She decided to check if her and Ed’s arrival at Heathrow had made it online yet. The Mail had indeed already posted a picture of the two of them, alongside a headline asking: ‘Is this Dr Jones’s new love?’
‘Shit!’ muttered Jones.
She knew that as ‘the thinking man’s crumpet’ she was very much Daily Mail fodder. All the same, it must be a really poor news day, she reflected. There was also a close up of her battered and bruised face next to a strap-line asking: ‘Whatever happened to Sandy?’
Her and Ed’s whereabouts was certainly public knowledge now. Which was only as she had expected. But, in spite of her assurances to Ed, she could not imagine that they would be totally safe anywhere in the world.
However, within the next day or so Jones would hopefully be studying Paul Ruders’ theory of the mystery of consciousness. She would have access to probably the greatest scientific work of her lifetime. Maybe, even, the greatest and most far-reaching scientific work there had ever been. In spite of everything she could not suppress a certain excitement rising within her.
But somewhere in America, Connie Pike was in hiding. Her safety, if indeed she was still safe, at least partially depended on Jones and what she did next. On how she handled the revelatory scientific discovery which might soon be in her grasp. And at that moment she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do.
She returned to Northdown not long after six. Ed was still in his room. He emerged about an hour later.
‘Did it arrive?’ he asked.
Jones shook her head. ‘I’d have called you straight away.’
She asked if he had received a reply to either of his emails.
‘Nothing from Mikey, unfortunately,’ he said. ‘Heard from my neighbour. I only told him the barest details, obviously, but I think his involvement, by default, in our dash to Canada and then back to the UK, might be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him. He took it all rather well, and is happy to look after Jasper for as long as it takes.’
‘Oh well, as long as Jasper’s being well looked after, we don’t have a thing to worry about, do we?’ responded Jones, with a smile.
They sat in the kitchen together, picking at fruit and crackers and cheese, chewing over yet again the events of the last few days and what it all meant. Jones had opened a bottle of wine.
Being together was beginning to feel easy and natural again. Just as it had done all those years before.
‘You know, much as I want to get my hands on your USB, I just can’t stop thinking about Connie,’ said Jones. ‘Paul’s work, whatever it proves, won’t necessarily help protect Connie. Possibly just the opposite—’
‘Nor us either, we must still be in danger, whatever you say,’ interrupted Ed.
‘Yes, to some degree at least we must all be in danger,’ Jones admitted. ‘I suppose we could go to the authorities here, but the police would just be bewildered, I reckon, and I don’t know who else to trust—’
‘I’ve had an idea,’ Ed interrupted suddenly. ‘You’re a high-profile media figure. A celebrity. I saw that at the airport. Turn it to your advantage. Call a press conference. They’ll come. If only to question you about your new love interest.’
Ed laughed briefly.
‘Look, if you put it all out there: our belief that RECAP was the target of the Princeton explosion; all that happened in New York; the hit on Marion; everything, in the public domain, then surely that could put Connie and us out of danger,’ he continued. ‘You’d create an international storm. If anything happened to any of the three of us it would look just too suspicious, wouldn’t it?’
Jones stared at him in silence for a few seconds.
‘You could be right,’ she said eventually. ‘Why the heck didn’t I think of that?’
Ed shrugged.
‘Not such a genius after all. Obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ repeated Jones.
Part Five
A human being is part of the whole, called by us Universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a prison, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison.
Eighteen
The next morning Jones arrived at her Exeter University office just as her mail arrived. The package she was so eagerly awaiting was still not there. But she had decided the previous evening, that she would go ahead with a press conference without it. She couldn’t afford to wait. Lives were at stake. Including, possibly, her own.
In any case, she reflected a little guiltily, regardless of that, it was about time she made a stand on behalf of RECAP.
If there was anything at all she could do to help keep Connie Pike safe, and herself and Ed, she needed to get on with it. She had witnessed first-hand just how fast those who were out to get Connie could move.
She picked up her desk phone and called Sally Brice. Sally had worked in admin at Exeter University for almost twenty years, and was something of a Jackie of all trades. One of her many jobs was to organize and, in as much as was ever possible, control any dealings the university and its staff had with the press. She had been doing it for years and was rather good at it.
‘I want you to be a little vague about the exact reason for calling this gathering,’ she told Sally in response to her obvious question. ‘But feel free to drop some loud hints. Have you seen the Mail?’
‘Yes I have,’ responded the cheery voice at the other end of the phone. ‘What did happen to your face, and who is the new man in your life?’
‘Exactly,’ responded Jones obliquely, not quite sure whether Sally was actually hoping for a proper response or merely repeating the headlines.
The press call brought about a healthy response, as predicted by Ed. It was, reflected Sandy Jones, disconcerting to consider how much depended on her celebrity, a dubious commodity at the best of times.
More than a dozen assorted journalists, both written and broadcasting, turned up. The tabloid representatives including reporters and photographers from the Daily Mail, the Mirror, and the Sun, were doubtless hoping for the opportunity to quiz Sandy Jones on her new love interest, and to acquire a posed snap of the happy couple.
For once, Jones thanked God for the media attention she attracted.
Sally had arranged for the conference to be held in one of the university meeting rooms. On the dot of three o’clock, and not a moment before, Jones made her entrance.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ she began, getting straight to the point. ‘My real reason for bringing you here today may come as something of a surprise. My facial injuries are the result of an attempt on my life in New York, which I believe to be part of a major conspiracy, a conspiracy which might well involve American government agencies at the highest level, and which will almost certainly have far-reaching international consequences.’
There was a collective gasp in the room. Jones’s television work had taught her the value of a good intro. She was also aware of the importance of placing herself at the heart of the story, if she was to get the level of coverage she hoped for from the ever-insular British press.