Brightman gazed into space. 'I remember the police mentioning someone like that at the time. One of the students claimed to have seen him.'
'Her name's Dani James. She gave evidence at the opening of my inquest last week. She also claims to have slept with Nazim during the week before.'
'I saw a press report. . .' His voice trailed off as he tried to make sense of these disjointed fragments.
Jenny said, 'There's a hint that Nazim might have been seeing another girl at the end of his first term; someone well spoken. I don't suppose you're able to say if that was Dr Levin?'
Brightman swivelled his eyes towards her. 'I beg your pardon?'
'I just wondered if she and Nazim had been an item?'
'What gives you reason to ask that?' His pupils, dilated with surprise, were grossly magnified by his thick glasses.
Jenny said, 'His mother accidentally took a phone call from a girl. It's a long shot, but whoever she is might still know something about him we don't.'
Brightman swallowed uncomfortably.
She'd hit on something, she could tell.
'As a matter of fact I did once see them together,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'The reason I remember is that I was asked this question once before - in late 2002 it must have been - by Mrs Jamal's solicitor, I think it was.'
Jenny's heart started to race. 'Alec McAvoy?'
Brightman frowned. 'Yes - Scottish.'
'He asked you if you thought Nazim and Sarah Levin had had a relationship?'
'He did,' he said, guiltily. 'And all I could remember was the one incident. It was in the lab along this corridor. One gets used to it among students . . .'
Jenny could barely speak. 'What did you tell McAvoy?'
'That I walked in on them. They stepped apart as if they'd been kissing. I remember they both looked rather flustered.'
'Have you ever spoken to Dr Levin about this?'
'It's not the sort of thing that comes up,' he said, adding defensively, 'She's very able. She went to Harvard on a Stevenson and came back with the most superb references.' His expression was almost tortured. 'Sarah wouldn't be mixed up with anything untoward. It's unthinkable.'
Jenny took a breath. 'If you don't mind, I'd like you to make a statement.'
Her body was burning; she no longer felt the cold.
Chapter 19
People had always remarked on how calmly Jenny accepted bad news. While others succumbed to tears at the announcement of a sudden death or unexpected tragedy, her outward response was invariably the opposite. An unnatural serenity would descend, her eyes would remain stubbornly dry as the emotional ones gravitated towards her seeking reassurance. She had such profound perspective, they would say, she was such a steadying presence. For many years she had believed that she did in fact possess a unique immunity to grief; that she was simply stronger than most. It took until her thirty-ninth year and her 'episode' (she had always refused to call it a breakdown) to realize the truth. Dr Travis, the kindly psychiatrist who had patiently and confidentially nursed her through the acutely painful months that followed, had helped her to understand that beyond a certain threshold her emotions internalized, failing to break the surface. They existed, powerfully so, but were confined to a strongroom somewhere deep in her subconscious. The trick was to open the door inch by inch to let the stored-up trauma - whatever that was - seep out to be processed. But try as she might, she hadn't yet found the key.
Alec McAvoy had deceived her. He had known all along that there had been something between Sarah Levin and Nazim, but he hadn't told her. Why? He had come to her inquest, sought her out when she was alone and quoted poetry to her.
Who was he, this crooked lawyer and convict who knew how to reach inside and touch her, this man, who, like no one else, made her feel that she wasn't alone? What did he want from her? Could Alison be right - was he hijacking her inquest in the hope of salvaging a wrecked career? Or were his motives even darker than that?
She didn't know. She couldn't know. Her instincts had dried up, her responses dulled. The rage and fury and betrayal that should have poured out of her were locked deep inside, leaving her nothing to cleave to except a flimsy layer of logic. Was he angel or devil? Floating in limbo, she had no means of knowing.
With the dry sliver of consciousness left to her, she resolved to retreat to solid ground. She would trust only her intellect, resist all speculation and conduct her inquest strictly by the rules. Her mistake had been to allow that precious rational part of her that withstood every assault to be undermined. Dig deep enough foundations, Dr Travis had told her, and you might shake, but you'll never fall down.
Winding the final mile up the lane to Melin Bach she became aware that forty minutes and twenty miles had passed in an instant. The fears and imaginings that often plagued her during these dark journeys home had dissolved. Her eyes followed the headlights and her mind turned as dispassionately as a clockwork mechanism as she planned her strategy. She would schedule the inquest to resume mid-week. She would issue witness summonses first thing in the morning and prepare detailed cross-examinations that would tease out every flaw in the evidence. She would make no judgements and reach no conclusions other than those precisely justified by what she heard. She would place herself beyond influence or criticism and deliver justice according to the law. That was how to build foundations and win back the confidence that, McAvoy had so effortlessly and astutely observed, had been knocked out of her.
She indulged herself in a moment of defiance: perhaps, unwittingly, he had made her stronger.
The lights in the cottage were on, the front path lit up by the powerful halogen lamp she'd had installed for the winter. And there was a dark blue BMW parked outside in the lane. She recognized it at once: it belonged to David, her ex-husband.
As she drew close and pulled up, he stepped out from the driver's seat. He looked even slimmer and fitter than the last time she had seen him over three months ago. He wore chinos and a T-shirt beneath a snug lambs-wool v-neck. Forty-seven years old and his hair was still its natural deep brown, his face sufficiently lined to lend him gravitas but the boyishness still lingering in his features. And somehow he managed his feat of agelessness despite working fifteen-hour days as a cardiac surgeon. There was no justice in his getting better looking as she slowly faded. He strolled forward to meet her as she climbed out of her car, his bearing as casually arrogant as ever.
'Jenny. We wondered where you were.' He looked at her in that way of his that said everything about her would inevitably prove mildly amusing.
'I switched my phone off - people pester me at the weekend.' She glanced up at the house and saw Ross pass the uncurtained landing window. 'I thought he was staying with you tonight.'
'He is . . .' He offered a more placatory smile. 'But he's decided he'd like to extend it for a while.'
'He's what? How long for? What have you been saying to him?' She heard the brittleness in her voice.
'Calm down, Jenny. I didn't come here for any sort of confrontation, quite the opposite. It's cold out here. Why don't we go inside?'
He motioned towards the gate. She stood her ground.
'When did he decide this? I thought he was happy here. He's got his girlfriend down the road — '
'He sees her at college.'
'The whole idea was to keep him out of the city. He hasn't touched drugs since he's been with me.'
'He's grown up a lot since last summer. I probably notice it more since I'm seeing less of him.'