The Bursar's Wife by E.G. Rodford Read Free Book Online

sneak a peek at my alleged benefits fraudster. I got my camera bag from the desk and went to the door. Then something about bridge club nagged me so I went back to the desk and took out the Booker file. On the list of Lucy’s activities Cambridge University Bridge Club was listed for eight o’clock Wednesday nights at Selwyn College, which was in town. Today was Wednesday. In fact it was the only club that took place in the evening; all the others were lunchtime or weekend meets. But according to Rowena, Lucy had stopped going to bridge. Sylvia Booker’s business card was in the file. It had grown dark outside so I flicked the desk lamp on, picked up the phone, dialled.
    It rang seven times then she answered with a hushed, “Hello?” I imagined Sylvia Booker to be the sort of woman who removed her earring before answering the phone.
    “Hello, Mrs Booker? This is George Kocharyan.” I could hear a man’s voice in the background, the sort of droning you hear at meetings or lectures. Perhaps she was at one of her charity board meetings. I heard rustling and the male voice faded.
    “George?” Now her voice was breathless, like she’d been running, and I shook an image from my head of her parted lips next to my ear.
    “Just a quick question, Mrs Booker. I was wondering how Lucy gets to bridge on Wednesdays since you live out at Morley College. Does she cycle in this weather?”
    “No, I drive her there and pick her up. In fact I’m taking her tonight. Why do you ask?”
    “Just trying to get a full picture, that’s all. Sorry to disturb you.”
    “Not at all. Anything else I can help with?” Yes, you could talk softly in my ear like Grace Kelly.
    “No. You’ve been very helpful. Goodbye.”
    I hung up and went to kill two birds with one stone.

8
    HALF AN HOUR WAS ABOUT AS MUCH TIME AS I COULD STAND to visit my father in those days. When he first went into care two years ago I would sit for hours and he would have moments when he knew who I was and occasionally spoke, albeit laboriously. Those moments had grown shorter and more intermittent. I was glad my mother hadn’t lived to see his final deterioration (although she’d had to put up with worsening and uncharacteristic outbursts of verbal coarseness and the knocking on neighbours’ doors with no trousers on which in time morphed into silence and apathy) and relieved that at least now he had reached a stage where he wasn’t aware of his own mental state. Initially we’d assumed it was early-onset Alzheimer’s but one doctor had diagnosed Pick’s disease, which is rarer but was a better fit of his symptoms.
    Inside the home a young care assistant I’d seen a couple of times before led me into the conservatory where the rain pelted down on the corrugated plastic roofing. It was very loud and the care assistant had to speak up.
    “We like it when you visit, Mr Kevorkian, you always bring flowers. It’s not many men would bring flowers for their father.” She smiled at me and I forgave her for mistaking me for the doctor who helped 130 people kill themselves; she was young and since she worked here was probably still idealistic. She took my petrol-station flowers from me and walked off, leaving me with my father who was sitting and looking up at the plastic roofing as it held off the rain. The noise of it was probably what held his attention.
    I sat down next to him and patted his hand and he looked briefly at me and smiled, but it was a smile empty of recognition. He turned his gaze back to the roofing and while he was occupied with the rain I surreptitiously checked what I could see of his translucent skin for bruises. I was paranoid about him being abused or manhandled in here, despite everyone that I’d met (and I’d made sure that I’d met everyone) being perfectly nice. Unfortunately, being perfectly nice, in my experience, was no indication of a person’s true nature – after all, I’m sure Dr Kevorkian was perfectly nice.
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