'Tomorrow?'
'Yeah. That's cool. What time?'
'Will you be up at ten?'
'I'll be up at nine. I live with a prick who wakes me every morning.'
'Ten's fine then.' Hart gives Rick the address of his flat and takes Rick's phone number. 'Before you go,' he adds. 'Did you go to any of Eliot Coldwell's meetings?'
'Waste of time that was. I was told we'd get paid. I wasted three Friday nights.'
Hart raises the phone in triumph after he says goodbye to Rick. Another one; that makes four. Maria has disappeared and there has been no word from Kerry or Mike, although Kerry admitted she intended to leave town. But Mike? He would hang on to the end because of his thesis. Hart makes a decision on the spot: to satisfy his curiosity, and to placate the bad feeling Chris's phone call has instilled in him, he'll go and check on the scholar from Dean's Court.
Pale-faced, a little unsteady on his feet, and feeling as if his stomach has been replaced with a torn paper bag, Hart walks to Dean's Court from Market Street. In the bright sunlight, his head hurts too and he hates himself for thinking about the next drink. It is an effort to restrain himself from entering the dozen pubs he passes since leaving the flat. Getting liquored is all he feels up to after being yelled at by Chris. Conflict is not something he expected, not from the students. Is he losing his touch? And what the kid said about him not being a proper doctor cut deep. As an undergraduate in Chicago, he always drank heavily for confidence. At five-four, with legendary acne, he grew a Robert E Lee beard to cover it. Two proofreaders adjusted his Master's thesis because he was skunk-drunk when he wrote the final draft. What he then saw in Guatemala gave him a rock star's liver and, he guesses, another ten years to live unless he climbs on the wagon.
People need him in St Andrews. He has to lay off the booze. But the situation is impossible; if he starts spouting the truth about night terrors they'll say he's a crank with the looks to match.
Cursing himself for a moment of self-pity, Hart reminds himself that Mike Bowen's safety is first on the agenda. He hopes to God Mike Bowen's failure to answer his phone is nothing more than a case of the guy cracking Latin rocks in the library. But if he's gone missing too, Hart knows he has to go somewhere important, and soon, with his information. It's still too early to start making a noise, and he needs to speak to this Coldwell character before he goes to the authorities — even if it means forcing a confrontation with the lecturer, or door-stepping him at home.
Passing under an arch set in a high stone wall above a cobbled terrace, Hart enters the gardens of Dean's Court. Poplars, oaks and chestnut trees cast shadows across the ancient well, and lush grasses surround the fourteenth-century hall. It's made from grey stone and has an arbour dividing it from a modern annexe overlooking South Street. The steps leading up to the large wooden front doors are smooth and slippery with the wear of centuries, and the expansive reception smells of polished oak, old books, floor wax and dust: just like every university library he's ever worked and slept in since his teens. The air is cool inside, the hall quiet, there is no glare from sunlight, the rug feels soft beneath his feet. He is feeling better already.
Against one wall, festooned with black and white photographs, a coat of arms, and an engraved honour roll of past Deans, Hart sees a wooden roster, divided up into little slots containing the names and room numbers of every resident. A tiny wooden slide is pulled across the slot to indicate whether the tenant is in or out. Under Mike Bowen, room fifteen, the slide has been pushed to the right, revealing the word IN on the white card beneath. A good start.
'Can I help you?'
Hart turns to his left, quickly, and then groans. He clasps a hand to his clammy forehead.
'I'm no that ugly,' the woman says, her accent broad.
'Rough night,' Hart says. When he opens his eyes, he sees a handsome long-haired brunette, in her mid-thirties he guesses, descending the staircase to the reception.
'Hey now,' Hart says, but his voice lacks its usual music.
'I'm the sub-warden,' she says, and smiles, pleasantly, but confidently enough to make Hart aware who the boss is at Dean's Court.
He offers a hand which she takes quickly and drops just as soon. 'Hart Miller. I'm looking for Mike Bowen.'
The sub-warden stops smiling, either because she's smelled the dead rat in his mouth, or his mention of Mike is cause for concern.
'Aren't we all,' she says.
'He was helping me out with some research. And I can't get hold of the guy.'
The woman seems concerned. 'Well, he's no been in his room since yesterday evening, and he's missed two meals since. Students are supposed to tell us if they're to miss meals. And as for leaving his door open again. Well, it's no safe.'
'Safe?' Hart asks. His stomach goes all tight.
'Things have gone missing before. He's been told. A room is only secure if it's locked.'
'Oh right. The security risk. Any idea where he's gone?'
'No.' It is not what Hart wants to hear but he likes the way she says 'No', as if the word is passing through a tunnel like a breath of wind. 'You and Mike friends?' she adds.
'Hardly. Met him just the once, but we have something to finish up. I'm not a student here. Just visiting is all.'
She cocks an eyebrow, as if longing to indulge in gossip, even with a bearded stranger. 'Mike's a strange one. Students! The top five per cent they say, and he canne even shut his door after him. The cleaners found it wide open this morning, and he's no been back since last night.'
Hart feels a chill pass through him. He swallows. 'He left last night and hasn't showed since? But he usually shows up, right? After leaving the door wide open? Did he leave any messages? Did he have any plans for today?'
'Is there anything you might tell me?' she asks, her face grave.
'I'm studying sleep disturbances. A rare form of them, and Mike was helping me out.'
She frowns with concern. 'Is he all right?'
What could he say? He looks at the floor, and thinks of his promise of confidentiality. 'Sure. I reckon so. Bad sleeper is all.'
'Really,' she says, distracted, trying to equate Mike Bowen with a bad night's sleep. 'I'm sure he'll turn up,' she adds, her tone upbeat again.
Hart smiles. 'The moment he shows, get him to phone me. Or even better, get him to swing by my place. It's Hart Miller. Tell him I called, would you? He's got my number.' He turns to leave the hall, feeling a little sick. A cool breeze waits for him by the front door. He pauses on the reception mat. As he turns around, it crunches and spikes against the soles of his boots. 'Mike's a smart kid, but I'm worried about him. There's something going round, like a flu, or so I've been told, and it makes people a little loco. Has anybody else had it, or been taking off in the middle of the night and leaving their doors open?'
The sub-warden places both hands on her hips. 'Really. I've no heard of that, except for a rumour about the Hong Kong thing.'
'Must be that,' Hart says, nodding, but it's an effort to give the woman a smile of reassurance.
'Mike is a one-off,' she mutters, and shakes her head. 'I've never met one quite like him before and I don't expect to again.'
'Me neither,' Hart hears himself say, automatically. His fragile smile has begun to ache under his beard.
The sub-warden's eyebrows rise in surprise. 'As for the others going off walking in the middle o' the night, I can't help you there. I've no heard it was catching. Are there many at it?'
Hart leaves the hall without another word.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
'He's a bastard! A selfish, egocentric bastard, and I'm going to tell him tonight. Even if it comes to blows.' Jason speaks before a captivated audience of three. His friends lean across the table in the pub, their mouths open in amazement at the long list of grievances that Jason airs. They begin by laughing; every student has horror stories about shared housing, but Jason's have become legend. By the time he finishes the lengthy account of his roommate's crimes, his three friends stop laughing and shake their heads, incredulous, but thankful they have not spent a year with Rick.