The Runaway. Ali Harper

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      Jo raised a single eyebrow. ‘How many?’

      ‘Undergrads?’

      ‘Women looking for Matt.’

      ‘Two, that I’m aware of.’

      ‘Of whom you are aware?’ I couldn’t resist.

      ‘Who?’ asked Jo, shooting me a look that left me in no doubt I should shut up. I went back to the poster.

      ‘I’m not sure it’s any of my business.’

      I’d had enough of the professor, and I worried the oxygen supply was depleting. I’d never survive working in this rabbit hutch. Books lined the walls, giving it an underground bunker-like feel, despite its high-rise situation. ‘People are worried,’ I said.

      ‘What did they look like? The two women looking for him?’ asked Jo.

      ‘One had hair like rattlesnakes.’

      ‘Dreads?’ said Jo. She turned to me. ‘Nikki.’

      ‘Nikki?’ asked the professor.

      ‘His girlfriend.’

      Professor Kendrick nodded. ‘I’ve seen her hanging about before.’

      ‘What about the other one?’

      ‘Well, I’m not one to gossip, and there might not be anything in this.’

      ‘We’re professional private investigators,’ said Jo. She showed our police-issued identity card. ‘It’s not gossip, it’s helping with our enquiries. Anything you tell us will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

      The professor’s brow creased as she took in the badge. ‘The police are involved?’

      ‘They’ve been informed,’ Jo lied again.

      ‘And?’

      ‘They share your view – nothing too ominous in a student disappearing the week before his dissertation is due.’

      Professor Kendrick put Jo’s ID down on her desk. ‘There was an incident. A strange incident. Not strange, that’s too strong. Was it yesterday? What’s today?’

      ‘Wednesday.’

      ‘Yes, must have been. I wasn’t in Monday, not in the morning. Yesterday morning, Sally from the office came to see me to say she’d caught a young woman taking mail from the pigeonholes. The student pigeonholes. She’d asked said young woman what she was doing, and, she said, the woman had seemed,’ Kendrick paused, searching for the right word, ‘flustered.’

      ‘Did she stop her taking the mail?’

      ‘Of course. Not that any of it would be of any interest. Hell, it’s not of interest to me and I wrote most of it. The system is mainly used for hard-copy submissions and leaflets about forthcoming symposiums, information we can’t email. To be honest, hardly anyone uses them anymore. I can’t think why on earth—’

      ‘It was Matt’s pigeonhole?’

      ‘She may have thought she’d find a timetable, perhaps.’

      ‘Where’s Sally now?’

      ‘Probably her office.’

      Jo got up, filling the air space between me and the professor. I wondered again whether there was enough oxygen in the room to support three people. If anyone was going to keel over, like the sacrificial canary in the coal mines, it was going to be me.

      ‘Can we talk to her?’ Jo asked.

      ‘Follow me.’

      *

      Sally was housed in a much bigger office, but she shared it with at least three others.

      ‘Could we have a word, please,’ said Professor Kendrick, indicating to the middle-aged woman to step outside the room.

      ‘These two young women are private investigators,’ the professor said to Sally once we were all standing together in the corridor. ‘They want to know more about the woman you saw interfering with the pigeonholes yesterday.’

      Sally’s cheeks reddened but I didn’t read anything in to it. The smallest hint of official enquiry can cause some people to colour up.

      ‘I didn’t recognize her so I asked her what she was doing.’

      ‘Professor Kendrick says you thought she was flustered.’

      ‘She struck me that way.’

      ‘What did she take?’

      ‘Nothing. I didn’t let her. I asked her what she was doing and she said she was on the wrong floor. She left very quickly.’

      ‘Can we see the pigeonholes?’

      Sally glanced at the professor.

      The professor shrugged. ‘Well, they are open mailboxes. We’ve never considered locking them – which goes to show how uncontentious the contents are.’

      ‘They’re this way,’ Sally said, and we trooped round the corner to where the lifts were.

      Outside a room that bore a plaque stating ‘Earth and Earth Sciences Department’, was a grid of shelves – four wide and about a dozen high – each one about the size of a shoebox. Each box had a name tag. Matt Williams was easy to find – the last one on the right-hand side.

      ‘Are you sure it was Matt’s pigeonhole she was interested in?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘It was the bottom one.’

      ‘Can I?’ I crouched so I was level with Matt’s mail.

      ‘It goes without saying I’m not condoning such behaviour,’ Professor Kendrick said.

      I scooped up a handful of paper. The professor was right. Flyers about upcoming conferences, speakers from foreign countries coming to lecture, discount offers on everything from books to nightclubs. I frowned at Jo and handed the pile to her.

      ‘Are you sure she was taking mail?’ I turned back to Sally. ‘Perhaps she was leaving him a note?’

      Sally pulled a face as she considered what I’d just said. ‘I didn’t think of that. But if she was, why didn’t she just say? Instead of running off?’

      Jo sifted through the papers. And sure enough, there amongst the bumf I caught a glimpse of A4 lined paper, torn from a book and folded in half. I snatched it and opened it up.

      Professor Kendrick peered over my shoulder as I read:

       Matt. I’ll be in Old Bar, Thursday two o’clock. Be there. I mean it.

      The note СКАЧАТЬ