“Why, what did you study at university then, Ewan?”
For the first time the estate agent looked discomfited by Ted’s question. “Oh,” he replied, quickly recovering, “didn’t go down the university route myself. Got out into the real world, got down to some real work. I’m sure you’d agree that’s the best way to go about things, wouldn’t you?”
“Dunno,” the landlord replied. “It’s not what I did. I went to university.”
“Really?” The surprise of the eavesdropping Carole and Jude was as great as that of Ewan Urquhart.
“Well, of course,” Ewan continued defensively, “I studied later. You know, got my ARICS qualifications…eventually.” The recollection was clearly not a happy one, so he moved swiftly on. “What did you study then?”
“Nuclear Physics.”
“Good Lord. So you have a degree in Nuclear Physics, do you, Ted?”
“Well, no, I don’t actually. I left halfway through my second year. I was starting to spend more of my time doing stand-up than on my studies, so I thought I’d give it a go professionally.”
“And did it work out?”
“Ewan, do you have to ask?” Ted Crisp’s large gesture, encompassing the whole of the Crown and Anchor, was sufficient reply.
“Anyway, Soph, I wonder if what you learnt today is ever going to prove of any use to you…”
The girl shrugged easily. “Who knows, Daddy? Some people say that education shouldn’t be about direct application of skills to commercial challenges, that it should be about training and broadening the mind.”
“What a load of poppycock. It’s not a broad mind that’s going to help you succeed in the marketplace, it’s applied skills. Isn’t that true, Hamish?”
“Certainly is, Dad.”
The set-up was perfect. With a guffaw, his father responded, “And maybe, when you get some applied skills, you’ll have a chance of succeeding in the marketplace too!”
Shamefacedly, Hamish Urquhart rode the laughter. Carole and Jude exchanged looks and decided it was time to be getting back home.
Fourteen
The next morning, the Thursday, Carole drove Jude in her neat Renault up to Clincham College. They had tried ringing, but the woman who answered the phone said she wasn’t allowed to give out any details about the students. Maybe an in-person approach would prove more productive.
The entrance to the campus was flanked by boards thanking local companies and other institutions for their sponsorship, giving the impression of a business park rather than a seat of learning. As the Renault nosed its way up the drive towards the visitors’ car park, they passed a few students, looking impossibly young and clutching armfuls of books and folders. In warmer weather they might have been drifting more lethargically, but the brisk February air kept them on the move.
The main building of Clincham College had always been an educational institution, though it had undergone various metamorphoses before its recent attainment of university status. Originally built by a late Victorian philanthropist as ‘an academy for the furtherance of Christian knowledge’, the humourless tall grey edifice had at various times been a boys’ prep school, a girls’ public school and an outpost of a minor American university, peddling expensive degrees to students mostly from the Middle and Far East. Before its recent elevation it had for some years been a technical college. Now, as the biggest board at the entrance proudly proclaimed, it was ‘The University of Clincham’.
The portico through which Carole and Jude made their way to the Reception area was elaborate and imposing, though it presented that quality of tired shabbiness which infects all educational establishments. The modern lettering of the various signs attached to the tall pillars was at odds with the period of their design.
Inside, more students were draped around the central hall, talking in groups or on their mobile phones. Their manner was loud and over-dramatic, trying to assert their personalities in their new supposed maturity.
Carole and Jude followed the signs to Reception, a glassed-off area with a counter, at which sat a daunting woman in a black business suit. Behind her in the office area stood a tall man reading through a stapled set of spreadsheets.
“Good morning,” said the woman, following some script that had been imposed on her. “Welcome to Clincham College.”
“Hello, my name’s Carole Seddon, and I wonder whether you could help me?”
“That’s what I’m here to do,” said the woman, though her manner belied the welcome in her words.
“We’re trying to make contact with someone who we believe may have been a student here.”
The woman’s face shut down immediately. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give out information about the students at the university.”
Jude thought she’d see whether charm might succeed where Carole’s confrontational approach had failed. “No, I’m sure that’s the rule, but all we wanted to know – ”
“I’m sorry,” the woman interrupted. “I cannot let you have any information about the students.”
“Is there someone else we could speak to?” asked Carole frostily.
“You could write to the Principal with your enquiry, and it’s possible that he might reply to you.” The woman didn’t make that sound a very likely scenario.
“Look,” Jude persisted, “all we want to know is the answer to one very simple question.” There was no point in pretence. Everyone in the locality knew the name of the recent murder victim. “We want to know whether Tadeusz Jankowski, the man who was stabbed in Fethering last week, was ever actually enrolled in the college here.”
The woman went into automaton mode. “I am not allowed to give out any information about any of the students in – ”
“Ah, so you’re admitting he was a student here?”
“I am not doing – ”
She was interrupted by a voice from behind her.
Tadek’s name had distracted the man from his spreadsheets. “It’s all right, Isobel, I’ll deal with this.”
Leaving his papers, he emerged through the door from Reception and approached the two women. “My name’s Andy Constant. Lecturer in Drama Studies. Also Admissions Tutor.” Carole and Jude gave their names. “Would you like to come and have a cup of coffee?”
They agreed that they would and, without further words, he led them to an adjacent snack bar. “Don’t worry, the coffee’s all right.” He gestured to a well-known logo over the door. “Outside franchise. Like everything else in this place. The academic life has ceased to be about learning. It’s now all about raising funds and doing deals. I’ll get the coffees. What would you like?”
As he went to the counter, Carole and Jude found a table and studied him. Long and gangly, Andy Constant moved with a laid-back swagger. His face receded from a beak of a nose and surprisingly full lips. His grey hair was worn long, rather in the style of Charles I. He had on black jeans, Timberland boots and a grey denim blouson over a white T-shirt. His voice was as languid as his manner.
He brought over the coffees, a cappuccino for Jude, the ‘ordinary black’ Carole had ordered, a tiny cup of espresso for himself, and sat down opposite them.
“Bit of excitement in a little place like Fethering, a murder, isn’t it?” His tone was joshing, sending up the intensity of their interest. But he was at the same time alert, apparently trying to deduce the agenda that had brought them to the college.
“Bound to be,” said Jude easily.
For the first time he seemed to take her in, and he liked what he saw. “Yes. And everyone’s got their own theory about what happened.”