The Bursar's Wife

The Bursar's Wife by E.G. Rodford

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Authors: E.G. Rodford
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you helped me out with my… problem, I’ll do you a favour.” He blushed furiously. I went to the sink to spare him. A year ago he’d come up to me after five-a-side and asked me to look for his eighteen-year-old son, missing for five days. I’d found him easily enough – he’d taken himself to London to find a gay community he could feel normal in. If I’d been worried about John’s reaction to the news I needn’t have, he’d just been pleased that the boy was alright. “The main thing is, is he happy?” he’d asked. I’d told him I thought so. “Then please tell him it’s OK with me.” John’s wife was less understanding of her son’s homosexuality, threatening to “kill the little shirt-lifter” if he showed his face in Cambridge again.
    “Tell him that his mother needs more time,” John had told me at the door, since his wife wouldn’t let me in the house. I’d also charged him ‘at cost’ when I discovered he was working weekends just to pay me.
    John put his mug down on the Formica table; blushes receded. “I tell you what, I can do you a favour. We’re doing a re-fencing job at one of the colleges. Most of the stuff we’re taking off is sound, just not high enough to keep the wildlife out. It may be that I could see some of the panels coming your way, double them up to make it high enough. Call it recycling. Then you’d just be paying labour.”
    “Great, so that leaves two grand to find,” I said. He laughed and this time his stomach heaved up and down in sympathy.
    “So which college is it that needs protection from wildlife?” The idea of the university providing my fence held a certain satisfaction.
    He named a college on the outskirts of Cambridge. “We’re replacing most of the perimeter; they’ve got foxes and muntjacs scavenging the rubbish there, even the plastic and paper they leave out for recycling. It’s all over the lawns in the morning.”
    “Muntjacs?”
    “Yes. They’re small deer. You see them around Cambridge, even in the centre…”
    But I was thinking about recycling. Paper. I thought of the letter in Elliot Booker’s hand, perhaps the cause of his argument with Sylvia.
    “Do you know what days they collect recycling at the colleges then?”
    “Don’t know, mate, it depends on the college.” He frowned and then his face lit up. “Is it for a case you’re working on?”
    I shrugged noncommittally.
    “I could find out for you. Which college is it?”
    * * *
    I parked outside Sandra’s house in King’s Hedges and tapped the horn, looking to the windows just a few metres from the road. Jason appeared at an upstairs window and Sandra came out the front door with Ashley in tow. She was in a big fluffy bathrobe and matching slippers. She walked down the short path to the car with him. I wound the window down and let out the heat. Sandra had a smirk on her face.
    “Good night last night?” she asked. I hoped she hadn’t somehow found out about my ‘date’ with Nina and come to gloat.
    “Educational,” I said. Ashley whined about being cold. She told him to go inside. Jason called him from the front door. Sandra watched him run to Jason and then turned back to me. She looked warm and inviting, like a downy duvet you want to curl up in.
    “Not as educational as mine, I bet.” It sounded like maybe I wasn’t going to get a ribbing.
    “Why don’t you get in.” She went round to the passenger side and I held five fingers up to Jason at the front door. Sandra filled the car with a freshly bathed smell. She looked round the car.
    “You ought to clean this out, George. It’s filthy.” I took notice of the rubbish-covered dash, empty cans on the floor.
    “Its cheaper than installing an alarm. You had something to tell me?”
    “I’ve got one of those telephone headsets, right, so sometimes when I’m working I can do the ironing, or shop online, or it just frees my hands for sound effects.” I raised my eyebrows as a warning of too much

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