suppose I will have to go, if only to be able to hold up my head in the presence of my son when I get back. I’ve looked at the itinerary Simon sent me and there seems to be a free afternoon in Cracow on my last day, but it’s not the climax to my trip I envisaged when I agreed to it.
8th January. I was going through my lecture notes and seminar papers this morning, sorting out material that I might use for my trip to Poland, and rather enjoying being focused on a purposeful intellectual task once again, when I was interrupted by a phone call from Colin Butterworth. ‘I’d be very much obliged if I could see you some time today,’ he said. He sounded tense and wound up. I told him I was rather busy and explained why - I was rather pleased to have the opportunity to let him know that I wasn’t altogether an academic has-been - but he said the matter was urgent. He was willing to come round to my house if that would be more convenient, at any time that would suit me, but the sooner the better. I asked him if it was about Alex, and he said it was but he would rather not elaborate on the phone. I invited him to call on me in the afternoon, any time after two.
He arrived on the dot at two o’clock. He had never been in our house before, and made some complimentary remarks about it as I led him into my study. I said Fred was mainly responsible for the internal decor. He seemed relieved to learn that she was out. I sat him down in the armchair and took the desk chair myself, moving it near to him to be sure that I heard what he had to say. He was dressed in his usual smart-casual style, but there was dandruff on the shoulders of his suede jacket and he had not shaved well. His eyes looked tired. He took out a pack of cigarettes and asked if I would mind if he smoked. I said I would.
‘You’re quite right, it’s a filthy habit. I’ve kicked it several times, but when I’m stressed . . . Frances is furious with me.’ He put the cigarettes back in his pocket. ‘I gather you’re still seeing a good deal of Alex Loom,’ he said. ‘Quite a friend of the family, she tells me.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I said. ‘She came to a party here on Boxing Day. She was supposed to be going home for Christmas, as you probably know, her father sent her the money for the fare, but she was fogged in at Heathrow and gave up.’
Butterworth looked surprised. ‘Is that what she told you - about her father?’ When I confirmed it, he said: ‘Her father committed suicide when she was thirteen.’
I wasn’t sure that I had heard him correctly, and asked him to repeat this astonishing piece of information.
‘That’s what she told me - who knows if it’s true? She says that was why she got interested in suicide notes. Her father didn’t leave one, you see. She’s trying to discover why he killed himself by reading other people’s. At least, that was one therapist’s theory.’
‘She told me she got interested in the subject through a boyfriend who was doing psychological research on suicide,’ I said. ‘The one who wrote that article.’
‘Yes, well, he may or may not have been her boyfriend . . . Anyway, that’s not what I came here to talk to you about. She’s applied for a tutorial assistantship we’ve advertised internally, because Hetty Rimmer is off sick with ME. It’s out of the question, of course. We couldn’t possibly let Alex loose on a lot of undergraduates, and anyway there are several more deserving candidates. The trouble is, she doesn’t see it that way, and she’s convinced the job is in my gift. Well, perhaps once upon a time it would have been, but there are procedures now . . .’ He paused and looked at me. ‘I must ask you to treat this conversation as strictly confidential.’
‘All right,’ I said, my curiosity now thoroughly aroused.
‘Last summer term, not long after I started supervising her, and before I realised what an unstable character she was, I did a very foolish thing. I got into . . . er . . . an inappropriate relationship with her.’
‘You mean a sexual relationship?’ I asked.
‘Ex-President