rumble.
‘Go on then,’ Sandford says, his mouth half full. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How does Professor Fisher get on with her students?’ asks Quinn.
Sandford nods slowly, chewing all the while. ‘She’s very popular. Being a media star no doubt helps – sprinkles a bit of fairy dust. Oh yes, she has quite the little following.’
‘What about her colleagues?’ asks Asante. ‘Does she inspire the same admiration there?’
Sandford considers. ‘That’s rather more nuanced, shall we say. No one questions her technical competence, but this is Oxford; excellence merely gets you to first base.’
‘What do they think about her public profile?’ continues Asante. ‘Is that seen as a good thing?’
Sandford gives him a narrow look. ‘Well, the “official” line is that having a woman of Marina’s standing on the staff can only be a good thing. And if it helps attract girls to the subject, so much the better. Getting the stats up on female applicants is still an unholy grail for every STEM faculty.’
Quinn raises an eyebrow. ‘And the “unofficial” line?’
Sandford puts down his toast and
