James’s pain was sending him over the top now. Anything to get his mind off it, he didn’t care what. One miserable piano student gets embarrassed, who cares? ‘This piece is not for virgins. You’re not a virgin, are you, Morag?’ He looked hard at her, now pink and staring down at the keys, as the audience’s giggles burbled round her. ‘You’re Natalya Rachmaninova, and Sergei, your new husband, he plays you like you’re a piano. You’ve just spent four hours making love in the afternoon … the golden wheat is whispering on the steppe … there are ripe cherries in the orchard … can you imagine that?’
‘I’m from Penicuik,’ Morag whispered.
James ignored her. Pacing the platform now, and paddling the air with his arms he practically shouted, ‘Try it again, Morag. Languorous, you see? Let’s have some
languor for grown-ups. Rachmaninov’s not for virgins. Make it big, make it about
sex
, Morag. The languor in this piece is
post-coital
. Do you understand? Come on, Morag, make
love
to the piano.’
Morag was sweating visibly. She raised a timid hand, more to stop him than to ask her question. But James’s sudden involuntary cry of pain and his heavy collapse on the stage all but drowned out her mystified, ‘Em—with or without pedal?’
T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
teeth-grindingly irritating about students, Andrew thought. He had long since lost (he believed) any sense of inferiority at not having gone to university himself, but had not noticed that he had lapsed instead into a dull sense of superiority arising from an unexamined conviction that young people nowadays had things easier than he had. He was quite sure that he, when in his early twenties, would have been sufficiently awake if not sufficiently respectful of authority to give better directions than those he had taken from the tall girl carrying folders and a laptop, and which had now got him lost on the windswept brick and concrete campus of the University of the West of England. His annoyance hurried his pace past the flat glass walls on either side of the raised concourse and DS Bridger, who had driven all the way from Bath without daring to break DCI Poole’s angry silence, had to take his hands out of his pockets in order to keep up.
The campus consisted of a half dozen or so visually unrelated buildings whose entrances had been concealed (surely deliberately) by their being placed either round the back, down the side, up or down flights of outside steps, or
all four. Some were recognisable as entrances at all only by the delinquent huddles of wheelie bins outside. The buildings were connected by brick pathways, windy stairs and treacherous ramps arranged with Escher-like malice to necessitate the taking of long, pointless walks between destinations. Bright plastic-coated signs with arrows did not help much; no consensus had been reached about whether locations were to be identified by level (LOWER CONCOURSE 2 SPANISH AND LEVEL 3 >) or academic department (< PHARMACOLOGY LEVEL D SPANISH > LIFTS AND STAIRS) or function (LABORATORIES/DRAMA STUDIO > STRAIGHT ON LEVEL 1 < PHYSICS BUILDING) or by whimsical given names (BRUNEL GALLERY LEVEL A < >BECKFORD BUILDING/WILBERFORCE (STATISTICS) ANNEXE >).
‘Sir, sir, this is us, isn’t it?’ Bridger walked over to peer at a single fluttering sheet of white paper stuck with masking tape to the outside of a window. Done in thick black marker pen, an arrow below the words ‘UWE/BCTILHE Mycology Symposium’ directed them inside. Growling gently, Andrew followed Bridger who, encouraged by his own initiative in picking up the trail, led the way, guided by a succession of handwritten notices which brought them up through several bleak stairwells, along corridors and past payphones, classrooms, coffee machines, pigeonholes, notice boards and administration desks to a pair of double doors marked BRITISH GAS (SOUTHERN) CONFERENCE SUITE on the top floor.
Just inside the doors, the smell of bacon hit Andrew like a wallop on the nose. From the corridor that stretched
down past the empty reception desk came the clatter of cutlery mixed with the sound of piped music.
‘Right. Safe to assume that’s the conference dining room down there and the delegates are still having breakfast. Go on, Bridger, get in there and track down Mr Takahashi.’
Bridger reappeared a moment later, alone. ‘Eh, sir, I’ve found him. He’s still having his breakfast.’ There was an exasperated silence as Andrew looked wanly past Bridger’s ear.
‘Just get him, Bridger.’
‘Thing is, he still doesn’t know, does he? That his wife’s dead, I mean. Seems a shame, I mean, he’s going to know soon enough, isn’t he? Shouldn’t we let him just finish his breakfast first?’
Bridger’s newfound if clumsy compassion would have been, if Andrew had been curious, puzzling. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ he asked in tired irritation, leading the way.
