Stephanie (33 page)

Friday the 8th was the best day of a fine week. Nari stared out of the window of his cell and thought that it was a little bit – just a little bit – like Bombay. Since he came to England the weather, to him, had been constantly cool and cloudy. And unwelcoming. He had not really seen either an English winter or an English summer. During the anxious days he had been here he had been too preoccupied, chiefly with pain, to look at the trees or the burgeoning countryside. Nor had he ever given real thought to what it would be like to start life over again, living in a cold safe country like England. Two years ago he would have leapt at the idea. As a teenager he had not been without ambition. He had done sufficiently well at school to dream of later success. He had felt himself a cut above the others – quicker and smarter even than Shyam Lal Shastri. Shyam had been the bully, the leader, up to most forms of mischief, but not specially bright. Nari had thought of himself as quietly special. What had happened? Where had it all gone wrong?

Both his parents had died quite suddenly soon after his marriage. Had this made the significant break in his life – in his luck? Soon afterwards he had failed in his first law exams: it had been a moral and psychological shock. He knew that before he took them again it would mean hard concentrated studying such as he had never had to do before. Instead he had taken to going out in the evenings and had drifted into a poker set.

During his spell in hospital and in prison on remand, he had thought more seriously about himself than ever before. He had even been self-critical, realising that it is not always the wrong behaviour of other people that is the cause of misfortune.

If he ever got a chance to take a grip of a new life, to try to begin again … Perhaps nowadays he was looking at his past existence in Bombay through rose-coloured spectacles? Anyway, as he had reminded himself before, there was not likely to be any choice. What would these men say when they came in?

They came in and sat down, and as if mesmerised he nodded and gave his consent. They then passed him a sheet of paper with eight typewritten statements on it.

‘Between now and tomorrow you will have to learn these by heart,' said Warren. ‘Get them off word for word. Understand?'

Nari stared at the paper.

(1) ‘My name is Nari Prasad. I have come with a message

from Arun Jiva.'
Pause for reply.
(2) ‘I would like to speak to you absolutely privately, sir.'
Pause for reply.
(3) ‘Arun Jiva has been arrested in Oxford for smuggling

drugs.'
Pause for reply.
(4) ‘He says you must help him. Otherwise …'
Pause for reply.
(5) ‘He says if he comes down you will come down.'
Pause for reply.
(6) ‘Arun Jiva says the police would like to know all he knows

about Stephanie Locke.'
Pause for reply.
(7) ‘Well, I have given you his message, sir, I can do no more.'
Pause for reply.
(8) ‘I will go now. I have a taxi waiting at the door.'

Nari's hand began to shake. ‘ I do not think I can do this.'

Hampton said: ‘Don't worry about nerves, Prasad. We can give you something to quiet them and to help your confidence. You've only to remember your lines. You've got – what? – pretty well twenty-four hours to learn them.'

Nari went over the eight remarks he was being asked to make. To a strange man in a strange house. How could it help the police – or anyone else? It must be dangerous for him to go to this house, he knew it in his guts. But ten years or more in an English prison …

The two men had got up, were talking together. He looked at them.

‘You can come along with me now,' said Detective Chief Inspector Hampton kindly. ‘We can take you straight along to the magistrates' court and get you remanded on bail for a further fourteen days.'

Alistair Crichton said: ‘Well, of course, it's quite
ridiculous
, Henry! It's simply not worth giving credence to such a scurrilous rumour!'

‘That's exactly my feeling,' said Henry Gaveston. ‘ Well, it
was
my feeling when Locke rang up. Since then there have been a few things which have rather affected my conviction.'

‘But good God, Catherine and I
stayed
with him in Corfu! There was no question of anything underhand going on! What the hell is Locke insinuating?'

‘He's insinuating far more than I like to face up to at the moment. Peter Brune is an old and valued friend of mine. There's never been a breath of scandal about him. He's also been a most generous donor to the funds of this college, as we both know.'

‘Indeed! And a
continuing
benefactor. I don't know what we should have done without him!'

‘Or shall do.'

There was silence, during which Dr Crichton shifted uneasily.

‘There's the Encaenia on the twentieth! Everything's published and printed! We can't possibly go back on that!'

