‘In my experience,’ says Asante carefully, ‘academic life can be very competitive –’
Sandford is already laughing. ‘My God, out of the mouths of babes. The average Oxford department, Detective Constable, is a very small pond overstocked with piranhas the size of elks. And the fact that they’re so rare only serves to make the female of the species that much deadlier.’
Asante and Quinn exchange a glance.
Sandford gets up and goes over to the coffee machine. ‘Safe to say, Marina’s most vocal detractors are almost certainly motivated by envy, and almost always other women. One of them famously referred to her as “the sort of marina where the wisest option is a wide berth”.’
He gives them a heavy look, turns to the switch and flips it on. The kitchen fills with the thudding gurgle of the machine. Quinn makes a point of staring at the empty mugs, but it cuts no ice with Sandford. He collects his coffee then comes over and joins them again.
Asante takes a deep breath; here comes the point of no return. They’re going to have to trust Sandford to keep his mouth shut from now on, and his demeanour so far has hardly inspired much confidence. ‘Have there ever been any allegations against Professor Fisher that you’re aware of? In connection with her teaching role?’
Sandford looks intrigued. ‘What sort of “allegations”?’
He stares at them, a stare that turns into a gape as the silence lengthens and he finally realizes what they must be getting at. ‘Fuck me,’ he says. ‘You are joking, I take it?’
‘Just answer the question, please.’
Sandford sits back a little. ‘Well, if you actually mean what I think you mean, the whole bloody idea is preposterous. Marina has no shortage of male company as far as I can see, and even if she did, she’s just not that bloody stupid.’
Asante quietly makes a note, trying to give the impression that this is all perfectly routine, but without any confidence that he’s managing to pull it off.
‘I believe there was a fundraising dinner on Friday night,’ says Quinn. ‘At Balliol. Were you present?’
Sandford nods. ‘Of course. And if you’re going to ask about Marina, she completely aced it. Had the bigwigs eating out of her hand, especially our Chinese friends. They couldn’t get enough of her. And that dress – what did they say about Nicole Kidman that time? – “pure theatrical Viagra”. At one point during dessert the Vice-Chancellor was heard to mutter that they should have asked for double.’
‘That sort of success won’t have endeared her much to her female colleagues either, I imagine.’
Sandford smiles drily. ‘No doubt. But as it happens, she was the only woman present.’
Asante nods slowly; easy to see what an adrenaline hit that would have been. Fisher must have felt invincible. Invincible enough – and uninhibited enough by all that alcohol – to assume she could ask for anything else she happened to want, and expect to get it?
He clears his throat. ‘Professor Fisher has admitted to us that she was drinking at the dinner.’
Sandford raises his eyebrows. ‘We were all drinking.’
‘Were any photographs taken?’
Sandford gives a quick frown. ‘Some, I think. I didn’t have my phone with me, but a couple were posted on the faculty WhatsApp group yesterday.’
‘And you’re on that?’
Sandford nods. ‘For my sins. I take it you want to see?’
‘If you don’t mind, sir.’
Sandford fishes about under the scatter of Sunday papers and unearths the phone. ‘Here you go. Usual sort of stuff.’
‘Your group’s called “The Vowels”?’ asks Quinn, frowning.
Sandford looks smug. ‘Artificial and Experimental Intelligence, Oxford University. AEIOU.’
‘Hilarious,’ says Quinn.
Sandford’s still smirking. ‘Thank you, I thought so too.’
Quinn turns back to the phone. There are a couple of formal shots that were probably taken before they went in to eat – a line of men in DJs, monotonously black and white, Fisher queening it in the centre, glittering in her scarlet dress like some sort of tropical insect. She’s turned three-quarters to the camera, one shoulder lowered, as if she’s done this before. The later shots have people with glasses of port in their hands, and Marina is clearly visible in several, talking to a couple of middle-aged men. Her cheeks are slightly flushed and, judging by their faces, both men are captivated by her, though it’s debatable whether it’s her cleavage or her conversation that’s making the greater impact. Quinn scrolls to another picture, stops, then holds out the phone to Asante with a meaningful look. Marina Fisher, mid-gesture, her right hand raised, her sleeve slipping down. She’s not wearing a bracelet and her wrist is completely unmarked.
‘Can you send these to me, sir?’ asks Asante, sliding a business card across the counter.
Sandford shrugs. ‘Sure, knock yourselves out, as our American cousins say.’
Quinn gets to his feet. ‘Unless there’s anything else you think we should know, I think that’s it, thank you. We’ll leave you to your breakfast.’ And get some of our own, he thinks. Thanks for bloody nothing, tosser.
Sandford follows them down the hall to the door.
‘There was one thing –’
‘Oh yes?’ says Quinn, turning back to face him.
‘Who brought this “allegation” against Marina? I don’t think you said.’
‘No,’ says Quinn. ‘We didn’t.’
As they walk back up the Abingdon Road towards St Aldate’s, Asante turns to Quinn. ‘What are the odds this is all over that WhatsApp group before the day is out?’
‘Two to one on,’ says Quinn grimly.
* * *
It’d take a lot more than wild horses to get Clive Conway to work on a Sunday under normal circumstances, but something about the Fisher case isn’t sitting right, so as soon as his wife is settled outside in the garden with her brother and his family, he slips upstairs to his office and logs on to
