‘How awful,’ she said.
‘Did it say anything about the funeral?’
She looked pleased with herself.
‘You know, I’m glad you asked about that, because it didn’t, but I made a point of finding out, just in case anyone needed to know. You should always make the Alumni Office your first stop.’ She sounded like someone trying to justify the existence of her own job. She looked through the papers on her desk again and said, ‘It’s at 11.30 next Tuesday, in St Bride’s, Fleet Street, you know, where they have the memorial services for journalists.’
The younger one said to her colleague, ‘I expect we’ll have a memorial service for him here. After all, he wrote for The Times.’
‘He wrote for The Daily Telegraph,’ said Alex, the two of them looking at him for a second and then looking away again. Thinking of Natalie and Matt now, he added, ‘I wonder, do you have any details for Matt MacAndrew and Natalie Harrison from the same year? I really should let them know about this but I don’t have any up to date addresses.’
The two women looked at each other before the older one said, ‘We can’t give out people’s details to anyone who asks for them.’
‘Not even to a member of staff?’
‘Well if you were a member of staff we’d have to consider the request on its merits.’
He touched his head again, probing tentatively at the delicate surface of the bump.
‘I am a member of staff. I’m Dr Alex Stratton, from the psychology department.’
‘Are you the sleep person?’ It was the younger woman, suddenly interested, and when he nodded she said, ‘How interesting. I have the strangest dreams. I’ve often wondered about them.’
‘Really?’ He turned to the other woman and said, ‘So?’
‘I’m afraid not. You see, you’ve made clear yourself that you want their details for personal, not professional reasons. We’re simply not allowed to divulge information like that - it’s the law.’
He wanted to be able to tell her that these people might be in danger but he couldn’t, saying instead, ‘Even under these circumstances?’
‘I’m afraid so. I really am sorry and I wish I could help you but the rules are the rules.’
‘I’ll tell you what, can you at least tell me if their addresses have been updated since graduation? That won’t contravene any law, will it?’
She weighed it up, a look of suspicion as if she thought she was being duped somehow, but then she walked back behind her desk and said, ‘What were the names again?’
‘Matthew MacAndrew and Natalie Harrison.’
She typed into the computer and sat in silence for a while, saying finally, ‘Their addresses haven’t been updated since leaving. That doesn’t mean they’re still there, just that they’ve never contacted us.’
‘Thank you.’ He handed the cup back and got to his feet, the two of them looking as nervous as if he’d been setting out across a tightrope.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine, really, and thanks again.’ He turned and walked out, stopping at the door to say to the younger woman, ‘You should write them down.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your dreams; you should write them down.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’ He smiled, not sure what she was thanking him for, and walked across the square to the library.
He never usually had much call to be in there and being there now reminded him of his student days, an evocative recollection that weighed him down. He went into the journals room and scanned the week’s newspapers, his attention caught not by a headline but by a picture of Rob taken the day before his death.
There he was, a couple of days after their lunch, three days ago, laughing with a drink in his hand, like he was talking to Alex off the page. It seemed like a magician’s trick that he was dead, as if the sleight of hand would suddenly be revealed and Rob would tap him on the shoulder and explain the illusion.
Even the story read like something he’d seen before. Rob had been in a deserted smallholding with a Dutch journalist when it had come under fire. They’d taken shelter in a barn which had been hit by a mortar or artillery shell. Rob had been killed instantly. The Dutch journalist died of his wounds on the way to the hospital.
Alex stared at the page, imagining how Will probably would have cut carefully around the article and pasted it in his scrapbook. Perhaps he’d have rearranged things too, so that the story about Rob was next to the stories about Emily Barratt, like they were part of the same investigation. Except of course, the stories about Emily Barratt had disappeared with the scrapbook.