A Jess Bridges Mystery

Chapter 10

Jess

A double-tap toot, in defiance of the early hour, announced my ride. What an idiot. It was like Jago thought everyone in Squitchey Lane should be up at 6.30 just because he was. I waved to him from my window at the front of the house to show I’d heard, then headed down to the ground floor.

Cory was already way ahead of Jago. Marshalling her children was a tightly scheduled operation that would put military commanders to shame. Her alarm was set for 5.45. She still managed to fold me into her planning as she scattered Cheerios on the children like fairy godmother blessings. Last night she’d told me all she knew about Amy – a neurotic, always on a new diet, but essentially a kind woman. Cory didn’t believe the accusation of abuse. Roman’s a difficult man to like, she’d said. But then he gets on with my ex so that tells you everything. She’d described Angelica as taciturn, like many teenagers faced by a well-meaning adult, and unimpressed by life.

‘Got your costume this time, Jess?’ Cory asked.

‘Yes, Mum,’ I teased. I was wearing a one-piece under my Looney Tunes T-shirt and black shorts.

‘A towel? Water shoes?’

Benji was gazing at me from under a Zorro mask. Perhaps his hero crush had shifted? I was with him on that one: Tom Holland was cute, but Antonio Banderas … Maybe I should get him a fencing sword, kid-sized?

I looked at Leah and considered the possible damage. Maybe not.

‘Cory, I’m thirty-one. You don’t need to fuss.’

‘I’m three,’ piped up Leah.

‘I know, Lee-Lee.’ I ruffled her hair in passing. She batted my hand away, as was our custom.

‘Are you going swimming with your boyfriend?’ Leah asked.

‘Yes – but with a friend who is a boy. Not a boyfriend.’ Such distinctions were lost on the under-fives. I said it more for Cory’s benefit so she didn’t spread the rumour on the book club WhatsApp, though I suspected I might be too late.

‘I wanna go swimming.’ Leah’s face crumpled.

Cory presented her with a slice of apple as a distraction. ‘Later, sweetheart. I’ll ask Maria to take you to the pool later.’

Benji miaowed. I changed my mind about Zorro – Puss-in-Boots might be the intended reference. Still Antonio, but not quite as sexy.

‘Have fun, you crazy people!’ I called, remembering not to slam the door behind me.

Running down the path, I realised that I loved the whole silly lot of them. Very quickly they’d wormed their way into my heart and I’d do anything to make them happy. If not a sword, I could perhaps swing by a toy store later and see if I could get a cape. Black capes were so useful. Come Halloween I could dress Benji up as Dracula and persuade Cory to let me loose on trick-or-treating.

Did that mean I thought I’d still be there in October and not back with Drew? That thought shook me as I got into the car.

Jago was at the wheel of the Leaf. Until today, I would’ve expected someone looking like Legolas to drive a vehicle of this name, but Jago was more hobbit than elf, if the hobbit was played by Ben Whishaw. His curly dark brown fringe tipped over his forehead like a low diving board did a pool. I noticed that his forehead was scored with parallel lines like swimming lanes, not so much from age as he was about the same vintage as me, but from scowling while thinking. All those annoying tribes, no doubt, had hammered in those lines of displeasure as he sat in front of his Mac computer to insult us. He was definitely going to be a Mac user rather than PC, wasn’t he?

But this morning he was all smiles. Jago slid into gear. ‘Good morning, mystery lady.’

Oh goodness, I hadn’t yet told him my name. He knew practically everything else about me, including that I was a natural blonde (think about it). That seemed wrong somehow. ‘Hi, Jago. I’ll put you out of your misery. My name’s Jess. Jess Bridges.’

He chuckled, maybe thinking I was making a James Bond joke, but it was entirely unintentional, I promise.

‘You can google me later.’ I really hoped he didn’t. He’d find the Michael thing, and possibly, if he dug deep, mention of the Eastfields disaster where I behaved very badly. I was hoping to put all that behind me. ‘Where are you taking me?’ I looked up at the blue sky. A weather front was coming in from the west but the morning was supposed to be pleasant.

‘That would be telling.’

‘So you want to keep your secrets secret?’

‘And enjoy keeping you in the dark – as you did me.’

