Caleb went to Portia’s old university early the next morning, armed with a notebook and a print-out of the article about her prize ceremony. He hadn’t got much sleep, but he was feeling strangely energised. The end was almost in sight. He just needed a few more pieces of the puzzle, and he’d be able to explain everything to Sergeant Ramsden in simple words.
He waited for the receptionist in the admin office to deal with a couple of students, trying to watch her without being too obvious. Her name was Bethany and she was going to be a hard read: she had skin of botoxed smoothness and lips so artificially plumped that they bounced whenever she pursed her mouth. Which was often.
The students finally left, and Bethany turned her expressionless face towards him. ‘Can I help you?’
He started on his spiel about writing an article on high-achieving students and fraud, but Bethany began shaking her head when he was halfway through it.
‘I can’t.’ Bounce. ‘Give information…’ Bounce. ‘…students…’ Bounce.
It was like trying to read a duck. How did she eat? Kiss?
‘My newspaper is offering the university the right of reply as a courtesy, but we will print what we have without it.’
‘As I said…’ Bounce. ‘…request… Miss Hirst… in writing.’
Time for a rethink – back off and try for general chitchat. He looked around the office for something to bond over. It had decades-old furniture, but a new computer and laser printer.
Printer. He hadn’t really thought enough about the ink jet used for the mailing list. Why would someone use an old printer when laser printers were so cheap these days? Particularly for a big job like a mail-out. Unless he’d got it wrong and it wasn’t a big job, but some kind of exclusive list.
He was suddenly aware that Bethany was bouncing her lips at him. Probably telling him to piss off.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘Not at all.’ There was no expression to accompany her words, but she sat back. Was she irritated or bored? A fifty-fifty chance of getting it right – go for bored.
‘Bit of a dull day, really, chasing this. I guess you’d know what it’s like, working here.’
She sat bolt upright. ‘I… and… important…’ Her lips ricocheted off each other.
Fucking botox, should be banned.
It took an hour, but he managed to track down the staff member featured in the newspaper article with Portia. Gerald Sorenson was in his open-plan office, stacking books under his arm, keys in hand. He was in his late twenties, with a lean build and a glowing complexion that spoke of long bike rides and bracing showers.
Caleb tapped on the open door and launched into his speech. ‘Hi, I’m Caleb Zelic from the Advertiser. Bethany from admin said that I’d catch you here.’
Sorenson rubbed his forehead. ‘Bethany? Goodness, why?’
‘I’m writing an article as part of the Advertiser’s series on student success. I’m after a couple of quick quotes from you about Portia Hirst.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got a class in five minutes. Summer school. You’ll have to come back next week.’
Teaching summer school, a shared office, late twenties: no way did this man have tenure.
‘We go to print tonight,’ Caleb said. ‘And the university is very keen for the article. It’s great publicity.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘As I said, the admin office sent me.’
Sorenson glanced at his watch. ‘Right. OK, but we’ll have to walk and talk.’ He headed for the door.
Caleb stood still. Damn. ‘I, ah – I can’t.’
‘Oh well, sorry but I can’t help you then.’
Suck it up and say the words. Do it.
‘I have to face you when you’re speaking. I’m lip-reading.’
‘Really?’ Sorenson’s eyes lit up like those of a young child receiving an unexpected gift. ‘How fascinating. How deaf are you?’
‘Deaf enough.’
‘Oh. Right. I suppose that’s a personal question?’
Sorenson nodded, as though satisfied with the answer. ‘What’s your success rate?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I assume you wouldn’t get one hundred percent of spoken words? So how many do you get?’
‘Enough. Most of the time.’
‘Context would matter, I’d imagine. And background noise.’ Sorenson glanced at the door and closed it.
Caleb pulled out his notebook and pen. ‘If you could just give me a couple of quotes about Portia? How would you describe her?’
‘Very bright. I guess it’d be easier reading people you know?’
‘Yes. What else can you tell me about Portia?’
‘She’s, um, very innovative. And me? How easy am I to read?’
‘Very.’ Not so good at keeping focused, though.
‘I had elocution lessons as a child – terrible stutter – that must help.’
‘Mm. Can you tell me a little more about Portia’s time here?’
A tight line appeared either side of Sorenson’s mouth. ‘She was very dedicated.’
‘And the trouble she had? How did that affect her position here?’
‘Oh, she told you about that?’ Sorenson nodded, his face relaxing. ‘Good move on her part. Excellent. It was investigated, of course, but no charges were laid. And I suppose we’ve all come close to blowing up a chemistry lab at times.’
‘I doubt it. When you’re working with volatile chemicals, there’s always an element of danger. Which is why students aren’t supposed to do research by themselves. You’d have trouble reading people with speech impediments, I’d imagine.’ Sorenson’s face brightened. ‘How did you manage with Duck Face downstairs?’
He drove straight back to the Bay and reached the outskirts of town around seven, eyes gritty, a buffeting wind flicking through the Mini’s air vents and cracks, carrying topsoil from neigh bouring farms. The arrow on the fire danger sign had edged up into ‘extreme’.
The pieces were all there, he just had to fit them together. Portia was the key. She was the link to her father, to the Copperheads, to Jai, to Honey. To ice? She had a chemistry degree and a history of blowing up laboratories – meth labs were notoriously volatile places. But it didn’t feel right. Portia planted trees and kept a photo of her beloved brother by her bed; a woman like that didn’t turn around and start cooking meth for the man she blamed for his death. Did she? Too tired to make any sense of it now. Food and sleep, then more ideas would come. But first he’d see Ant and tell him that everything was nearly over.
Ant’s car was outside the house, but there was no sign of Etty’s. Damn, he’d hoped that the pair of them would have patched things up by now. He gave the door a cursory knock and went in, stopped a few steps inside. Something was wrong. Nothing in the hallway or on the stairs, nothing on the landing.
The bathroom at the end of the hall. Its door was ajar, a dark shape on the floor.
He sprinted down the hallway and flung open the door. Ant was slumped against the wall, limp and white, his lips blue.