Friday 18 January (four days earlier)
‘YOU’RE LATE.’
The denim-clad bottom wiggled itself into a comfortable position on the leather passenger seat and its owner ostentatiously raised her left wrist.
‘Your watch is fast,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I’m bang on time.’ Joesbury released the handbrake, checked the rear mirror and pulled out, just as Chris Evans announced that they were listening to the Friday show and that it was nine thirty-two on Radio 2.
‘Guess the BBC’s watch is fast too,’ he said.
‘How was the traffic?’
‘Not bad, considering,’ he told her, which pretty accurately described the five-minute trip from the central multi-storey car park to the spot on the Queen’s Road, some way down from the college, where he’d agreed to pick her up. Because of the email he’d sent at the crack of dawn she thought he’d driven up from London.
She was looking round, into the back seat, up at the ceiling. ‘This isn’t your car,’ she announced as he turned on to the Huntingdon Road. Heading north out of Cambridge the traffic was busy but moving steadily. On the radio, a James Brown track started.
‘Isn’t it?’
Now she was in it the car smelled gorgeous; like sweet oranges and tiny white flowers on a tropical evening, and what the fuck was he now, a poet?
‘When I knew you last autumn you had a poncy green convertible. A real ladies-who-lunch wagon.’
‘Sweet of you to remember.’ There were lights ahead and Joesbury eased his foot off the accelerator. If they came to a standstill, he could look at her. Otherwise, it really wasn’t responsible. He pursed his lips to keep the smile at bay, wondering if there was a penalty for driving under the influence of Lacey.
‘Mind you, when I knew you last autumn you had a right lung that hadn’t been ripped open by a bullet. I guess life moves on.’
‘Ouch,’ said Joesbury. Nope, he was not going to look.
‘Does it hurt?’
That didn’t sound like concern in her voice – more like hope – but it was hard to tell without looking at her.
‘No, it’s actually a pretty comfortable drive.’
The lights stayed on green, the suburbs started to fade away and the speed of the traffic picked up. Out of the corner of his eye he could see she was looking directly at him. He glanced round before he could stop himself and his stomach did a little flip-flop. She hardly ever wore make-up. For a moment, he found himself grinning inside at the thought she’d dressed up for him. Then he remembered she was undercover. As the glamorous albeit drippy-as-an-old-tap Laura Farrow.
‘I still own the ladies-who-lunch wagon,’ he told her, as they neared the dual carriageway. ‘This vehicle is registered to a company in Essex that ceased trading two years ago.’
‘Wow, a real spy car.’
He faked a sigh. ‘Flint, are you taking this a hundred per cent seriously?’
She wiggled a bit in the seat, like an over-excited child on an outing. ‘Too right I am,’ she said. ‘I missed two lectures to come out on a jaunt with you, you know. So where are we going?’
‘Lincoln,’ he said, pulling into the outside lane and picking up speed. The instrument panel told him the temperature outside had fallen to zero degrees. ‘To meet Danielle Brown.’
Silence for a second and then, ‘Why?’
‘Because she’s a former Cambridge student who attempted suicide and who, prior to that, claimed sexual abuse by assailants unknown.’
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I told you that last night. I mean, why are we going to see her? Sounds an awful lot like investigating to me and I’m not here to investigate. You were very clear about that.’
‘Are you going to keep this up the whole trip?’ he said.
‘Probably. And the way back too. And why get you involved? I thought you were on light duties. You know, making tea for important people at the Yard.’
‘I guess the important people at the Yard thought driving you a hundred miles and watching you interview a nice young lady counted as light duties. They clearly don’t know you like I do.’
When he glanced across again, she was smiling. An unfamiliar ache in his cheekbones told him he was too.
Megan had been right. Fifteen years ago, when Evi Oliver had been a first-year medical student at St John’s College, shiny-haired and sound of limb, five students had taken their own lives.
Evi, in her consulting room at the SCS offices, sat back, her left hand going automatically down to her thigh to try to massage away some of the ache there. She remembered one of them, the one Nick had mentioned on Wednesday evening, a boy who’d jumped off the tower of one of the older churches. The area at its base had been closed off for over twenty-four hours and then strewn with cheap flowers for days afterwards. And now she’d learned about four others, none of whom she could remember. Maybe such things had been hushed up in those days. She went back to the stats on the screen.
Nothing else remarkable at all. One suicide in a year, two suicides, none at all some years. Absolutely what you might expect. Except for the blip when she’d been an undergraduate and what was happening now, Cambridge’s record on student deaths was bang on normal.
With one eye on the clock, knowing she had a departmental meeting in fifteen minutes, Evi accessed the archived site of the university newspaper. She entered suicide into the search facility and a few moments later had details of the five young people who’d died in her first year.
Four boys, one girl. One jumper, one wrist-slasher, three overdosers. Three of them had been medical students, one in his second year (jumper) and two in their first (wrist-slasher and overdoser). Evi looked at the clock again and picked up the phone.
‘I ran a check on your friend Nick Bell,’ said Joesbury, as they reached the A1.
‘Anything?’ asked Lacey, her head flicking in his direction just a fraction faster than he would have liked.
‘Clean as a whistle, but we’ll keep an eye on him.’
‘I could accidentally bump into him. Try to get to know him a bit better?’
She was winding him up. At least he hoped she was. ‘Keep your mind on the job, Flint. You can resume your unusual love life when we pull you off the case.’
She didn’t reply. When he glanced over she was staring straight ahead, pink-painted lips pursed just a fraction. Sulking. He hadn’t realized how plump her lower lip was.
‘We can also get someone into the practice he works for to check out his computers,’ Joesbury said, bringing his eyes firmly back on to the road. ‘If he’s been on any dodgy internet sites we’ll soon know about it.’ She was still staring at the dashboard. ‘It’ll take a week or so to sort out.’
‘How?’ She’d turned to look at him again. ‘You can’t just turn up on someone’s doorstep and ask to inspect their hard drive.’
On the radio, Michael Buble began to sing about how it was a new dawn and a new day. Not his favourite cover but a good song. Joesbury reached forward to turn the volume up a tad. And was he going to let that last one go? Probably better if he did.
‘First of all we send ’em a hard-to-trace virus,’ he said. ‘Just enough to toss a few gremlins into the system. Then we reroute their telephone calls out of the building to pick up the one to their IT support when they call for help. We send someone along that afternoon.’
‘That’s sneaky.’
‘You did look up the dictionary definition of covert operations before you took this job, didn’t you, Flint?’
She gave a soft exhalation that might even have been something approaching a giggle and he was getting that feeling again. The one he always had when he was with her, even when the biggest load of shit ever was being fanned in all directions. The one that told him there was nowhere else in the whole world he’d rather be.
‘Meg, did I wake you?’