‘Do I have to close my eyes or something?’

He indicated to pull out onto the Woodstock Road, heading back into town. ‘I’ll let you know when we get nearer to our destination.’

He was a surprisingly aggressive driver, bullying his way in front of other cars whenever he saw an opportunity. There was a wiry kind of survival instinct to him as he thrashed his way through the urban jungle paths that I hadn’t expected from an electric car owner. I added that to my profile of him as considering Oxford his exclusive territory. I decided to probe a little more.

‘Were you born in Oxford, Jago?’

‘No, London. Can’t you tell?’ He sounded as if he hoped I could, a small city like Oxford not being big enough for his greatness. ‘Born and bred. St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington.’

I thought that was where the royals had their babies so I was assuming he had drawn first breath in the private wing, despite his London lad accent. He aimed to sound street but little bits of posh kept leaking through. ‘Where did you grow up?’

‘Kensington mostly.’ I was correct. ‘Dad works for the Albert Hall and we have a grace-and-favour apartment.’

I didn’t think I’d ever heard anyone string those words together. He clearly moved in very different circles to me. ‘And where do you live now?’

‘I’ve a set of rooms at Linton College but I’ve also got a house in one of the villages nearby. I like living in college so I rent it out for the moment. I was lucky when I bought. Worth a fortune now.’

I headed off this property conversation. Not being on the housing ladder by thirty-one, or even formally renting, it was galling to hear my contemporaries congratulating themselves on their achievement of making the first few rungs. My position felt rather like missing the last lifeboat off the Titanic. ‘And why wild swimming?’

‘I wrote a book about hidden cycle ways.’ He gave a cyclist a wide berth. ‘This seemed the next logical step. Have you read it? It sold quite well. Picked up after Wild Swim hit.’

‘Afraid not. Are you preparing for a triathlon then?’

‘You would think, wouldn’t you?’ He overtook a bus just as it indicated to pull out from a lay-by. ‘Might be a good idea for the next – to end the trilogy. Wild Running.’ He was giving the bus driver cause to add to his own worry lines.

‘I hope I’ll be suitably acknowledged?’

‘How about a dedication to my mysterious naked lady. That should get people intrigued.’

‘You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?’

‘And why would you want to? It was the best moment I’ve had in ages – shook me out of my rut.’

Oh God, I could see that I was going to be an anecdote in his next book. ‘You were in a rut? You, the wild swimmer?’ I couldn’t hide how incredulous I was at the idea. He sold himself as the opposite of rutted-ness.

He nodded as he reluctantly slowed for a pedestrian crossing by Oxford railway station. I was pleased to see his eagerness to get to our destination didn’t include knocking a guy off a scooter.

‘Hate those things,’ he muttered.

‘Hate what?’

‘Motorised e-scooters. Ridiculous. Get a bike,’ he shouted as we passed the scooter rider. The commuter didn’t hear because he had headphones clamped over his mass of curly hair. He stood straight and still as the scooter whisked him along the pavement, like he’d been about to be teleported to his mother ship. To me, he looked blissfully happy. How could Jago hate him?

‘I take it that scooterers – is that a word – are another tribe you despise?’

‘They aren’t my favourite social group,’ Jago agreed. He gunned through an orange light.

‘You don’t like a lot of people, do you?’

‘It’s my trademark now. I’m unsparing with my criticism of pretence and fakery.’

‘Aren’t pretence and fakery the same thing?’

‘No.’ He didn’t explain. ‘Don’t you find it irritating living surrounded by so many sodding people?’

‘Not really.’ Why live in a city if he couldn’t bear it? As a writer, he did have a choice; he had even already admitted to owning a house in a village. I pointed this out.

‘Why should I let them chase me away? It’s therapeutic to let it all out on paper. My publisher says that’s why the books sell so well. People either agree with me and enjoy seeing their own moans put down for them, or they disagree and entertain themselves with tearing me down – same process, just in reverse. And we all go home happy – or happily unhappy.’

‘So you know that you’re outrageously prejudiced against perfectly decent people just going about their own lives?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Like Yummy Mummies.’

He pretended to shudder. ‘The worst.’

‘Where would the next generation come from if not from the mums? We felt very got at when we read your book.’

