‘Just had the Principal from Edith Launceleve on the blower asking for Fawley.’
Quinn frowns. ‘What’s wrong with the duty inspector?’
‘Tried that. Nothing doing. Sorry.’
‘OK, so –’
Woods interrupts him. ‘I’d have called Gislingham, as DS, but given he’s out till Wednesday –’
Quinn ignores the snipe. He’s got used to all the not-so-subtle digs about his demotion. He could have got a transfer, but when he decided not to, he knew the price would be sucking it up. And some of the bolder wags have, of course, taken great delight in using exactly that phrase. But he only has himself to blame: he let his dick rule his head and got involved with a suspect. He was lucky he didn’t get fired. But he’ll show them – he’ll get his stripes back. It’s just a matter of time. In fact – who knows? – perhaps this call is a golden opportunity. With Gis away, a slam-dunk chance to show his class.
‘No worries,’ he says airily. ‘What is it – what have you got?’
By the time Woods has finished, the opportunity is looking rather less than twenty-four carat, but there’s no need for Ted Ingram to know that. As far as he’s concerned, this is a mega-important hush-hush murder case requiring the attention of a fast-track officer destined for greater things. The sort of man, whispers the imp, Ingram would positively welcome as a son-in-law. Quinn squares his shoulders, lifts his chin and starts back up the grass towards the pool.
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
14.35
A call from Quinn is just about the last thing I was expecting. He’s at his girlfriend’s parents’ today – he made a big thing about how nonchalant he was about it, which rather indicated the opposite to me, but that’s Quinn all over. He’s been deputizing for Gis while he’s away, but we don’t have a big case on at the moment – certainly nothing that would merit a call at the weekend. I’d have thought Quinn would relish the chance of flying solo again, even though I did make it abundantly clear it’s just unofficial ‘standing in’ not official ‘Acting’.
We’re all still in the dining room when he calls. The afternoon is reaching the fuggy stage, though Alex’s dad is still chirpy – as garrulous as I’ve seen him in years. I’ve always liked Stephen. It’s the anomaly of in-laws: the same age as your parents, and you can end up knowing them almost as long, but if you’re lucky – as I’ve been – they have your back but they don’t press your buttons. Though that could just be because they don’t know where the dangerous buttons are.
Alex flickers an anxious look at me as the phone goes, but says nothing. She has one hand curled round her belly and she’s fiddling with her napkin with the other. She’s getting tired. I need to start manoeuvring people to leave.
Out on the patio, I take the call.
‘Quinn? What is it?’
‘Sorry to bother you, boss. I’m meeting Ev at Edith Launceleve. There’s been an incident involving a student.’
I frown – I know Quinn’s being uber-careful not to balls anything up at the moment, but does he really need to call me about this? But then I remember that most of the students have already gone down for the summer so it’s unlikely to be just the usual vomit-and-shouting undergraduate excess.
‘What are we looking at?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘So why –’
‘Apparently the Principal asked for you specifically. His name’s Hilary Reynolds. Ring any bells?’
A small one, a long way away – a conference a couple of years ago?
‘I googled him,’ says Quinn, ‘and apparently he’s some hot-shot human rights lawyer.’
I was right – it was that conference –
‘He’s just been appointed to that parliamentary advisory panel on whole-life tariffs. You know, the one Bob O’Dwyer is on.’
That’s all we need: Robert O’Dwyer is the Chief Constable. But creds to Quinn for checking, rather than just ploughing straight in like the Lone Ranger.
‘OK, I’ll need to take my in-laws home first, but I can be there in about an hour.’
* * *
Edith Launceleve College – EL to its students – sits on fourteen gardened acres straddling the Banbury and Woodstock Roads. Not very far from town, according to any normal notion of geography, but still the equivalent of Outer Mongolia in the excitable microcosm that is the University of Oxford. It’s been mixed for more than thirty years, but it was founded as an institution for the education of young women, by a vigorous Victorian spinster who simply wouldn’t take no for an answer, and named after the twelfth-century patroness of the nearby Godstow nunnery, who was by all accounts equally energetic and equally bloody-minded. EL’s accumulated an impressive roll call of alumnae in its hundred-plus years, including several generations of women who had – and needed – exactly the same tenacity. Quinn’s not to know, but DC Asante’s mother was one of them. She now runs a FTSE-100 company, but the number of other women doing the same can be counted on the fingers of one hand. EL’s splendid isolation from town and all its temptations was no doubt seen as an advantage by its uncompromising foundress, but it’s definitely a downside these days – when the University has open days they have to resort to chalk marks on the pavement to tempt sixth-formers that far north. On the other hand, it does have one Unique Selling Point: there’s almost always somewhere to park. Maisie finds a space right opposite the lodge and turns off the engine. Quinn sits for a moment, staring across at the gates.
‘One of the girls in my year at Burghley Abbey went here,’ says Maisie.
Quinn turns. ‘Yeah?’
She nods. ‘She said it was OK but it didn’t really feel like Oxford. I mean, there are blokes there now and everything, but she said it still came off like a girls’ boarding school.’
Quinn turns back to look again. There’s a group of young people standing chatting by the main door. They’re clutching files and the obligatory water bottles, but there are ID cards on lanyards round their necks, so it’s a fair bet they’re summer school, not permanent. They seem happy enough, either way. Smiling, looking to the future with confidence, perfectly balanced across race and gender. It could be the cover shot for the college brochure.
‘Do you want me to wait till your colleague arrives?’ asks Maisie.
He turns to her again. ‘Nah, no need. Ev only lives ten minutes away – in fact, I’m surprised she’s not here already.’ He pushes open the door. ‘I’ll see you back at the flat – if it’s going to be a long one I’ll give you a bell.’
‘OK, see you later.’
She starts the engine and pulls away, turning right at the junction in a screech of rubber. Quinn smiles, despite his precious tyres. That girl has balls; she drives almost as fast as he does.
He crosses the road as Everett’s Mini pulls into the space Maisie just left. He assumed she’d walk down from her flat in Summertown, but perhaps she wasn’t at home when she got the call. He hardly ever sees her off-duty so the clothes come as a surprise. Whatever she’s been doing, it seems it required a skirt.
‘Very natty,’ she says as she comes towards him, nodding to his chinos and pink shirt. ‘I hope they were suitably impressed.’
He could take umbrage but he decides to smile instead. ‘Slayed ’em,’ he says. ‘Eating out of my hand.’
She hitches her bag higher up her shoulder. ‘So what’s all this about?’
‘Some sort of “incident”. But not a 999 job so I’m assuming no one’s dead. Woods says it was the Principal who called it in. Refused to say anything more, just kept on saying he wanted to speak to Fawley.’