The source of the bacon smell was more of a self-service cafeteria than a dining room. Of the twenty or so functional tables, each with four matching chairs, set out with only squeezing distance between, fewer than a third were occupied. Bridger nodded towards a dark-haired man hunched with concentration over his plate at an otherwise empty table. Mr Takahashi half rose for introductions and then bowed them into the seats opposite, smiling apologetically. His black hair was silvered; he looked at least twenty years older than the woman in the mortuary.
‘Please, please.’ He pointed downwards with his fork and beamed at his breakfast.
‘Fond of our famous English breakfast, then, sir?’
Bridger said, with nervous joviality. Andrew scowled at him and cleared his throat.
‘Ah, yes!’ Mr Takahashi pointed downwards again. ‘Very, very good, I am very fond of hash browns, also the bacon. Eggs—easy over, also. Sunny side up! Tomato, mushroom, all very good.’ He began to eat with enthusiasm while still laughing at his fondness for the food, a disconcerting sight. He seemed quite lacking in curiosity as to why two police officers should have dropped in apparently to watch him. Andrew cleared his throat again.
‘Mr Takahashi, we tracked you down by contacting your department at the University of Kobe in Japan. We understand from them that you and your wife came over here for a symposium.’ Mr Takahashi was nodding happily as the next mouthful went in. ‘Mr Takahashi, what do you know of your wife’s whereabouts now?’
Mr Takahashi’s chewing face began to frown. ‘My wife accompany me. My wife is assistant to me in my work.’
‘What work is that, exactly, Mr Takahashi?’ Bridger asked, in a tone that Andrew thought inappropriately conversational as well as irrelevant.
Mr Takahashi speared three large mushrooms with his fork, folded a slab of fried egg over them and held the morsel up for their inspection. There was a glistening smear of fat on his chin and a gleam in his eyes. ‘Ah. I am mycologist, mycology, very interesting subject. Also delicious!’
Just as the egg yolk on top was gathering momentum for its inevitable slide down the prongs and on to the handle, the forkful disappeared into Mr Takahashi’s mouth with a clang and scrape on the teeth, and appreciative slurping noises. Andrew, revolted, thought that he remembered
that in Japan it is polite to indicate enjoyment of a meal. He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again, trying to broaden his mind to accommodate the spectacle before him. He even began to rehearse mentally how he would amuse Sara this evening with an impersonation of Mr Takahashi, hoping that by doing so he could make it seem privately funny now, until the thought that he would not be amusing Sara this evening at all because she had all but thrown him out last night hit him so hard he felt almost light-headed. After the business at the mortuary last night, when he had been trying to let himself quietly into Medlar Cottage at one o’clock, that fucking dachshund (whose presence he had completely forgotten about) had started up. So instead of tiptoeing upstairs and explaining softly to his sleepy darling why he was so late, he had been met by a barking animal, a dazed old lady and a furious, exhausted Sara who had complained that she hadn’t expected him this late. He had gone back to the flat. And instead of going straight round to talk to her this morning and dealing with the only thing that really mattered to him, he had wasted hours trying to find this bloody place and was now having to wait while the guy finished his bloody breakfast. His pain hardened into rage and he rubbed his eyes, resolving to speak to Sara the minute he got back to Bath, just as soon as they’d booked this grinning fool with the mushroom habit.
Mr Takahashi chewed open-mouthed as he prepared his next forkful and continued, ‘Mushrooms, very good for breakfast. Also very good for studying, very interesting! I am professor of mycology, representing Phytopathological Society of Japan.’ He swallowed his mouthful and the next followed. ‘All people here, we study for summer, all paid,
very international symposium, organised by British Council Trust for International Link in Higher Education.’ He was delighted with himself for remembering the title of his host and benefactor.
Bridger at last seemed about to be getting to the point. ‘Wouldn’t have thought there would be that much to study. Is it your first visit to this country, Mr Takahashi? You see, I’m afraid we—’
‘Ha, there you are not quite correct. Oh no, fungi is very, very big subject. All thallotypes, no chlorophyll, nuclear cells. Fruiting bodies, reproducing by spores. Fungal body is single-celled thallus or threadlike structure called hypha, hyphae together constitute mycelium—’
‘When did you last see your wife, Professor Takahashi?’ Andrew asked.
The professor’s elation lessened. His chewing slowed to a cud-like rhythm as he considered how to reply. When at last his mouth was empty he said, ‘I understand. She make complaint. She complain to English police?’ A glance from Andrew stopped Bridger, whose mouth was already open, from speaking. They waited. Mr Takahashi put down his knife and fork.
