Dead Scared (8 page)

I was failing. Everyone who set eyes on me would know I didn’t
belong
here. Joesbury had made a massive mistake sending me, I’d made an even bigger one agreeing to come. I was so far out of my element I might as well be on Mars. And this was Monday evening, for God’s sake, when I normally work late, stop by the gym and shove a Tesco ready meal in the microwave.

When coffee was finally cleared away and people began to leave the room, I got up and slipped quickly through the crowd. I’d phone him, tell him it really wasn’t going to work.

‘Laura!’ A hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to see that the physics student had followed me out. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry. This place is weird, you just get used to it.’

As I tottered back to my room on borrowed heels, it occurred to me that, personal misgivings aside, the stage show that was needy, insecure Laura Farrow might just have pulled off a pretty impressive first act.

Tuesday 15 January (seven days earlier)

‘IT ISN’T TRUE
that the rate of suicides at universities is higher than among the rest of the population. I know a lot of people believe it to be the case, but it isn’t.’

Dr Evi Oliver, the only person at Cambridge University who knew I was an undercover police officer, sipped from a glass of water on her desk. She’d been doing it a lot since I’d arrived, bringing the glass up to her mouth, sipping nervously and then putting it down again. The rest of the time, she was fiddling with a paper clip or rearranging papers. I didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to spot that she was as much on edge as I was. Mind you, given the news of the latest Cambridge suicide, the second-year student who’d decapitated herself early Sunday morning, it was hardly surprising. Something had gone seriously out of kilter in this city.

‘But it is prevalent among the young,’ I said, trying not to get distracted by the steady flow of students milling around a paved area immediately outside. The student counselling service that Dr Oliver led was in the town, a little way from most of the academic buildings. I could see Regency houses, office blocks in the distance, the corner of a shopping centre. We were on the upper floor, but Dr Oliver’s large, bright corner office had floor-to-ceiling windows. ‘Young people get things out of proportion,’ I went on. ‘I think I
read
somewhere that they see suicide as a grand gesture. They don’t necessarily equate it with being dead for ever.’

I’d spent a fair amount of time, the last couple of days, reading up on suicide. One thing I knew was that the suicide rate in the UK was around sixteen per 100,000 people per year. In a city the size of Cambridge, with a population of nearly 110,000, you would expect between sixteen and eighteen people to take their own lives each year. In that context, some four or five dead students didn’t seem too alarming.

Dr Oliver leaned back and pulled a cord that closed the window blinds, effectively cutting off the view. ‘The sun gets quite intense at this time of day,’ she told me, and I couldn’t help feeling I’d been told off for not paying attention. Still, if she wanted my full attention, she could have it.

Evi Oliver looked like a Russian doll. Her chin-length hair was almost black and shone like patent leather. Her skin was the sort that would tan to a soft dusky rose but in January was creamy pale. She wore a lavender sweater that suited her well. She was younger and prettier than I’d expected. Mid-thirties at the most and, as Joesbury had said, a bit of a babe. She was also, as both wheelchair and aluminium stick told me, semi-crippled.

Catching me staring, she blinked at me. She had long black eyelashes, heavy with mascara, surrounding eyes so deep a blue they were almost indigo. ‘Suicide is the second most common cause of death in young adults,’ she said. ‘And the incidence is rising, especially among young men. But the idea that student populations are particularly vulnerable is based on several inaccurate studies and, frankly, is wrong.’

I leaned back in my chair. ‘Go on,’ I said.

‘There was a study done on suicides here in Cambridge between 1970 and 1996,’ said Dr Oliver. ‘It showed that statistically there are likely to be two suicides in the university each year. Yet we’ve had twenty in the last five years. Double what you might expect.’

‘These cases were all investigated by the local CID?’ I asked, although I already knew the answer.

Evi nodded. ‘Yes, they were. And this is where my argument starts to look a bit weak, because they were all textbook cases.’

‘How so?’

‘Half were being treated for depression or similar conditions. Another five had a history of depression, anxiety or stress-related problems.’

‘And depression is a common factor among suicides,’ I said. ‘At this point, your case isn’t weak, it’s verging on non-existent.’

I’d meant it as a joke. I think I’d half hoped to make her smile and chill a bit. God knows, her being so uptight was hardly helping me relax. ‘What about Nicole Holt? The latest?’ I asked, when I’d given up on getting a smile out of her.

‘She wasn’t one of our patients,’ said Evi. ‘So far, I know very little about her.’

‘The post-mortem’s been done?’ I asked.

Evi nodded. ‘Some time today, I believe. But the results won’t be made public until the coroner’s inquest and that could be months away.’

‘She was a pretty girl,’ I said, remembering the photograph I’d seen on various news websites. Nicole had been tall and slim, with long dark hair and big eyes. Bryony had been attractive too. ‘Are pretty women more susceptible to suicidal acts?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Evi. ‘I’d have considered it a factor against, wouldn’t you?’

‘Bryony Carter thought she was being raped,’ I said. ‘Any thoughts on that?’

