‘You think it’s the same man.’ I thought hard. ‘That’s what this is about. But there’s nearly twenty years between them.’
He winced a little. ‘We identified some similarities. And let’s just say, we know a lot more about this type of criminal than we did then. Once is never enough.’
‘But if it is the same man,’ I said urgently, ‘it would make more sense that Bethan is writing now. She must know that someone else has been kidnapped, perhaps to replace her. She…’
‘Then why doesn’t she say that in the letters?’ he asked. ‘If it is her at all?’
‘I don’t know, yet, but…’
‘You need to realize that we have a different sense of scale here, Margot. You think this might be the second time this has happened.’ He motioned at the waitress as she passed. ‘But there is a growing body of opinion that this has happened at least six times since 1998.’
‘What?’ I could feel the blood draining from my face.
‘At least six. That we know of.’
‘What do you mean?’ I blinked. ‘And who is we?’
‘We…’ he said, casting a sideways glance at the woman reading Camus, who, though her eyes were still fixed on her open book, was clearly no longer reading. ‘You know what? Maybe we’d be better drinking up here and heading back to my office. Somewhere more private.’
7
Corpus Christi is literally a two-minute walk from the Copper Kettle. It’s a tiny but ancient college, its inner jewel-green sward of lawn penned in on all sides by a beautiful sandstone quadrangle that does what it can to keep the town out on the busiest tourist route in Cambridge. To pass through its gate is to go from King’s Parade with its fudge shops and whirring cameras and brash young men cheerfully touting for business for punt tours and to enter into a semi-monastic hush that has hung over that space for the best part of a thousand years.
Except when the balls are on or the bar is open, of course. I have very happy memories of Corpus, if rather mixed memories of Hans, the Classics postgrad I was dating at the time and who finished with me on Christmas Eve and then wanted to get back together on New Year’s Day. I suspect there was another woman involved in that case, too, but I never got to the bottom of it, preferring instead to not return his phone calls or emails.
Christmas Eve, I ask you.
In any case, it wasn’t Hans on my mind as I drifted along after Martin Forrester into the college, too deeply shocked to think straight.
The porters nodded polite greetings as he led me through the gate, and then across New Court and up the wooden staircase to his office, the steps creaking beneath our feet. The staircase itself was chill, the air still. From far away I could hear voices in the court below making arrangements to meet in Hall for lunch.
As we crested the final flight, with its quartet of doors, the names of the dons inhabiting them painted neatly on the walls next to them, I saw that there was a pair of chairs on the landing and that one of them was occupied by a lanky, dark, curly-headed youth I recognized.
‘Daniel!’ I burst out, pleased and surprised.
‘Miss Bellamy!’ He stood up, grinning though nervous, and we went through that strange moment when one of your old pupils realizes they are now expected to greet you as an adult. I decided to make it easier for him, and swooped in to shake his hand, but instead I found myself, with surprise bordering on almost-alarm, clasped in a hug.
It was proving to be a very strange day.
‘It’s awesome to see you!’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I…’ I stammered for a moment, lost for an easy way to explain my errand, and touched by his enthusiasm. ‘I’m taking some advice for a column I write.’
‘Wicked,’ he replied affably. With a start I realized I hadn’t seen him since he’d left St Hilda’s three years ago and that he was now at least five inches taller than me.
‘Enjoying uni?’ I asked.
His gaze slipped uneasily from mine to Martin Forrester’s.
‘Yes,’ said Forrester drily. He did not smile. ‘Mr Collier is enjoying uni enormously, possibly a little too much. Are you here about your missing essay on penal theory, by any chance?’
Daniel blushed. ‘I just need another day; it will be in your inbox first thing tomorrow – I swear, Martin. I won’t let you down again.’
Forrester frowned at him, his sharp dark brows contorting, his face like granite, and for a second I was worried for Daniel. ‘All right. Count yourself lucky I have more interesting visitors today. That essay needs to be in my inbox when I switch on my computer tomorrow or I won’t read it. Now bugger off.’
‘Thanks, Martin, you’re a star. Bye for now, Miss Bellamy!’ He bounded off down the stairs with a wave.
I smiled after him, bemused but pleased, while Martin Forrester unlocked his office door. When I turned back to him, he was observing me with a hidden, calculating expression.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘Miss Bellamy, he said. You didn’t correct that boy.’
I felt a hot blush stealing into my cheeks and up my throat. ‘Ah. Ah. No, I didn’t. Possibly because I’m expecting to be Miss Bellamy again before too long.’
It was suddenly his turn to look embarrassed and flush redly. ‘I see. Of course. Sorry.’ He pushed the door open, and something on the other side seemed to be offering resistance of sorts. ‘Come in.’
His office was light and airy after the darkness of the staircase, his window overlooking the roofs and gables of Old School Lane. Crows occasionally fluttered up out of the trees, like raised dust devils. The room itself smelled of furniture polish and leather. The resistance to opening the door had been provided by a huge tower of tottering books, piled on the floor against an overflowing bookcase that had no further room for them. Most of them looked brand new, as though they had never been opened, and many of them sported the legend ‘Ed. by Martin Forrester’. As I settled into the chair he offered me, I saw that they were all on roughly the same subject: Serial Sexual Abuse in Care; New Perspectives on Caring for the Disadvantaged Youth; Raised by Wolves – the State as Fosterer. On the walls were posters for conferences, a couple of blownup photocopies of XKCD cartoons, and a big print of the Horsehead Nebula. Postcards from all over the world peppered a noticeboard next to the tall, groaningly full bookcase.
I saw no photographs of women or children on his desk, then told myself off for looking for them. Bad, nosy girl.
He settled into the chair opposite me and sighed. ‘Any tea? Coffee?’
I shook my head. ‘No thank you.’ I let my handbag, with the letters inside, rest on the red rug beneath me. ‘So, what’s the next move? I give you the letters, I guess.’
‘Yes. The guy we’re planning on showing the letters to is called Mo Khan,’ he said. ‘He’s based in London. He’s agreed to see the letters tomorrow at ten.’
I nodded.
‘You have the letters with you, right?’ asked Forrester.
‘Oh yes,’ I said.
I reached into my bag and handed the buff-coloured envelope containing Bethan’s letters over to him. He opened it and gently shook them out. I noticed he was careful not to touch them. In the muted sunlight slanting into his office they looked creased and pathetic.
‘Interesting,’ he remarked, more to himself than anybody else, and peered down at them, almost close enough to smell them. ‘Very interesting.’ Then he said, ‘These weren’t written in any cellar. These were written and posted recently.’
‘Yes. It’s very strange. It’s well over fifteen years later, why the present tense? She’d be in her thirties by now.’