He grinned. ‘Good. I hope you ripped me apart?’

‘We did.’

He braked for a red light. ‘Hang on – you don’t have kids, do you?’

‘No. Everyone else in the book club does though.’

‘Good. I’m not great with kids. I rapidly run out of conversation.’

I was interested that he thinks this detail of my private life might matter, as if this might be some kind of relationship we were beginning that went beyond swimming. ‘Hasn’t someone explained you don’t have conversations with kids, you play with them?’

‘I think they forgot to mention it.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Only child.’

Why was I not surprised?

The car turned into a little lane leading to Binsey. ‘Close your eyes now, Jessica.’

When we got out, I discovered that he had brought me to the western bank of the Thames as it runs through Port Meadow, a huge water meadow that floods every year to become one vast lake. In the summer it is usually dry, and grazed by herds of cows and horses who wander among the buttercups and clumps of nettles. Picnickers, drone flyers and birdwatchers all vie for space on fine days. To the south of where we left the car was a marina for canal boats, little yachts, other water craft, owned by people living the kind of off-grid Bohemian life Jago extolled in his books (ironic considering there were few places more on-grid than an Oxford college like his). The spot he had found for our swim belonged to a defunct boating business. He even had the code to the gate.

‘Don’t worry about that.’ He pointed to the sign warning that the premises were patrolled by guard dogs. ‘The yard used to belong to a mate of mine. It’s just a deterrent. He’s thinking of redeveloping it – having a nightmare with the planners – so at the moment we’ve got it to ourselves.’

Once away from the empty boat showroom, it did get wild very quickly. The dockside on an inlet was beginning to fill up with rushes and willows but there was a little jetty that took us out clear of the undergrowth.

‘Why do you like this, Jago?’ I asked, looking a little doubtfully at the slate green water.

‘It’s the freedom, I think. Most of the time we spend our lives inside bricks and mortar, sitting on upholstered chairs, staring at screens, not interacting with the natural world that honed us as a species.’ He knelt and felt the water with his fingers, lifting them up to let them drip in a move that probably played well on camera. ‘This stuff – this has been here since before humans, if not exactly in this spot, but somewhere close by. We get back in touch with that primitive self when we immerse ourselves in it.’

I spread out my towel. ‘Here?’

‘Right here.’ He stripped off with the efficiency of a man who made a habit of this. He jumped in the water before I even had had time to bundle up my clothes and weigh them down with my sandals. I headed to the edge.

‘Don’t dive in,’ called Jago. ‘In wild swimming, you never know how the river or lake bed might’ve changed since you were last there. Feet first is much safer.’

I had been intending to slither in from the side but now felt obliged to jump. I did this with a kind of step out, arms spread, not wanting to go under. Water swiped up my body in a great Tinder ‘yes!’.

‘Oh!’

‘Surprisingly warm, isn’t it?’ Jago was swimming strongly away now he’d seen me in safely. ‘Gets that way in mid summer. Freezes your balls off in winter though.’

This was divine. I followed him with my reasonable breaststroke. I was not a bad swimmer. It was one of the few sports I had liked at school.

Jago turned back and swam right up to me. ‘Living up to your expectations?’

‘Going way beyond!’ Then, foolishly, I splashed him – which gave him permission to splash me back. Our water fight moved on to some dunking which involved more bodily contact than we’d yet had and I thought that I might’ve made a mistake. This was mixed signals territory. Too late now that hostilities had been started. Anyway, I lost the match as he was like a fish in water. No wonder he loved this so much.

‘I surrender!’ I declared, holding up both hands, then both feet to make my point.

He shook his head to clear the hair from his eyes, reminding me of an otter. If he had whiskers they would be triumphantly pricked. ‘OK. We’d better call it a day – with me the acknowledged victor.’

I swam to the jetty. ‘I came second – don’t forget that.’ I pulled myself out, conscious that he was not far behind me.

‘Hmm-hmm, I won’t.’

That sounded a little too appreciative. I wrapped myself in the towel. ‘Thanks. This is a great place. It’ll be a shame when the developers move in.’

