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Ellie shrugs.
‘Maybe one day. Anyway, why were you two talking about me? And Mary, I had a phone call from the police about you. I didn’t want to disturb you on your day off by calling to ask you about it, but what’s going on?’
‘Ahh, nothing much, don’t worry,’ I say, and give her the same spiel I’ve just given Guy. She looks as intrigued as he did.
‘Wow, OK,’ she says. ‘I look forward to hearing all about it at some point then. Right, better get on.’
She waves a hand and zooms away again, heading for her desk.
‘I’d better get on too. See you later,’ Guy says, and ambles off. I take a breath – that was easier than I thought it might be – and reach for Alastair Turner’s number again. I’ve had a quick look at his surgery website; he’s based in North Oxford, just off the Woodstock Road. I’ve never been to the city but from my research I know that this is a nice area, and that Woodstock Road – one of the main routes into the city centre – is wide and tree-lined, with some of the most expensive properties in Oxford. I dial the number for Milton Street Surgery and when a friendly-sounding receptionist answers, ask to speak to Dr Turner. My luck is in; he’s just about to take a short lunch break, and when I explain that I’m a journalist, calling about his sister’s murder, he agrees to speak to me, although he sounds a little wary.
‘I haven’t really spoken to the press much so far,’ he says. His accent is refined, upper-class Oxford, his voice deep.
‘But I’ve heard of you, I think – I may have even read some of your work. And to be honest, I’m starting to lose hope. It’s been five weeks since my sister died and the police seem to have absolutely no leads whatsoever. But what do you thinkyoucan do? Why have you chosen Lisa’s case to write about?’
‘For that very reason,’ I say. ‘Because it seems to be such a difficult case. There are a couple of others I’m hoping to feature too, where the police just can’t seem to get anywhere. Publicity often helps, and Lisa’s case has really resonated with me. I’d love to see justice done, for her and for you and your family of course.’
And none of that’s really a lie, is it?I think.Lisa’s case does resonate with me, massively.
There’s silence on the line for a few moments, then he speaks again, sounding decisive now.
‘Right, well, it can’t hurt, can it? Are you free tomorrow by any chance? I try to take Friday afternoons off and I don’t have much in the way of plans. Could you come to Oxford, around 2.30? I’ll give you my home address. I have a two-year-old son so I can’t guarantee complete quiet while we chat but I’d rather do it there than here at the surgery.’
‘Wonderful. Yes, 2.30 is perfect. Thank you, Dr Turner,’ I say.
‘Oh, call me Alastair, please,’ he says, and gives me his address. I scribble it down and we say goodbye, just as a text from Ellie pops up on my phone.
Fancy nipping over to the Brasserie for a quick lunch or are you too busy? X
I look down to the far end of the room where she’s sitting at her desk, and she raises a hand and first gives me a thumbs-up and then a thumbs-down sign, a questioning look on her face. I hesitate for a moment. I love Ellie, and normally I’d jump at the chance of a gossipy lunch, but with everything that’s going on, and the fact that I can’t talk about it …
Oh, sod it. Lunch won’t do any harm, will it?
I give her a thumbs-up, and she grins, and holds up both hands, wiggling her fingers at me.
‘Half an hour?’ she mouths, and I grin back and nod.
And lunch does me good. Over club sandwiches, sparkling water, and a shared portion of French fries, Ellie makes me howl with laughter with stories about her most recent, and disastrous, online dating experiences.
“The last one was thirty-five and still lived with his mother, Mary. He talked about herconstantly, from the minute he arrived. And then he left me sitting on my own in the bar at nine o’clock because, apparently, they always watch the ten o’clock BBC News together and he had to get home. I mean,seriously?”
Other than asking if I’m sure I’m OK, she doesn’t ask for any more details about the so-called ‘secret story’ I’m working on, and although I dearly wish I could confide in her, I know I can’t, and so I’m extremely grateful for her lack of nosiness. We’ve been there for nearly an hour when Satish wanders in, spotting us across the room and making an immediate beeline for our table.
‘Oh, hi, you two,’ he says. ‘I just fancied a quick sandwich out of the office – would you mind if I sat with you for a few minutes?’
I hesitate – I’m enjoying it just being me and Ellie – but she’s already nodding and smiling and pointing at the empty chair next to me, so I can’t really object, especially as I can see the way his face has lit up.
He was probably expecting us to say we were just leaving,I think. And it’s fine, quite fun really. Ellie carries on sharing her hilarious dating stories, and he reddens at some of them, making me wonder if he’s also been guilty of similar faux pas, but he laughs along with us, and we end up staying in the restaurant for far longer than we should. By the time we get back to The Hub I’m feeling more relaxed than I’ve felt in days. I hug Ellie and smile at Satish and we head back to our respective desks, where I make some notes ahead of my chat with Alastair Turner tomorrow and then, as it’s still only mid-afternoon, decide to look into flights to Botswana, just in case. Right now, I’m still not surewhatI’m going to do as the 1st of April draws nearer, although I’m definitely leaning towards staying in the UK now; I’m not sure why I’m even considering this, and I haven’t dared to tell Pete yet, but the prospect of meeting this killer, of him turning up despite warning me in advance of his intentions is justsotempting. Little quivers, a mix of dread and excitement, run through me every time I think about it. But I would dearly love to see Lucinda too, and I’m sure Botswana would be an incredible adventure. Maybe I can go afterwards, instead, when this is all over.
If you’re actually still alive after the 1st of April, of course, a voice in my head whispers, but I ignore it.
I’m scrolling through flight times when I hear a familiar, nasal voice.
‘Going on holiday? Hmmm, Botswana, eh? Sounds … different.’
I turn to see Edward Cooper peering over my shoulder, his tiny, almost black eyes staring at my computer screen. I close the page and swivel round to face him. He’s wearing a blue shirt so rumpled it looks as if he slept in it.
‘Just browsing,’ I say lightly. ‘I might go away at the end of March. I haven’t decided yet.’
