Yards from where they sleep, the River Cam winds its way through trailing willow fronds, relishing the silence. Within hours the punts will be out, and punts cannot move through water without an accompaniment of shrieks, cries and general merriment. For now, only the college rowing teams skim across the surface like water-borne insects. Below Jesus Lock, the canal boats, like dusty jewels, begin to rock on their moorings as their occupants wake up.
In the market square, traders greet each other with the news that it’s going to be a scorcher. They’ve said the same thing every day for over a week now and will go on doing so without embarrassment for as long as the heatwave lasts. The early sunshine lifts their spirits, though, and the two carrying crates down the main thoroughfare don’t even grumble as the androgynous figure on roller skates speeds past them, almost sending everything tumbling.
Through the claustrophobic heart of this medieval city, a crocodile of choristers winds its chattering way to choir practice, or maybe back for breakfast. It is impossible to silence pre-teenage boys and the choir master has long since given up trying. The line weaves its way around the woman with pink hair who is walking in the opposite direction, and if one or two of the boys snigger – well, they’re young.
On heels that are too high and clothes that she has slept in, the woman barely sees the boys or their smirks. She is no May reveller, her studying days are long over, but her head throbs as intensely as that of any waking student, and for the same reason. Unlike the careless young, though, this woman’s heart hurts more than her head. Odd as it may seem, she is a senior police officer and a little over a week ago, a young woman was murdered on her watch.
The rough sleepers, because even a city as enlightened and progressive as Cambridge has them, don’t wake to see her staring down at each dirty, sleeping face. They don’t notice her counting, ticking them off on a page in her notebook. All present and correct; this morning at least. As she walks past a terrace of houses built by merchants in the seventeenth century, she glances up at a row of three windows on the top floor. Her steps falter, and the line between her brows deepens, before she walks on and passes out of sight.
Staring out of one of those windows, standing in a room full of sunshine, is Felicity. Morning light floods the yellow walls and pale orange carpet. The sofa, empty for the moment, is the salmon pink of a sunrise. From the top floor of the old house, she can see towers and spires, crenellations and turrets, all gleaming gold. It is the most beautiful city in the world, she thinks.
A male voice says, ‘Why do you think you’re here, Felicity?’
The voice is at odds with the feminine room. Surely no man bought vases the exact shade of apricot as the bon-bon bowl on the coffee table. No man would have chosen armchairs in a warm white, patterned with orange and crimson daisies.
‘Felicity?’
The man who almost certainly hasn’t decorated the room, because if he had, he wouldn’t be wearing frayed jeans, trainers and a Nike sweatshirt, is waiting for an answer. Dr Grant, who has asked her to ‘call me Joe’, is young, late thirties at most, although his dark brown hair is receding above his temples. Below the stubble of his beard, his neck is thin and pale.
Felicity says, ‘I like this room.’
She likes his eyes too, hazel green under dark brows. He smiles readily, but gently, and his voice is soft and low pitched.
‘Thank you.’ A blush warms his cheeks. ‘My wife decorated it. I was away for a week and she said leave it to me, I’ll have it all sorted by the time you get back.’
The corners of his mouth turn down as he looks from the swagged curtains to the plump cushions. ‘A month later, she asked me for a divorce. I should have seen it coming.’
Felicity is not sure how she is supposed to react, and wonders if perhaps he didn’t intend to reveal quite so much about himself. With a sudden insight, she sees that he too is nervous.
He says, ‘Why don’t we start with how you got those bruises on your face?’
‘I fell.’ She says it too fast. It comes out slick, rehearsed. Her first mistake. On the surface, Call-Me-Joe’s face doesn’t change; behind his eyes, though, something has shifted. It’s what beaten women always say. I fell. I walked into a door. I didn’t see the drawer was open when I bent—
‘Where was this?’ he asks.
‘The common. I live next to it. I must have gone out and … fallen.’
His face is still open, interested, but she no longer trusts it.
‘Must have?’ he says. ‘You don’t remember?’
He will know this already. The police were called to Midsummer Common that night. The people who found her had been scared at the sight of her torn clothes and bleeding limbs. She’d told the police and the hospital staff that she couldn’t remember what had happened. They didn’t believe her, and now Call-Me-Joe isn’t believing her either. She can hardly blame them, and yet she is telling the simple and complete truth. The events of that evening on the common are – absent.
‘That was quite some fall,’ he says. ‘According to your notes, you were bleeding and distressed, with concussion, a badly bruised face and lacerations on your arms and legs. You were kept in hospital overnight.’
Call-Me-Joe is drinking strong black coffee. Every time he sips she catches a whiff of its steam. She regrets, now, turning down his offer of a cup.
‘How did your employers get involved?’ he asks. ‘Did you tell them?’
‘No, I wouldn’t have made a fuss, but it was too late. The police went to my house while I was in hospital. They couldn’t find any information on my next of kin, so they contacted my employers. The head of human resources came to see me in hospital and then it all became official.’
He is still nodding. He knows this too. ‘Your employers need your GP to certify you fit to return to work and your GP isn’t happy to do that without a psychiatric assessment?’
Felicity’s voice lifts, but her cheeriness is forced. ‘And that’s why I’m here.’
She waits for him to acknowledge that finally she has answered his question. Instead, he says, ‘Do you want to go back to work?’
‘Very much. Work is all I have.’
Suddenly, his soft hazel eyes are sharpened and he does not blink as he stares straight back at her. She is unnerved by his stare. This man sees more than he has a right to.
‘What about friends?’ he says. ‘A significant other?’
‘An opportunity has come up,’ she hurries on. ‘It’s the chance of a lifetime. If I’m not fit, I won’t be considered for it.’
‘I see. Let’s go back to that night on the common. What do you remember?’
‘I remember being at home before it happened. Having some dinner, catching up on admin. After that, nothing.’
‘We’re talking about a gap in your memory of several hours?’
‘Four hours. I sent an email at eight o’clock. I was taken to hospital shortly after midnight.’
He waits, as though he knows she has more to say. After a moment, she drops her eyes. Still he doesn’t speak. When she looks up again, Call-Me-Joe has a file on his lap.
‘Tell me about your job,’ he says. ‘What do you do for a living?’