‘That’s a city: you have to grab the good bits while they’re still yours. Nothing lasts.’ He got out effortlessly and shook off before reaching for his sports towel. I had a chance to admire his lean frame. He wasn’t big like Michael, more like Drew’s sinewy body, perhaps a shade shorter. He had the build you saw on cyclists in the Tour de France – strong legs and arms, no extra ounces.

‘Thanks for coming with me. I enjoy swimming even more when I have someone to share it with. Makes me see it again with fresh eyes.’ Jago hung the towel around his neck then showed he is a major planner when he pulled out two flasks from his backpack. ‘Tea or coffee? I made both.’

‘Happy with either.’ Fully dressed again, I sat at a picnic bench outside the derelict showroom.

He poured me a tea and got out a little bottle of milk.

‘What else have you got in there?’ I asked hopefully.

‘A full English?’

‘You’re joking!’ I seemed to remember an anecdote from the book about a fry-up next to a reservoir.

‘I am today – but I do have croissants. Will that do?’

‘Amazing. Even better. Can I take a photo?’ I raised my phone.

‘Sure. But let’s make it a selfie.’ He took the handset and put his arm around me. I raised my cup in a toast as we both grinned into the lens. Oh my God, we looked a bit … cool. Young and out there – whatever that meant. ‘Left a bit so we can get in the jetty and inlet. There. Who are you sharing it with?’ he asked as I sent it out.

‘My book club. I’ve got so many brownie points for actually swimming with the author of one of the books we’ve read. The others are going to have to up their game.’

‘Send me the photo, would you? Tell your friends that they could swim with me too if they want.’

‘I was thinking more that they’d have to find one of the authors and do something with them, like have dinner or play tennis. Tough for our next book though.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Great Expectations.’

‘Yeah, I don’t think Dickens would appreciate being dug up to play tennis.’ He presented me with a croissant.

‘But he wouldn’t mind dinner?’

‘He was always fond of a good feast.’

I liked an intelligent man. ‘Tell me you studied English Literature?’

‘With Psychology. UCL. A lifetime ago.’

‘Oh my word, I was a grad student there, five years back!’

He added some grapes to the breakfast spread. ‘I’d left by then. Got disillusioned with academia for a while and went travelling.’

I had to ask, didn’t I? ‘But you’d know Michael Harrison – Dr Harrison – if you were at UCL?’

His lip curled. ‘That fuckwit? Shagging on the shag pile was his preferred way to teach.’

Actually it was the couch but I kept silent, hoping he didn’t look my way and see the confession on my face. ‘Really?’

‘He tried to pass me on to one of his more junior colleagues but I’d decided by then that it was a waste of time. Who needs an MA in Psychology?’

I did. ‘Hmm.’

‘I left London and went to India. Never looked back. Travel writing is my thing now – the psychology of place, you could say. It’s what I did my doctorate on.’

‘Psychology of place?’

‘Like here: it’s all in layers if you can see them – the meadow that used to be open countryside before the ring road crept too close; the canal that used to carry goods from Birmingham now carrying those after an alternative lifestyle; this boatyard with its short time as part of the leisure industry, now in that in-between state, like a relationship between engagement and marriage, before it becomes a housing development.’

I sensed I was getting a preview of the draft of his next article. ‘So who are the planners in this scenario? The lawyers drawing up the prenup?’

He gave me a startled look. ‘That’s good – very good! May I use it?’

‘It’s your simile, not mine.’

‘Thanks, Jessica.’ He poured me another cup from the flask. ‘So, do you know Dr Harrison as well or are you just mentioning him because he was the one who got out from under a murder charge?’

‘Hmm?’ I tried to sound non-committal.

‘He got his name splashed everywhere last year – great marketing for his book.’

‘Oh, yes, I know him. A little.’ This really wasn’t a good subject, not for a first date, er, dip. Moving swiftly along … ‘I was wondering, do you know if they identified the body we found yet?’

He made a gesture as if to hand a parcel back to me. ‘That you found, you mean.’

I wondered why he was so eager to duck any association. Worried for his brand of clean living? ‘OK, my guy.’

‘They have identified him, yes. Didn’t the police call you? I even had the press come round to interview me.’

‘Why?’ I went to my missed calls log. I was not very good at checking up on my notifications and I never listened to voicemail. Sure enough, there was a number that had been withheld, probably the police.

