‘What are we looking at?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘So why –’
‘Apparently the Principal asked for you specifically. His name’s Hilary Reynolds. Ring any bells?’
A small one, a long way away – a conference a couple of years ago?
‘I googled him,’ says Quinn, ‘and apparently he’s some hot-shot human rights lawyer.’
I was right – it was that conference –
‘He’s just been appointed to that parliamentary advisory panel on whole-life tariffs. You know, the one Bob O’Dwyer is on.’
That’s all we need: Robert O’Dwyer is the Chief Constable. But creds to Quinn for checking, rather than just ploughing straight in like the Lone Ranger.
‘OK, I’ll need to take my in-laws home first, but I can be there in about an hour.’
* * *
Edith Launceleve College – EL to its students – sits on fourteen gardened acres straddling the Banbury and Woodstock Roads. Not very far from town, according to any normal notion of geography, but still the equivalent of Outer Mongolia in the excitable microcosm that is the University of Oxford. It’s been mixed for more than thirty years, but it was founded as an institution for the education of young women, by a vigorous Victorian spinster who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer, and named after the twelfth-century patroness of the nearby Godstow nunnery, who was by all accounts equally energetic and equally bloody-minded. EL’s accumulated an impressive roll call of alumnae in its hundred-plus years, including several generations of women who had – and needed – exactly the same tenacity. Quinn’s not to know, but DC Asante’s mother was one of them. She now runs a FTSE-100 company, but the number of other women doing the same can be counted on the fingers of one hand. EL’s splendid isolation from town and all its temptations was no doubt seen as an advantage by its uncompromising foundress, but it’s definitely a downside these days – when the University has open days they have to resort to chalk marks on the pavement to tempt sixth-formers that far north. On the other hand, it does have one Unique Selling Point: there’s almost always somewhere to park. Maisie finds a space right opposite the lodge and turns off the engine. Quinn sits for a moment, staring across at the gates.
‘One of the girls in my year at Burghley Abbey went here,’ says Maisie.
Quinn turns. ‘Yeah?’
She nods. ‘She said it was OK but it didn’t really feel like Oxford. I mean, there are blokes there now and everything, but she said it still came off like a girls’ boarding school.’
Quinn turns back to look again. There’s a group of young people standing chatting by the main door. They’re clutching files and the obligatory water bottles, but there are ID cards on lanyards round their necks, so it’s a fair bet they’re summer school, not permanent. They seem happy enough, either way. Smiling, looking to the future with confidence, perfectly balanced across race and gender. It could be the cover shot for the college brochure.
‘Do you want me to wait till your colleague arrives?’ asks Maisie.
He turns to her again. ‘Nah, no need. Ev only lives ten minutes away – in fact, I’m surprised she’s not here already.’ He pushes open the door. ‘I’ll see you back at the flat – if it’s going to be a long one I’ll give you a bell.’
‘OK, see you later.’
She starts the engine and pulls away, turning right at the junction in a screech of rubber. Quinn smiles, despite his precious tyres. That girl has balls; she drives almost as fast as he does.
He crosses the road as Everett’s Mini pulls into the space Maisie just left. He assumed she’d walk down from her flat in Summertown, but perhaps she wasn’t at home when she got the call. He hardly ever sees her off-duty so the clothes come as a surprise. Whatever she’s been doing, it seems it required a skirt.
‘Very natty,’ she says as she comes towards him, nodding to his chinos and pink shirt. ‘I hope they were suitably impressed.’
He could take umbrage but he decides to smile instead. ‘Slayed ’em,’ he says. ‘Eating out of my hand.’
She hitches her bag higher up her shoulder. ‘So what’s all this about?’
‘Some sort of “incident”. But not a 999 job so I’m assuming no one’s dead. Woods says it was the Principal who called it in. Refused to say anything more, just kept on saying he wanted to speak to Fawley.’
‘Serious, then.’
He nods. ‘The boss is on his way. But, right now, your guess is as good as mine.’
Ev has a guess all right, but decides, for now, to keep that to herself.
Quinn goes to check in with the lodge, and Ev waits outside; he doesn’t need her holding his hand, especially if he’s bigging himself up as surrogate DS. The group by the door has dispersed now, and the courtyard is empty. Bits of glitter and confetti are caught in the paving, the last fragments of Finals. She can feel the heat coming off the stone through her thin sandals.
‘OK,’ says Quinn, coming back towards her again. ‘They said Reynolds’ office is on the first floor. Turn right down the corridor and up the stairs. The PA will meet us there.’
It’s surprisingly cool inside, but something about the parquet flooring and the echo of their feet has Ev thinking of disinfectant and imminent hockey sticks. The upstairs corridor is a good deal plusher, and the PA is hovering, looking slightly irritated. She gives the impression she knows to the second how long it should have taken them to cover the distance and they have woefully underperformed.
‘Professor Reynolds is just on a call – please take a seat, it won’t be long.’
The PA returns to her desk, but the visitor chairs have a distinct waiting-for-detention look about them which is hardly appealing. As for Quinn, he doesn’t seem able to keep still. He spends the next five