Evi glanced down at her notes, lips pursed, as though thinking hard. There was something compellingly graceful about the way her head moved. She reminded me of a ballerina. ‘Bryony didn’t feel safe in her room at night,’ she said. ‘Several times, she says, she had unusual, violent dreams of a sexual nature, and when she woke up the next day she felt as though someone had had sex with her.’

‘Your colleague didn’t believe her,’ I said.

Evi looked down again. ‘She certainly shouldn’t have given any hint that she didn’t believe her,’ she said. ‘Maintaining trust is extremely important in any doctor–patient relationship. But judging from what was written in her notes I think you might be right.’

‘What do you think is happening here?’ I asked.

Evi thought for a moment and seemed to slump in her chair. ‘I
hardly
know,’ she said. ‘But things are bothering me. The first is that, of twenty suicides in the last five years, women outnumber the men by something like five to one.’

‘Statistically, it should be the other way round,’ I said.

‘Exactly. The second thing that worries me is the …’ She stopped and frowned, thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘the sheer originality and variety of the methods involved. We’ve got jumping off high buildings, self-immolation, self-stabbing, self-decapitation. It’s as if they’re competing to see who can come up with the most bizarre exit strategy. I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a website somewhere giving them marks out of ten.’

So now she was joking to relieve the tension. She was as nervous about this as I.

‘And the methods just aren’t typical,’ Evi went on. ‘When women die by suicide, they choose the least violent methods. Overdose is the most common. Not the most reliable, of course, which is why women have a history of failed suicide attempts, but still women shy away from extreme violence. Cutting wrists in a hot bath is another one, but still …’

Her eyes fell to my wrist, the ugly scar still covered by a plaster. I waited for the question that didn’t come.

‘Self-immolation,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s almost unheard of in our culture. And that poor girl on Sunday morning. Who on earth would come up with such an idea?’

A pretty disturbed mind, I thought. And I’d met a few in my time.

‘You mentioned a website,’ I said. ‘I was told you think there might be a subculture that’s encouraging destructive behaviour.’

‘These suicide websites vary from the well meaning but misguided to the downright ghoulish,’ said Evi. ‘I’m afraid something like that is going on here. I just can’t find any evidence of it.’

‘You’ve looked?’

‘Repeatedly. There are internet sites and intranet sites and blogs, and chat rooms and tweets ad infinitum, all relating to life at Cambridge. There’s practically a virtual town and university floating above the real one. All the ones I can find, though, are pretty harmless. My IT skills aren’t great but I can’t help thinking there’s
something
going on that I haven’t been able to access. I was told your IT knowledge is pretty good.’

‘Not bad,’ I said.

Evi glanced at her watch and then at the computer screen. ‘I have a patient waiting,’ she said, before turning back to me. ‘OK, you’re a mature student of twenty-three who started an undergraduate degree two years ago but had to leave halfway through because of health problems,’ she said, recapping my cover story. ‘You’ve suffered from depression and anxieties in the past and been on medication for eighteen months. It’s all on my system on your personal file. I’ve agreed to let you join my psychology programme because I’ve seen great promise in your previous coursework. I’m also employing you, informally, on a part-time basis to help me with some research. That way, no one will question our spending time together. You have my various numbers if you need to contact me at any time?’

I thanked her and agreed that I had.

She frowned at me. ‘Laura Farrow,’ she said. ‘That’s not your real name, is it?’

I shook my head.

‘Are you allowed to tell me what is?’ she asked.

I couldn’t help but smile. I never told anyone that. Lacey Flint was no more my real name than Laura Farrow was. ‘Better not,’ I said, as I’d been told to. ‘It helps prevent mistakes.’

As I stood, she nodded, vaguely, and I had the feeling she didn’t really care one way or the other. For her, I was a means to an end. Then she surprised me.

‘Dana tells me you’re exceptional,’ she said.

I waited, halfway between her desk and the door, not really sure what to say to that. I’d never been called exceptional before. ‘She also tells me you’ve had a difficult six months,’ she went on, her eyes not leaving the desk. ‘I have a habit of asking too much of people, Laura. Don’t let me do that to you.’

THE PARTRIDGE MAY
have seen the shadow of the predator hovering overhead. It may have felt the rush of wind as the falcon dived. It may even have had a split second to look death in the eyes and say how-do-you-do before strong talons crushed the life out of it. The falconer doubted it. He’d rarely seen a swifter kill.

The two birds, hunter and prey, fell from sight behind a hedge and the falconer stepped up his pace. Merry, the older and more reliable of his two pointers, trotted ahead, leading him right to the spot where the falcon’s strong, curved beak was already tearing the partridge apart. The man bent and lifted the falcon before taking out a knife and cutting the partridge’s head off. He gave it to the victor.

Whilst the falcon ate, the man who was sometimes foolish enough to tell himself that he owned the bird looked at the swirling grey sky, the upper clouds just turning the rich, deep peach of winter sunsets. The weak January sun was little more than an echo on the horizon and there was less than an hour of light left. As he fastened the falcon back on to the perch he ran his hand over its head, whispering praise.