‘Maybe we could speak somewhere more private?’
‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Steven took Glass’s relaxed demeanour and slight air of puzzlement as a sign he had no idea what had been going on. This was a bonus. ‘I’m afraid your friend’s in a great deal of trouble,’ he said. ‘He’s had a serious mental breakdown.’
‘Owen? You’re kidding.’
‘I’m afraid not, he completely snapped, attacked his wife and injured her badly. She’s in hospitaclass="underline" he’s on the run from the police.’
Glass was dumbstruck until he eventually managed, ‘Christ almighty, that’s beyond belief.’
Steven accepted that Glass’s shock was genuine. After a suitable pause he said, ‘Barrowman sent you a packet sometime after your recent visit to Capital in London?’
‘He did.’
‘I must ask you to hand it over please.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Glass, still appearing shocked.
‘It’s not a request, Doctor... I do have the authority...’
Glass appeared to come to his senses and said apologetically, ‘Oh, no, sorry, I’m not being awkward, I don’t have it any more.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Owen has it, he asked me to send it back to him.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He asked me to send it back to him.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
Steven had an image of Barrowman floating up from the watery grave he imagined him to be in. Questions tumbled out. ‘Where was he? Where did you send the package? What did he say?’
‘He sounded like he was in a bit of a hurry and didn’t have much time to talk,’ said Glass, ‘He apologised for messing me around and asked that I send the package to the address he gave me. I said, no problem, I’d do it right away.’
‘Do you still have the address?’
Glass looked round at the surface of a cluttered desk. ‘I think so.’ He got up and started rummaging.
‘Did he tell you what was in the package?’ Steven asked.
‘He didn’t.’
‘And you didn’t ask?’
‘He was a friend asking for a favour. If he’d wanted me to know he would have told me. Ah, here it is...’
Glass handed Steven the piece of paper he’d found.
‘A post box number in London’ Steven exclaimed, ‘nothing else, did he say where it was?’
‘He had no reason to, I suppose I assumed it was a box used by the university. What was in this packet anyway?’
Steven ignored the question and said, ‘Dr Glass,’ he said, ‘Owen Barrowman is a wanted man with serious charges pending against him.’ He handed his card to Glass. ‘Please call me immediately if you hear from him again. In the meantime, I’d rather you didn’t mention our conversation to anyone.’
Glass looked as if something was troubling him. ‘Of course not,’ he said hesitantly... ‘But you know, Owen didn’t sound as if he were suffering from a severe breakdown...’
‘Maybe I chose the wrong words,’ said Steven. ‘I think experts might call it a severe personality disorder.’
‘I’m struggling to believe it.’
‘So is Lucy in her hospital bed.’
‘I’m sorry... give her my best.’
Steven called Jean on the way to the airport and asked if she would try to get information on the post box number. ‘It could be one that Capital University uses,’ he added. ‘But maybe not.’
‘No package?’ she asked.
Steven said not. ‘Barrowman phoned Glass and asked him to send it to the number I’ve just given you.’
‘So, he’s still alive.’
‘And with a plan apparently.’
Jean said, ‘My God, his life is in ruins, he’s on the run from the police for murder and he’s still piddling around with this research data nonsense. It’s unbelievable.’
‘For a normal person, Jean, but he’s not normal. He’s devious, cunning, totally unpredictable and completely devoid of compassion or sympathy. What we mustn’t do is underestimate him. He may be a nutter, but he’s a nutter with a PhD who believes he is on some kind of mission.’
‘And with that happy thought...’ said Jean, ‘I can tell you that the stuff you asked for from the US has come in. I’ll leave it on your desk along with anything I find out about the box number. I’ll be leaving a bit early tonight.’
‘Choir?’
‘We’re giving a concert.’
‘Have a good one.’
The news that his flight back to London had been delayed because of engine problems did little to improve Steven’s mood. It darkened further when the aircraft eventually took off only to be put in a holding pattern over West Drayton an hour later while it waited for a revised landing slot at Heathrow.
‘We’d like to apologise for the slight delays you’ve suffered today...’
Passengers exchanged glances at the word “slight”.
‘...and thank you for flying British Airways today. We hope to see you again soon.’
Next time I’ll use a pogo stick.
Steven found the office empty when he got back to Whitehall. There was an envelope on his desk containing the information he’d asked for from the US and a note from Jean stating that she had ‘hit the wall’ in her efforts to find out where or what the post box number was linked to. The ‘wall’ appeared to be Royal Mail security.
Steven swore under his breath, but noted that Jean had enlisted John Macmillan’s help in resolving the problem before leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes while he considered the world’s obsession with what they imagined was security. People were becoming afraid to say or do anything. It was really blame that they feared most. Lawyers and the threat of litigation stalked their every move and listened to every word. Steven checked his watch and decided to take the US material home.
‘Hi Tally,’ he called out as he unlocked the front door. He was slightly out of breath after choosing to run up the stairs rather than take the lift, a habit he adopted when opportunities for planned exercise were curtailed. He’d never liked the idea of “going to the gym”, preferring to run through landscapes rather than gaze out of a window while on a treadmill — even if the landscape happened to be the hell of sand dunes or rain-swept mountains.
As he turned after closing the door, a small white object caught his attention and he bent to pick it up... it was a card... a business card. The blood drained from his face as he read the name on it... Dr Owen Barrowman. On the back was written, “Sorry you were out”.
Steven remained frozen to the spot. Barrowman had been here. All he could think was that the card was the psychotic weirdo’s idea of a joke. His own presence at Barrowman’s flat had been given away by him leaving his business card and this was some kind of what? A warning that more was to come? Tally wasn’t home... but she could have been.
Steven found his mouth dry and his throat tight as he walked slowly through the flat, checking the rooms, reassuring himself that there was nothing amiss. He was in the bedroom when he heard the key go in the lock and Tally’s voice asking if he was home.
‘In here.’
Tally came in and smiled. ‘There you are,’ she said, ‘What’s wrong? You look strange...’
‘Just pleased to see you.’ He gave her a hug.
‘I’m really not that late, Steven,’ said Tally. It was a joke, but she was clearly concerned.
Steven flirted briefly with the idea of trying to hide what had happened but didn’t feel comfortable doing that. He showed her the card.
Tally’s normal air of self-confidence collapsed. She took a series of deep breaths before exclaiming, ‘He’s been here?’
‘He put it through the letterbox.’
‘Why? What did he want?’