On a table in front of me is a large glass jar covered in a white sheet. My surprise. I know they’re wondering what I’m going to show them. I have kept them waiting long enough.
Taking the corners of the fabric, I flick my wrists. The cloth billows and falls, revealing a human brain suspended in formalin.
‘This is Brenda,’ I explain. ‘I don’t know if that’s her real name but I know she was forty-eight when she died.’
Putting on rubber gloves, I lift the rubbery grey organ in my cupped hands. It drips on the table. ‘Does anyone want to come down and hold her?’
Nobody moves.
‘I have more gloves.’
Still there are no takers.
‘Every religion and belief system in history has claimed there is an inner force within each of us- a soul, a conscience, the Holy Spirit. Nobody knows where this inner force resides. It could be in the big toe or the earlobe or the nipple.’
Guffaws and giggles confirm they’re listening.
‘Most people would opt for perhaps the heart or the mind as logical locations. Your guess is as good as mine. Scientists have mapped every part of the human body using X-rays, ultrasounds, MRIs and CAT scans. People have been sliced, diced, weighed, dissected, prodded and probed for four hundred years and, as yet, nobody has discovered a secret compartment or mysterious black spot or magical inner force or brilliant light shining within us. They have found no genie in a bottle, no ghost in the machine, no tiny little person madly pedalling a bicycle.
‘So what are we to draw from this? Are we simply flesh and blood, neurons and nerves, a brilliant machine? Or is there a spirit within us that we cannot see or understand?’
A hand is raised. A question! It’s Nancy Ewers- the reporter from the student newspaper.
‘What about our sense of self?’ she asks. ‘Surely that makes us more than machines.’
‘Perhaps. Do you think we’re born with this sense of self, our sense of ego, our unique personalities?’
‘Yes.’
‘You may be right. I want you to consider another possibility. What if our consciousness, our sense of self, stems from our experiences- our thoughts, feelings and memories? Rather than being born with a blueprint we are a product of our lives and a reflection of how other people see us. We are lit from without, rather than within.’
Nancy pouts and sinks back into her seat. People are scribbling furiously around her. I have no idea why. It won’t be in the exam.
Bruno Kaufman intercepts me as I leave the tutorial.
‘Listen, old boy, thought I could interest you in lunch.’
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Is she beautiful?’
I picture Ruiz and tell him no. Bruno falls into step beside me. ‘Terrible business on the bridge last week, absolutely dreadful.’
‘Yes.’
‘Such a nice woman.’
‘You knew her?’
‘My ex-wife went to school with Christine.’
‘I didn’t know you’d been married.’
‘Yes. Maureen has taken it quite hard, poor old thing. Shock to her system.’
‘I’m sorry. When did she last see Christine?’
‘I could ask her, I suppose.’ He hesitates.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘It would mean calling her.’
‘You don’t communicate?’
‘Story of our marriage, old boy. It was like a Pinter play: full of profound silences.’
We descend the covered stairs and cross the square.
‘Of course all that’s changed now,’ says Bruno. ‘She’s been calling me every day, wanting to talk.’
‘She’s upset.’
‘I suppose so,’ he ponders. ‘Oddly enough, I quite enjoy her calls. I divorced the woman eight years ago, yet find myself living and dying by her opinion of me. What do you make of that?’
‘Sounds like love.’
‘Oh, heavens no! Friendship maybe.’
‘So you’re saying you’d rather snuggle up to a post-grad student half your age?’
‘That’s romance. I try not to confuse the two.’
I leave Bruno at the bottom of the stairs, outside the psychology department. Ruiz is waiting at his car, reading a newspaper.
‘What’s happening in the world?’ I ask.
‘Usual death and destruction. Some kid in America just shot up a high school. That’s what happens when you sell automatic weapons at the school canteen.’
Ruiz hands me a takeaway coffee from a tray resting on the seat.
‘How was your room at the Fox amp; Badger?’
‘Too close to the bar.’
‘Noisy, huh?’
‘Too tempting. I got to meet some of the locals. You have a dwarf.’
‘Nigel.’
‘I thought he was taking the piss when he said his name was Nigel. He wanted to take me outside and fight me.’
‘He does that all the time.’
‘Does anyone ever hit him?’
‘He’s a dwarf!’
‘He’s still an annoying little fuck.’
I have an appointment to see Veronica Cray at Trinity Road Police Station in Bristol.
‘Are you sure you want me to come?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Why not?’
‘Job’s done. You got what you wanted.’
‘You can’t go back to London- not yet. You’ve only just arrived. You haven’t even seen Bath. You can’t come to the West Country and not see Bath. It’s like going to LA and not sleeping with Paris Hilton.’
‘I can pass on both of those.’
‘What about Julianne? She’s coming home this afternoon. She’ll want to see you.’
‘That’s more tempting. How is she?’
‘Good.’
‘How long has she been away?’
‘Since Monday. It seems like longer.’
‘It always does.’
Trinity Road Police Station is an inward looking building without any windows on the lower floors. Like a bunker built for a siege, it is the perfect expression of modern law enforcement with CCTV cameras on every corner and spikes on the walls. Someone has daubed graffiti on the brickwork: Stop Killer Cops: End State Terrorism.
Opposite the station, the Holy Trinity Church is boarded up and deserted. An old woman shelters beneath the portico, dressed in black and bent like a burnt matchstick.
We wait downstairs for someone to arrive. A metal security door opens. A tall black man has to almost duck his head to get through. My first assumption is the wrong one. He’s not being released from custody. He belongs here.
‘I’m Detective Constable Abbott,’ he says, ‘but you can call me Monk. Every other bastard does.’
His hands are the size of boxing gloves. I feel ten years old again.
‘Does everyone have a nickname around here?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Most of us do.’
‘What about the DI?’
‘We call her boss.’
‘Is that it?’
‘We like our jobs.’
Veronica Cray’s office is a box within this box, furnished with a simple pine desk and a few filing cabinets. The walls are covered with photographs of unsolved cases and uncaught suspects. While other people fill drawers and diaries with their unfinished business, the DI turns it into wallpaper.
She is dressed in black, with breakfast in progress. A sweet bun and a cup of tea rest upon the paperwork.
She takes a final mouthful and gathers her notes.
‘I got a briefing. You can listen.’
The incident room is clean, modern and open plan, broken only by moveable partitions and whiteboards. A photograph has been taped to the top of one of them. Christine Wheeler’s name appears alongside.
The assembled detectives are mostly men who stand as DI Cray enters. A dozen officers have been assigned to the investigation, which hasn’t yet been classified as a murder inquiry. Unless the taskforce can produce a motive or a suspect within five days, the powers that be are going to toss this one to the coroner to decide.
DI Cray licks sugar from her fingers and begins.
‘At 5.07 p.m. last Friday afternoon, this woman jumped to her death from Clifton Suspension Bridge. Our first priority is to piece together the final hours of her life. I want to know where she went, who she spoke to and what she saw.