‘This way, please.’
The office is certainly impressive, if only in terms of size. Wood panelling, windows over the garden, more framed photographs, this time of the previous heads of the college. They’re all women. Unlike the person walking towards them, hand outstretched.
‘Hilary Reynolds – you must be Detective Sergeant Quinn?’
Ev sees Quinn open his mouth but Reynolds has already moved on.
‘DC Everett? Please – take a seat.’
‘So,’ says Quinn, after a moment. ‘You asked to see us?’
Reynolds frowns. ‘You don’t think we should wait until DI Fawley arrives?’
Quinn shifts a little. ‘He said we should start without him. You know what it’s like, weekend traffic, tourists –’
Reynolds sits back, fingertips together. ‘This whole situation is extremely delicate.’
Quinn nods. ‘We do understand, sir, but until we know what it’s about –’
Ev glances at him and then at Reynolds. ‘If it helps, I have done sexual offences training.’
Reynolds turns to face her. He doesn’t say anything but she can see from his face that she’s bang on.
He clears his throat. ‘Yes, DC Everett, well guessed. This is indeed an issue of that sort.’
Everett takes out her notebook; Quinn may be playing at being one of the grown-ups but someone still has to do the heavy lifting.
‘Perhaps I can take some details? I’m assuming no one is in need of immediate medical assistance?’
Reynolds gives a quick, sharp shake of the head. ‘No, nothing like that.’
Quinn sits forward a little; he evidently feels the need to reassert the initiative. ‘An official complaint has been made to you, as head of the college?’
Reynolds nods. ‘The appropriate internal processes will in due course be put in motion as required by University protocols, but I felt the circumstances warranted an immediate referral to the civil authorities.’
Sounds like he cut-and-pasted that from the latest Equality and Diversity policy handbook, thinks Everett, as she makes a note. Leaving no arse uncovered, that’s for sure.
‘I see,’ says Quinn. ‘Perhaps you could talk us through the “issue” as you understand it. You told my colleague at St Aldate’s that one of your students was involved?’
Reynolds starts fiddling with something on his desk. ‘A postgraduate. One of our brightest. Transferred here from Cardiff at the beginning of Michaelmas term.’ He glances at Ev and waves a finger at her notes. ‘October, in other words.’
Gee, thanks, she thinks. As if a low-life like me could possibly know that.
‘And the other person involved?’ she says evenly.
Reynolds’ expression has darkened. ‘I’m afraid the other party is one of the college academic staff.’
It doesn’t come as any surprise – certainly not to Ev, and not only because she’s done sexual offences training.
‘OK,’ says Quinn, who’s going to lose his patience very quickly if there’s much more pussy-footing about. ‘Perhaps it would be easier if we talked direct to the parties involved?’
* * *
‘Do you want another glass of wine?’
Erica Somer looks up, shielding her eyes against the sun. She’s sitting on the terrace of Giles Saumarez’s house. Three fishermen’s cottages knocked together into a long, low, whitewashed space with polished stone floors and windows overlooking Southampton Water. It’s cool and airy inside, but out here the sunlight is blinding. At least a breeze has got up now; out on the estuary, among the tankers hauling towards the refinery, there are four or five small yachts leaning into the wind. Somer has never sailed, never wanted to, but she yearns suddenly to be out there, on the water, on her own. No one to think about, no one to answer to, wholly at the mercy of the current and the bright blue air. It’s the impulse of a moment only, and hard on its heels comes a pang of remorse. She should be grateful she’s here at all – at this amazing house, with Giles, who’s put so much effort into this weekend but doesn’t undo it all by telling her so every five minutes, like most blokes would. He’s bought the wine he knows she likes, put flowers in their bedroom, fresh towels in the shower. It’s been a beautiful day, and they’ve had a beautiful lunch. Literally. Crumbly white cheese, golden focaccia sprinkled with rosemary and salt, ripe figs, prosciutto, cubes of deep-orange quince jelly – the table was crying out for a #foodporn hashtag.
She shakes her head now: the glass Giles poured for her more than half an hour ago is still almost full.
He pushes up his sunglasses so he can look her in the eye. ‘Everything OK?’
She nods quickly, reaching for the glass, making an effort.
‘Yes, fine, just felt a bit off earlier, that’s all.’
He sits down next to her.
‘We don’t have to go out tonight if you don’t want to. It’s just that last time you were here, you said –’
‘No,’ she says, cutting across him. ‘I want to go. Will you please just stop fussing.’
She looks away, at the water, the gulls, the wheeling boats. Anything to block out the hurt and bewilderment in his eyes.
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
15.17
Hilary Reynolds isn’t the first head of house I’ve come across in this job. Principals, Provosts, Wardens – the handles may differ but they all grow the same masterly veneer; that grand self-assurance that comes of habitual High Table dining, an entire organogram of domestic staff and a great deal of getting your own way. Reynolds is no different; or at least not at first sight. It takes me a moment to realize quite how much anxiety is running in this room. And who’s generating it.
He’s in the far corner, leaning against the window seat. He must be twenty-two, twenty-three; pale skin, toffee-coloured hair bleaching to blond at the ends. A dark tattoo on one forearm, something spiky and sinister, like a Venetian mask. He’s taller than me, and broader too. The physique of an athlete; I’d go for rugby if you forced my hand.
‘Inspector Fawley,’ says Reynolds with a small cough,
