The meat man shot me a look that said this wasn’t over. I shot a look back that told him I was getting off at Oxford and had no intention of ever visiting Hereford, much less Slough, so it was. Anyway, his associates were already up and getting their briefcases from the luggage rack. I flashed him a catty smile and went back to my top ten stations.
10
PROFESSOR CABORN
I smoked a cigarette at Oxford Station and then looked up the number for the Department of Experimental Psychology. My plan was to phone reception to try to get a pinpoint on Professor Caborn’s whereabouts. I would say I was an old colleague. But this was the full extent of my plan. I had absolute confidence that I’d be able to wing the conversation and everything would fall into place.
A couple of rings.
‘Hello? Psychology – Sarah speaking.’
‘Oh, hello, Sarah. My name is Julia. I’m trying to track down Joseph Caborn. I’m an old colleague of his. From Liverpool.’ (God bless you, Wikipedia!)
‘Joseph Caborn?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think he’s in his office. Just a moment, I’ll put you through.’
‘No! No thank you, Sarah, but, well, I’d actually prefer it if he doesn’t know I’m coming. We worked together a while back. Actually, I was one of his Ph.D. students four, no five years ago. I haven’t seen him since. I’ve just got back from Uganda and I’d really like to surprise him.’
‘Oh.’ A brief pause. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Julia. Dr Julia’ – I searched for a likely surname – ‘Walters.’
‘Julia . . . Walters? Julie Walters?’
Shit. ‘Oh, yes. Ha ha! No relation.’ I found my feet. ‘Sorry, I get this all the time. Phone calls are always a nightmare.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
‘I’m just thankful my surname isn’t Roberts.’
Sarah laughed. Good: despite a shaky start, she was starting to relax. Charm and self-assurance – they can’t teach you these things on a journalism degree.
‘Sarah, I’m in Oxford, as you will have gathered, and I have a spare couple of hours. So I was planning to pop in to see if Joseph wants to grab a bite to eat. I’m going to come over now. Is that okay?’
‘Um, well . . . If you’re a friend I’m sure it will be fine.’
‘Oh, yes. We used to be very good friends.’ Too suggestive; I didn’t want her to think there was anything funny going on. ‘Actually, I suppose Joseph has always been more of a mentor to me. Almost everything I know about primatology came from him.’ I was extremely proud of this line. Not only was it a good recovery, but it was also, technically, true. ‘You won’t tell him I’m coming, though? As I said, I’d really like to surprise him.’
‘Er, no. My lips are sealed. He should be in his office until at least midday.’
‘Thank you, Sarah. I’ll see you very shortly.’
We said our goodbyes and I hung up.
I followed my GPS map through central Oxford, admired the dreaming spires, and thought a bit more about Dr Julia Walters. The telephone conversation had gone pretty well, but I knew I’d have to be even sharper in person. I needed to inhabit my character. I couldn’t afford any blips.
So what did I know about her already? She’d done her Ph.D. under Professor Caborn five years ago. That made her thirtyish – easily within my range. She’d graduated from Liverpool, though she would have done her undergrad degree at Cambridge, I decided.
What else? She was a primatologist, apparently, and a snappy dresser, evidently – too snappy to make a convincing scientist, perhaps. Oh, well. Not much I could do about that now. She’d have to be one of those rare science babes they find to present documentaries on BBC Four. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her dabbling in broadcasting. Maybe that’s what she was doing in Uganda?
Hmm. Now that I thought about it, Uganda was another hole I’d dug for myself. On the one hand, the lie was exceptionally smart – lot of monkeys in Uganda – on the other, it was exceptionally problematic. Where the hell was Julia’s suntan? I briefly considered nipping into a salon for a swift spray-on, but there wasn’t the time. I’d told Sarah I was on my way. Much better if Dr Walters simply can’t tan. She has to slap on the factor 50 or she burns like a vampire. Plus I never said how long she’d been in Uganda. Maybe it was just a couple of days. Maybe she was like Professor Brian Cox and just flew to exotic locations to film a thirty-second soundbite then hopped on the next plane home.
By the time I’d walked the mile or so to the psychology building, Julia Walters had a biography so intricate it could have been a Christmas bestseller. She was the second daughter of Paul and Annette Walters. Her father was a surgeon, her mother a human rights lawyer. She loved Thai food and was having a messy affair with her producer. And of course none of this was likely to come up in casual conversation. But it helped just to know it. It meant that when I walked up to reception, I was Julia Walters.
There was only one woman sitting behind the desk, so that removed the first potential obstacle straight away. I held out my hand and smiled. ‘Sarah? Hello. Julia Walters. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Awful day to be stuck behind a desk.’
It turned out that Julia was also quite a chatterbox.
Sarah smiled back and took my hand. If she was at all surprised by the young, fair, fuchsia-clad doctor of primatology she found herself greeting, she gave no sign. I think I introduced myself with so much aplomb she had no choice but to be swept along in the colossal fantasy I’d unleashed.
We chatted for a few minutes. I laughed and joked and gesticulated, made a couple of casual remarks about the job I’d just landed in Manchester. (‘The north suits my complexion!’)
Uganda, sadly, never came up.
Up the stairs, two lefts, a right, another left. The Department of Experimental Psychology turned out to be something of a maze. I never would have found Professor Caborn’s office without Sarah’s excellent directions. She would have shown me through herself, she said, were it not for the fact that she was the only person on reception and could not desert her post. This came as a relief. I felt that Sarah and I had bonded over the course of our two brief conversations, and the thought of her uncovering my deception was not a pleasant one.
I passed a few people in the corridors. I strode confidently and made eye contact, smiled a polite, professional smile. The reassuring click of my heels echoed off the bare walls and floor.
There was a toilet en route, where I took a couple of minutes to freshen up and reconfigure my mindset. I checked my appearance in the mirror – still fabulous – splashed cold water on my pulse points, urinated, and left Dr Walters in the cubicle like a forgotten umbrella. I was all Abigail again as I approached Professor Caborn’s office – the first of six on an unremarkable corridor illuminated by two fluorescent strips. His name was on the door in simple black lettering, just above a narrow rectangular window. But I wouldn’t have needed the sign; peering through the glass, I was able to extrapolate the back of his head from the photo I’d seen on his webpage. His hair was pearly white with just a touch of burned-charcoal grey at the temples. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He was in a swivel chair at his computer, the screen commanding his full attention. I watched him for several moments, then checked my watch: 11.58; perfect timing. I straightened my back and knocked briskly on his door.
‘Come in.’ He said this before he’d started to spin his chair, and by the time he’d finished the half-turn, I was already in the room, greeting him with my most disarming smile.