`They're beautiful,' she says softly.
He reaches forward and takes her hand. `Just like you. I thought you could wear them tonight at Gee's. With that blue dress I got you.'
`Yes,' she says, smiling. `Of course.'
`OK, boys,' he says, turning to his sons. `Let's leave Mummy alone for a while now, shall we? She needs to rest.'
At 12.30, Professor Jordan goes up the steps to the University Offices. A building which, in a city of architectural wonders, promises much, but is actually a 1970s concrete slab that could just as easily be an inner-city comprehensive, a council office or the Ministry of Defence. Up on the second floor, there are three people in the meeting room already. The head of Esmond's college, and Nicholas Grant from the Proctors' Office. The third is introduced to Jordan as Emily McPherson, the director of the press relations department, a smartly dressed young woman in a black suit and a heavy set of pearls. Annabel has never had occasion to meet her before; it's not a good omen.
`Ah, Annabel,' says Grant. `Thank you for coming in at such short notice, but in the circumstances, we do need to make sure we're all singing from the same hymn sheet.'
Jordan ticks off her mental bullshit bingo card. First sentence, and he's already got one in `“ that's good going, even for Grant. It'll be low-hanging fruit next.
Jordan swings her hessian bag down heavily on to the table and takes her seat opposite Grant.
`So,' he says, `for Emily's benefit, perhaps you could summarize what we discussed on the phone?'
`Of course, Nicholas.' She turns to McPherson. `At the end of last term, Ned Tate from Magdalen came to me to report an incident of alleged sexual harassment involving Michael Esmond and Lauren Kaminsky, one of our postgrads. Lauren is his girlfriend. It supposedly took place at the departmental Christmas party. Lauren and Michael both happened to be taking a cigarette break at the same time. He started flirting with her and it quickly escalated into something more serious. At least, that's her side of the story. She said Michael was very drunk at the time.'
`And has that been corroborated?' asks McPherson. `The intoxication?'
Jordan sighs. `I'm afraid so. I saw him that night myself.'
`But there were no witnesses to the alleged incident?'
`No. Lauren claims he started to touch her breasts and she pushed him away.'
`That's as far as it went?' says Grant.
`That's more than far enough, wouldn't you say?' she replies tersely.
`What did he say when you spoke to him?' asks McPherson. She has a soft Scottish accent. A very listenable voice.
`He denied it all. Vehemently. He swore a lot. Said she'd been drinking too, which is also true, incidentally. He was clearly in a highly emotional state `“ not just angry but paranoid. Rather alarmingly so. So I suggested he take some time to think about it all and we'd meet again after the vac.'
`It would have been better all round if he'd just bloody well resigned and had done with it,' says Grant.
Jordan flashes him a look. `Better for you, maybe. But academic jobs don't grow on trees, you know. The man has a young family. And he may be telling the truth. It's not impossible.'
`What did the legal department say?' asks McPherson.
`I haven't talked to them about it yet. I was on the point of doing so when we heard the news about the fire.'
`It's still worth doing,' says McPherson with a sympathetic smile. `If the press gets hold of this we'll need to know where we stand.'
`Is the girl likely to say anything?' asks Grant.
Jordan restrains herself from pointing out the many and various crimes against political correctness `girl' represents. `Not at present. I will need to speak to her when she gets back from the US.'
`And I believe the police have been to see you?' asks the head of Esmond's college.
`Yes, two CID officers. I told them about the allegations, and if you are in agreement I will give them Lauren's name. In the circumstances, we can hardly refuse.'
He nods.
`So what's the game plan?' asks Grant. Jordan crosses off another weary bingo box.
`I don't think we can decide on an appropriate course of action,' says McPherson, `until a) we know what's happened to Dr Esmond, and b) we know whether it was definitely arson. If it is indeed determined that the fire was started deliberately `“'
`Which brings us,' replies Grant, `to why we're here. I assume,' he says, turning to Jordan, `that this other matter is not something you elected to share with the police?'
`Of course not,' she snaps. `What do you take me for?'
`And have you spoken to him?'
`He called me in a panic as soon as he saw the news. I advised him that it would be preferable to pre-empt the inevitable enquiry by making a voluntary statement.'
`And is he going to take that advice?' asks McPherson.
`He says he will. And hopefully that will be the end of it.'
`You're sure?' says Grant. `What about `“ the rest?'
`He swears he's removed all trace.'
Grant looks her straight in the eye. `Well, I just hope you're right,' he says meaningfully.
Just after three, DC Asante emerges from Embankment tube station into sullen skies and a bitter wind off the water. Even the trees look huddled against the cold. He pulls on his gloves and heads north towards King's College. It's the first time he's been back to London since he joined Thames Valley three months before, and all the way in on the train he's been wondering how it would feel to be back. Not that this was ever his patch. Brixton police station may only be a couple of miles as the crow flies but it's a lot further by every other form of human measurement. And as for where he was brought up `“ that's another five miles west but it might as well be in a parallel universe. Not that his new colleagues in St Aldate's know about that. They just heard `Brixton' and let assumptions do the rest. But he's not about to let a bit of casual racism like that bother him. Because, yes, his last station was indeed in South London but his school was Harrow, and his Ghanaian father is a former diplomat and his English mother the CEO of a pharmaceutical company, with a stucco-fronted town house in a Holland Park square. And they call him Anthony. With an `h'. They're still rather bemused at his choice of career, but Anthony only ever saw the uniform phase as a means to an end. Everything's going to be different now `“ now he's in Oxford. He's clever and he's ambitious, and those are qualities he reckons that town will appreciate. Along with agility, both intellectual and social. But he's bright enough to know what to keep quiet, and how fast to push. For the time being, it's about watch and learn. And in his book, DI Adam Fawley is exactly the man to help him do it.
I'm checking my phone for what must be the hundredth time today when Gis knocks on the door.
`That mobile in the house,' he begins. `The one that was charging in the kitchen.'
I'm still looking at my phone. Nothing from Alex. Again.
`Turns out it's hers,' he says, slightly louder. `The wife's.'
He has my attention now. All of it. `So it's possible `“'
He nods. `I reckon she could still be in there.'
I toss my own phone on to the desk. `Jesus.'
He takes a step forward and puts a printout down in front of me. `And we've been going through Esmond's mobile records. He's made no calls since 1.15 Tuesday lunchtime when he called his bank. He was already in London by that point. The phone is then off, until it goes back on again at 10.35 p.m. on Wednesday.'