Free The Bursar's Wife by E.G. Rodford

ear.
    “Told you, boss. He’s a bluetool. So what’s the plan?” The plan, and this is why I had Jason with me, was for him to distract the driver while I attached the tracker to the car. It had a strong magnet and, being the size of a mobile phone, would only be visible if someone were looking for it. I opened the glove compartment again and took out an old packet of cigarettes I kept in there. I don’t smoke but you never know when the false camaraderie of another smoker will come in useful – I’d learnt many things by striking up conversation with a smoker. I gave the packet to Jason.
    “We’re going to walk past the car together. You’re going to realise you haven’t got a light and go back and ask him for one. I’m going to slip this under the car.”
    “Cool.”
    We got out and walked out of the car park, just two mates on their way to work nearby. The driver gave us a half-curious glance, Jason getting a fag out of the box. We crossed the road heading to the back of the Merc and Jason was furiously patting his pockets, perhaps overplaying the search for a light.
    “Shit,” he said loudly, and changed direction to head for the driver’s door as I continued to the back of the car. “Excuse me, mate, got a light?” The driver said something I couldn’t hear. I glanced up the road and then bent down to untie my shoelace, slipping the tracker under the large rear bumper until I found metal. Jason was making small talk. I tied my lace and stood up, moving to the pavement. I coughed. Jason joined me, throwing the unwanted cigarette to the ground.
    “Not very responsive, and not the sharpest tool in the box,” he said.
    “It is bloody early in the morning.”
    We crossed the road again and went towards the petrol station on the corner. I sent Jason inside and looked back down the road. The gate to River Views opened and a young woman in a long coat and heels came out. She had cropped black hair cut shorter at the back than the sides. Mark the chauffeur was out of the car and opening the back door before the gate had even closed behind her. Jason came out of the petrol station with yesterday’s Cambridge
Argus
as the Merc came up to the corner and turned onto Elizabeth Way, heading out of town. We walked back to the Golf: the blinds were still closed on the top floor of River Views.
    The main
Argus
headline was something about a gypsy encampment outside Cambridge but a smaller headline at the bottom of the page read MURDERED WOMAN IDENTIFIED – HUSBAND HELD and named Albert and Trisha Greene, reporting the fact that he was a primary school teacher. A colleague of his was said to be “shocked” and there was the inevitable quote from a neighbour about how “ordinary and friendly” the couple were.
    We sat in my car and finished the coffee and watched several people leaving River Views for work; mainly young professionals in smart hatchbacks. But we’d yet to set eyes on Quintin Boyd. Jason was not used to sitting quietly for long periods and started to explain the differences between Ambient and Techno music, each apparently with its own sub-genres. I tried to make my disinterest obvious; I much prefer stakeouts on my own; they give me time to brood over everything that is wrong in my life.
    “I’m thinking about giving up college,” Jason said. A taxi drew up outside the gates opposite and the driver looked out to check the address. I half turned to Jason, keeping an eye on the taxi.
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “I’m thinking if I got a full-time job maybe Mum could give up the chat line.” The taxi driver was getting out of the cab. I risked a glance at Jason.
    “You know about that, huh?”
    “Of course I do. Our walls are like, made of cardboard. Sometimes when she thinks I’m out I’m really in my room.” I looked at him and he clocked my confusion. “Sometimes I pretend I’m going out just to get some peace and quiet.” The taxi driver, a black guy in a cloth