Henry said: ‘We can't confer an honorary degree on someone who is under suspicion for a criminal offence.'

‘But
what
suspicion? Something James Locke has cobbled together out of his anger and grief? Of course it was a tragedy to lose his daughter, but he mustn't be allowed to traduce a distinguished and blameless man because of a few coincidences! Tell me again, what is his twisted reasoning?'

Henry pushed back his boyish grey hair. ‘It isn't just his twisted reasoning any longer, Alistair. The police have come into it. I told you this.'

‘But how? Have they any firm proof?'

‘No, fortunately. But, as you know, learning from Locke that Arun Jiva, the graduate student from Delhi, was returning to England, they kept watch on his house and arrested him on Tuesday. Although he has so far refused to talk, they have searched his house again and also his baggage and have found evidence confirming what they had already gathered from investigations put in hand after Errol Colton's murder. Both in Jiva's house and in Colton's were references which the police think point to a drug ring located, among other places, in Bombay, Corfu and Oxford. Importing and distributing hard drugs on a big scale. It's a nasty thought. What is nastier is that they have several leads pointing to Postgate as the centre of the organisation in England.'

Crichton got up, rubbed his nose, looked at his Bursar. ‘God Almighty, it's just impossible! I'll have to speak to the Vice-Chancellor, and then I suppose also the Chancellor! But for God's sake, you can't condemn a man on
suspicion
! We'd be living in a totalitarian state if we did such things!'

It was plain to Gaveston that these two meetings, if they had to take place, would be highly embarrassing for the Principal. A strong advocate of Brune from the start, Crichton in his anger reflected his own conflicts. If the rumours about Brune proved to be baseless he would lose face because he had not condemned them. If he said nothing and the allegations surfaced elsewhere, particularly in the press, he would be even more exposed and could no longer say he knew nothing about them. He clearly wished Gaveston had never raised the subject and that it would go away.

Henry said, ‘One thing had occurred to me. It might be farfetched. Or it might be the answer. That is that if police suspicions are correct – and we've no proof that they are yet – Postgate may be being used by members of Brune's staff unknown to him. He's got a confidential secretary who's very close to him and takes on a lot of the responsibilities of his business and the charities –'

‘You mean John Peron? Yes. That could be! It would explain a lot.' A look of relief passed across the Principal's face. ‘ It might well be the solution.'

‘It would be a more likely solution if Peter were an unworldly scholar,' Henry said. ‘Scholar he certainly is, but he's very much of the world as well …'

‘Whom have you spoken to among the police?'

‘Superintendent Willis and one of the head officers of Customs and Excise.'

‘Ah,' said Crichton. ‘Customs and Excise are the barracudas of our investigative system. On their VAT rounds they can make forced entries in a way the Tax Inspector could never do, and they can take liberties with the law that the police wouldn't dare.'

‘You're well informed, Alistair.' Henry would have been amused if the situation had been less serious.

‘I don't live in such a cloistered world.' The Principal grunted. ‘Like Brune, I'm a practical scholar. One couldn't hope to run a college otherwise.'

Henry said: ‘You haven't forgotten that Brune is dining with us here on Sunday.'

‘I'd not forgotten at all! It's a hellish situation. But good grief! Have we not invited James Locke as well?'

Gaveston began to light his pipe.

‘I can stop that. I can ring him, ask him not to come. I'm sure he'll understand.'

‘Who else is coming – Caterham, isn't it? And that architect chap. And …' Crichton frowned, groping for names.

‘Our MP. And the Shadow Minister for Education. And Professor Shannon from Berkeley. And there's sure to be a few of our people. Mary Fisher and Martin Goodbody always turn up.'

‘That's at least nine,' said Crichton, having ticked them off on his fingers. ‘ Hm. Perhaps in all the circumstances better to leave it as it is.'

‘Not ask the Chancellor?'

‘I doubt if he could come at such short notice. But no, Henry, while this – this thing is hanging over us! Inviting Charles, with Peter Brune as principal guest? I should feel hypocritical, and towards both men!'

