Читать книгу St Oda's Bones - Marcus Attwater - Страница 12

When Henrietta arrived at work the next morning she stood for a moment in the atrium to take it all in. She had congratulated herself on her birthday for approaching her problems so sensibly, but once back here, watching the milling students, she was seized with a profound, almost visceral discontent. The atrium which connected the departments had once been designed to be cheerful, light-filled and spacious, but twenty years on it looked tawdry and soulless, its glass canopy streaked, its greenery wilting. The open staircase leading to the first floor lecture halls and the Social Sciences department looked fine when the place was empty, but was really inadequate for the number of students running up and down it all day. One of the banisters was wound about with red and white tape to warn people not to lean on it. Why couldn't they just get someone in to repair it? It had been wobbly since the beginning of term. She'd gladly call a handyman herself if that didn't mean getting the janitor's back up. Why did everything have to be so cheap, so negligent?

She mentally shook herself and walked up the offending stairs. So she hadn't been honest with herself, or with Bridget. This was a crisis, after all. And certainly not one she was going to solve on a busy Friday morning in between running the department. She had a meeting with the dean today, and the curriculum review with her colleague from Winchester. With luck she might even see a student or two. She wondered how many more times she would put aside her longer term problems in getting her daily tasks done. Was it a good or a bad sign that she still enjoyed jotting down her list for the day? She really should speak to Miss Dacre about Melanie Arnold. And she hadn't called the police yet, she realised. The dispiriting environment of the university had chased yesterday's excitement from her mind. Better do that first.

After a bit of haggling with the officious officer who answered the phone, Henrietta was put through to the CID. She felt rather nervous as she waited for them to pick up, as if she herself had committed a crime.

'DI Collins speaking.'

It had helped that she had known who to ask for by name.

'Inspector, this is Henrietta Dunstable, I live in Abbey Hill. You must forgive me if I'm jumping to conclusions, but I believe I know the identity of the body that was found in our parish church. I was there when he disappeared.'

'Ms Dunstan-'

'Dunstable.'

'I beg your pardon. Ms Dunstable, we would be grateful for any information you can give us, but at this moment there is very little yet for us to go on. I may not be able to confirm your suspicions. Or ease your concern.'

Has the rector told us more than he should have? Henrietta wondered. Aloud, she said, 'The bones were found beneath the shrine. And only one boy disappeared from Abbey Hill when the shrine was last removed. I'm sure we would have noticed had there been others,' she said, more sharply than she intended. She had assumed she would be merely confirming what the detective had already found out rather than be the bearer of the news. 'His name was Kester Johnson. He disappeared in the autumn of 1983.'

After agreeing to see the DI in her office on Monday, Henrietta got on with her job, putting the murder from her mind. Only when she got home and had poured a glass of wine did she allow herself to think about that time. It was a lot to think about, and she didn't move from her place until the quiet buzz of her phone shook her, and she found both her legs had gone to sleep.

The year when she turned sixteen. She would always remember that year, and not just because of Kester. The year she spent every single Saturday evening at the Newmarket Bar, Karma Chameleon blasting through the speakers. The year she first slept with a boy. The winter Karen moved out and Michael Camden fell in love with her. The time Fiona dyed her hair blonde and it turned out greenish. She had been wild that year, she had dared things that now astonished her. Her parents certainly wouldn't have allowed her to go to the Newmarket Bar, even if it had been legal, but she joined a crowd of older friends and went anyway. And had her mother really not seen through the frequent sleepovers with Gail at the farm? But Henrietta always was home on time when a time was set, and did her homework when it needed to be done, and was obedient enough for her parents not to guess what she did when she was out. And her friends, less crazy, less daring, were still just as devious, and it was a rare thing for a parent to catch even a glimpse of the grand conspiracy. Of course, when they had to tell the police where they were that night, a lot of it came out, and the youth of Abbey Hill were in disgrace for months. Neither the bravura nor the facility for lying had been much in evidence since. Henrietta knew she was not naturally mendacious, and that effortless sense of entitlement which held her in her teens she now recognised as being mostly ignorance. It was as if she had spent the whole year on a high without drugs, and it must have shown. She only had to look at a boy for him to come running, and then she could take him or leave him. She felt a little ashamed of that, looking back. She hadn't paid much attention to the feelings of the boys so taken up and discarded. She rather doubted she had credited boys with feelings at all, apart from the obvious. She just knew how to play the game, and played it for all she was worth. When, in the course of her studies, or in conversation with friends, she came across the terrible insecurity of the late teens, she found very little she recognised. In her case, insecurity came later, during the university years, and then it had never quite left her.

Sometimes, faced with a classroom full of people, or sitting across from an applicant at her desk, or indeed on the phone with a police officer, she wondered: on whose authority am I speaking? What gives me the right to teach, to question, to judge? Sometimes, talking to a colleague or a shop assistant or just a neighbour in the street, she felt overwhelmed by shyness, unsure whether the social fabric would hold. But she had learned two things, over the years, which meant that very few people knew that Henrietta Dunstable thought of herself as shy. One was that it didn't show on the outside. When she felt like her mind had gone blank and she had to fight for words, others merely assumed she was thoughtful. The second lesson was that, especially in the case of interviews and meetings, the other people involved were likely to be at least as insecure as she was. And gradually her shyness had dwindled to a token hesitation, and with people she knew well, there was not even that. So although the phone startled her with its buzz, she picked up without a second thought.

'Is that Henrietta? Henrietta Dunstable?'

'Speaking.'

'This is Diana Hopgood. I do apologise for intruding. Is this a good time?'

'It's fine, Miss Hopgood. What did you want to talk about?'

'I've just heard the most dreadful news from my sister. You know the bones they found under St Oda's shrine?'

Henrietta interrupted before she repeated the whole story. 'I've heard, we were told at choir practice yesterday.'

'Oh, you have. Well, I just wondered, I mean, you must have wondered too, if it's- you know. Do you think we should do something?' she finished all in a rush.

'I've called the police this morning. I imagine I won't be the only one. Now we can just let them do their jobs,' Henrietta said reassuringly.

'Oh! That is a relief. I felt I had to tell someone you see, and I so hate telephoning.'

'I know,' Henrietta said, with a little smile of recognition, 'But no need to worry about it. How are you, bad news apart?'