‘I apologise,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘I hope my wife will forgive my disgraceful behaviour. I was very wrong, I meant only to correct her attitude, but I apologise.’
‘Please tell us what happened, Mr Takahashi.’ Andrew reached across, took hold of Mr Takahashi’s half-empty plate and slid it with its offensively congealing contents towards Bridger, who removed it to another table. Mr Takahashi’s sorrowing eyes followed the plate and his look of contrition deepened. He sat up straighter and folded his
hands in his lap. The cafeteria was almost empty now; the last stragglers, already in conversation, were leaving.
‘I come with my wife to England, she assists me, she is photograph researcher for my work. But she is depressed. Perhaps she is not feeling well, homesick. Please understand that I am Japanese husband so it is my duty to stop this behaviour. She must have self-discipline to overcome her depression, I tell her this, she has no reason for unhappiness. So she must try to be happy. But my wife, she does not like this, so she go for a few days to Bath. She is very independent, like English, American wife, I say to her. We are very fond of English, American methods.’
‘So what is this disgraceful behaviour that you hope your wife will forgive, exactly, Mr Takahashi?’
Bridger broke in. ‘Excuse me, sir, Mr Takahashi, if you’ll excuse us for a moment, I would just like a quick word with the Detective Chief Inspector. Won’t be a moment. Sir?’
Andrew had no option but to leave the table and follow. Bridger halted a safe distance away. ‘Sorry sir, but …’
‘What the hell are you playing at, Bridger? Why are you giving him the chat like that?
“Is this your first visit to England?”
Good god, man, do you think you’re working for the tourist board?’
‘Sorry sir, but look, we’ve come to tell him his wife’s dead, haven’t we? We’re supposed to be breaking the bad news and getting him to come and give a positive identification. I meant to say in the car, but shouldn’t we have been in touch with the consulate? I mean, he speaks good English, but what if he didn’t? We should have laid on an interpreter. He’s in a foreign country, probably got no one here to turn to.’
‘Bridger, haven’t you heard a word he’s told us? His English is perfectly okay. I haven’t time to be fannying about with interpreters, I’ve got things to do back in Bath. He’s admitted there was trouble between them. If he’d kept talking another minute he would have confessed he killed her, and you drag me away to talk about interpreters?’
‘Sir? You really think he’s a suspect, do you, sir? I mean, normally, of course, you’d expect a category C. I know you’d look first to see if it’s a domestic, but this bloke’s just an academic, a visitor. If you ask me we’ve got our killer, haven’t we? That Cruikshank woman. You said so yourself. Sir.’
Andrew stared at him. ‘That Cruikshank woman, Bridger, is, as I remember telling you, an unreliable and probably incurable alcoholic who quite possibly had a motive for killing Mrs Takahashi. Which doesn’t mean she did. As for breaking the news, I’m not at all sure that we have to. I think he probably knows, for the obvious reason. Now, are you going to let me get on with this, or are you going to start recommending the Lake District?’
‘Sir? But sir, if you think he is a suspect …’ Andrew had already begun to walk away, but Bridger pulled at his arm. ‘Sir—excuse me sir, look—if you’re talking to him as a suspect, shouldn’t you caution and arrest him? I mean strictly speaking, if he—’
‘Let’s just get on, Bridger.’
When they returned to the table, Mr Takahashi was still sitting upright but appallingly large tears had gathered in his eyes and were dripping on to his shirt. He looked up desperately.
‘Sorry about that, Mr Takahashi. Now, I was asking you, I think, what there was that you needed forgiveness for?’
Mr Takahashi’s lips tightened. ‘I am trying to tell my wife she must cheer herself, be pleased. But she says she does not wish to spend her time with me in Bristol. I am older man than my wife. I am too impatient and … look, I am modern Japanese, I agree it is wrong to strike her, even one small slap.’
‘How many times exactly did you strike your wife?’
‘Oh, only one time, because she is behaving in stupid way, refusing to eat and crying! Only one! One slap across face, not so …’ Mr Takahashi made his hand into a fist. ‘Slap only. To calm her. But she—I have to, to stop her …’ Andrew allowed him a silence, and after a long pause, got what he wanted. The man, inculcated in a culture in which confession, as the precursor of shame, carries the only hope of absolution, continued, ‘She is very very angry, and she is small, so she take my hair, tight, and I take hers also and try to stop her. Not hard, just to stop her.’