‘I know he kept in touch with a few people. We emailed from time to time.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
Lucy opens her mouth again, but Edgar continues talking.
‘No. I was in Cambridge last night, at a conference. This is one of my masters students, Lucy Morrison,’ Edgar says. ‘She helped with the preparation for my paper.’
‘Right,’ Rachel says. Lucy can’t look at her. Already stunned by Edgar’s lies, the dry tone of Rachel’s comment slices through her.
‘Look, I think we had all better go inside and find out what the hell is going on,’ Rachel continues. ‘You too.’ She gestures to Lucy as she hovers uncertainly on the doorstep, before ushering the police officers into the house.
‘What the fuck?’ Lucy mouths at Edgar.
He stares at her intently, before mouthing words back at her – ‘Trust me’ – before he follows his wife inside. It’s not like she’s got much choice. Taking a deep breath, she steps across the threshold, pulling the door shut behind her.
41
Sitting opposite Edgar’s wife. Edgar’s baby. Not what Lucy had expected, though that’s a bit of an understatement. The news brought by the police has brought them close, physically if nothing else. She’s squeezed on one end of a sofa, Edgar at the other, Rachel on a chair to the side, the child still clasped to her. The police take the two chairs opposite them.
Edgar crosses and uncrosses his legs, his impatience evident. Lucy squeezes even further into the corner of the sofa. She doesn’t want him anywhere near her at this second. She sneaks a glance at him. He looks exhausted, worn in the grey light of the afternoon.
‘It’ll be touch and go for the next while,’ the police officer says. ‘The next few days will be crucial.’
‘What do you need from us?’ Rachel says.
‘We’ve been in contact with the Bolivian embassy, but we urgently need to find out about family or next of kin. There might not be much time for the individual concerned.’
Edgar nods. His eyes are half shut, as if he’s sleeping, but he straightens himself up to reply. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any contact details for his family,’ he says. ‘There’s no one in the UK. Victor used to work with me here ten years ago, but he returned to Bolivia, and he hasn’t been back here until now. We’ve stayed in touch via email.’
‘He came here yesterday,’ Rachel says. ‘He wanted to see Edgar. I arranged for him to come back for dinner on Monday.’
‘Did he say why he wanted to see your husband?’ the police officer says.
‘Why would he need a reason?’
The female officer looks at her blankly.
‘No,’ Rachel continues, ‘he didn’t.’
Edgar shifts around in his seat, his hand starting to drum out a rhythm on the arm of the sofa.
‘Whose house was it?’ he asks. ‘Where was he staying?’
The police officer pauses, as if for effect, then says, ‘Tom Wright is the owner. Was the owner, I should say. Although of course we’re awaiting formal identification. It may not be him.’
A tremor passes through Edgar; Lucy feels it through the sofa.
‘Formal identification?’ Rachel parrots. She’s pale too.
‘As I said at the start, a man was also found dead in the property, his body badly burned.’
More tremors from Edgar. Rachel glances over at him, her face full of concern.
‘Do you know the name Tom Wright, professor?’ the police officer says, returning to his questions.
‘I do,’ Edgar replies after a few seconds.
‘How do you know him?’