Henry frowned at his pipe, which had not lit up, put it away in his pocket. At this year's Encaenia two others were to be made Doctor of Civil Law, one of Science, one of Letters, one of Divinity. The eulogy for Sir Peter Brune, KBE, MA, printed first in Latin, in which it would be delivered, and then in an English translation, would, Henry guessed, refer to his distinction as a Greek scholar, his wide-ranging benevolences, his many gifts to the University, particularly to St Martin's, his endowment of foundations in some of the poorer countries of Europe so that scholars there could come to England to continue their studies at Oxford. This was the highest order Oxford University could confer. The ceremony was picturesque, beginning this year with a recital by the organist of Corpus Christi, followed by an assembly of the dignitaries in the Hall of Exeter College and the procession of them all in caps and gowns to the Sheldonian where the ceremony would take place.

Gaveston stirred uneasily, dusting the ash off his shabby jacket. He knew at this stage Alistair Crichton would accept his advice. He had to choose between two friends, and he had tried to take a middle course. But mainly he had acted on the assumption that James (and the police) were mistaken. Peter Brune was
sans reproche.

Would they be justified – could they be justified in going ahead with the investiture without telling the Chancellor? Disbelieve James – who by his violent action a couple of weeks ago had put himself beyond the pale of civilised behaviour – but who was now cooperating with the police? Disbelieve the police, who presumably did not suspect James or had not enough evidence to proceed against him, but were now accepting his evidence and advice in the arrest of Dr Arun Jiva? Superintendent Willis and the drug enforcement officers thought they were on to something: Willis had told Henry that they had applied for Home Office permission to tap the telephone in and out of Postgate, but it had not yet been granted.

The Chancellor, told the situation, would almost certainly ask Peter Brune if he would consent to a postponement until next year. Brune would be deeply alienated and his benefactions to the University would dry up. No one wanted that to happen. Clearly one did not want the University to benefit from money made out of drugs; but neither could one cast such splendid gifts aside without the weightiest of reasons.

‘Principal,' Henry said, and it was rare that he called Crichton by his official name, ‘perhaps it would be better if we allowed James Locke to come to the dinner on Sunday.'

‘What? Who? What can you mean?'

‘Locke is a civilised man, accustomed to keeping his feelings to himself. He hardly knows Peter Brune, nor Peter him. A dinner where they meet casually may convince James that he must be completely mistaken about Brune. No one in his right mind would believe it.'

‘And if it doesn't convince him?'

‘In one way or another it might help to lance the boil. Of course it's a risk – a calculated risk.'

Crichton walked across to the window, looked down at the quad, where some students were clustered arguing.

‘I would call it an uncalculated risk,' he said.

Nari stayed at the Fairlawn Hotel, which was just off the Woodstock Road. A quiet fairly inexpensive place, much favoured by reps; they kept it busy during the week but at weekends went home leaving the hotel half-empty. A few new people came in, parents visiting their sons and daughters, but Nari had the dining room almost to himself on the Friday evening. He went to bed early and rehearsed his questions over and over again before taking the pill he had been given.

He did not know whether he was as free as he seemed: he thought it likely that if he chose to leave for the railway station somebody would be there to make sure he didn't catch a train. The pill he had taken had certainly calmed his nerves, and he looked on his mission with a sense of fatalism, as if this were the last act of some tragedy in which he was the central figure.

There had been no time at all in his early days in England to write to Bonni; he had begun a letter in his cell but never finished it. What was there to say?

The taxi was to pick him up at eleven, but he woke at seven and reread the two sheets he had written to her – necessarily garbled, falsely reassuring. How could he finish it now? If he successfully fulfilled his mission – and if an Englishman's word was his bond – he would not return to India at all. He would never see his wife or his flat or his friends (including, pray God, Shyam Lal Shastri) ever again. Unless eventually he established himself in a modestly successful way in England and was permitted to send for Bonni. Would she come? Would he want her to come? In spite of distance and separation having lent some enchantment, he thought not. Cringing and complaining and resentfully subservient, she would be a drag on him in England. She was old-fashioned, out of date, uneducated. In Edgbaston he had seen several very pretty Indian girls, Westernised, emancipated, coming into his cousin's shop. Even those who retained their saris had a totally different outlook. Perhaps in the end – who knew? – he might be able to marry such a girl. With a new name and a new identity, no one was to know he had been married before.