‘To ask me if I knew him.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. He was bursar in my college. I came across him a few times, at college events and the like.’

He didn’t seem that upset that a work colleague had been bumped off. ‘You didn’t say anything yesterday.’

He looked away. ‘I did, to the police. But I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure.’

I was suddenly very aware that coming to a desolate swimming spot with a guy I hardly knew wasn’t my best life choice so far. ‘What was his name?’

‘Kenneth Kingston.’

‘Any other details of what happened to him?’

‘None. But I imagine the press will have got some by now, if you’re interested.’

I scrunched up the napkin he had given me to go with the croissant. ‘I’ll read up about him later.’

‘Why?’ Jags slipped his polo shirt back on and we gathered the rest of our picnic.

‘You’ll probably say it’s silly but I feel connected to him.’

He chucked his bag in the boot of his car. ‘Not silly, but you do know that you’re not connected by anything but death?’

Chapter 11

Michael

The bedside alarm went off and Michael lay looking at the ceiling for a long moment. Sunlight was dancing as branches tossed outside in a fresh breeze. He didn’t like the summer very much. Life had more purpose when he could be someone of importance at college rather than that man in a wheelchair next-door, the one you nodded to when you put out the bins. Whereas at college it was Good morning, Dr Harrison. Interesting seminar, Dr Harrison. Lunch in the pub, Michael? These days, he was even more of a someone at Oxford, having been through the spin cycle of disgrace and rapid rehabilitation. There was nothing like a bit of notoriety to make students and colleagues sit up and notice; it got him this prestigious post after all.

He missed his ease of movement. He could now stand for short periods on crutches, though for difficult journeys outside the house he didn’t want to risk a fall. L4 break – the doctors told him that it wasn’t the worst spinal injury and he might one day be able to walk again. Not yet though.

He pulled himself up and considered his day. He had to remember that his situation had improved over the last year. Fortunately, the maddeningly unfair accusations of inappropriate behaviour with female students had been left behind at UCL. In his defence, there had only been one graduate – Jessica – and they went on to have a relationship of almost five years. Hardly a fling. Two consenting adults agreeing to an affair, then to live together. Before that, he’d been married and there had been only Emma. Before that? Well, he’d been younger and more foolish but nothing that stepped over any lines. Not as society understood them then.

These days you had to be so careful. You couldn’t comment on someone’s appearance or touch any part of them, even as a gesture of comfort. They could’ve lost their parent/partner/child and you had to commiserate from afar like they had an infectious disease. It was very bad for the human psyche – all people were animals under all their layers of civilisation. Touch was essential.

He noted, though, that he was something of an exception. People assumed they could touch him – lay hands on him might be a better description.

‘Oh, Michael, you’re so brave.’ This said with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

‘You’ve done so well coming back to full-time work.’ Hand on his thigh in a disappointingly asexual pressure.

‘I admire your courage.’ That accompanied by a chaste peck on a cheek by a fellow psychologist from California whom he’d been hoping to persuade to come back to his hotel room with him. That ambition went down in flames.

God, Michael, don’t you get sick of yourself sometimes? Enough moping. It was getting late and the best of the weather was forecast for the morning. Once in the chair, he decided today was a crutches day – until he got tired. Carefully getting his balance – a fall could set him back months – he propped himself on these and made his way to the kitchen. Fernanda had been in yesterday so all the pathways were scrupulously clear of clutter and every surface gleamed. There were some compensations living alone.

With the help of a designer friend, he’d given a lot of thought to how he wanted to arrange his kitchen. Everything was within reach: a small countertop fridge, the cereals, the fruit bowl. The bowl, spoon, chopping board and knife were already waiting. He made breakfast methodically, selecting what he ate with care. He needed his strength, particularly upper body strength, to get around. He couldn’t neglect lower body either. It was much harder to get back what you had let go. Wise words that covered more than just muscle tone.

Breakfast made, he switched on the morning news to keep him company while he ate. Christ, world politicians were an evil crew, fiddling while Rome burned. It was almost a relief when the anchor moved on to ordinary crime. A stabbing in London. A murder much closer to home in the University Parks.