Hannah, was born. Faith decided she had been wrong. Helen seemed happy with her life, with her children and with her enigmatic husband.
But then Helen had got restless. She decided that she wanted to take up her career again, and despite Daniel’s opposition had embarked on a PhD. Once she had completed that, she had landed a three-year research post at the Centre for European Studies. She had been lucky to get it. Her search for work was confined to Manchester. Even this level of commuting was difficult as Daniel insisted that his work hours made it impossible for him to deliver or collect the children to and from school.
And then, just a few months ago, after twelve years of marriage, she had left Daniel.
Faith pulled her coat around her as she left the house. It was one of those bleak January days. The wind was whipping the clouds across the sky and blew gusts of rain against her face. She threw her bag on to the back seat and edged out into the rush hour. The grey winter streets made her think longingly of Mediterranean landscapes, of blue skies and warm breezes. One day she was going to work somewhere where the sun shone for more than six weeks a year, somewhere that had warmth, light and space.
Stuck in the stop-go queue into the city, she tried to focus on the meeting she had with Helen in half an hour. Helen was currently working on a paper for a major conference in Bonn, in May. The paper was supposed to be complete by the end of the month–the organizers wanted camera-ready copy in advance–and Helen had fallen behind.
It was understandable. Her life was in chaos. Daniel, outraged by her departure, was fighting her for custody of the children and for the house. He was being as difficult as he could be about child support, and Helen’s salary barely covered her expenses. On top of this, the crucial deadline for the Bonn paper had been too much for her, and she had appealed to Faith for help.
Faith ran possible solutions through her mind as she negotiated the roundabout on to the M67. She wanted to manage it so that it didn’t become a big issue to Antoni Yevanov. Helen’s position at the Centre was vulnerable in the face of ongoing cuts. Her appointment was due for review at the end of her first year, and its continuation depended very much on her successful completion of the paper and the reception it got at Bonn.
The traffic was heavy all the way, and it was almost nine by the time she got to the university. There was a queue for the car park and she was tempted to look for a space on the street, but she wanted a fighting chance of seeing her car again. The rain was falling hard by the time she managed to park. She could feel the rain dripping off her umbrella and trickling down inside her collar as she hurried across campus to the Edwardian façade of the Centre for European Studies. She pushed open the glass doors and entered the lobby, blinking the rain out of her eyes.
The warmth of the building enclosed her with its smell of new carpet and paint. The soothing murmur of activity filled the air, a subdued clatter from keyboards, the distant sound of doors opening and closing, the clunk and hum of the lift. She paused on her way through the lobby to catch her breath, and looked at the display boards. Amongst all the fliers for conferences in Madrid, Paris, and New York there was a glossy poster for the forthcoming Brandt Memorial Lecture. Antoni Yevanov: ‘After Guantanamo–International Law from Nuremberg to the 21st Century’. She made a note in her diary. She wanted to go to that.
A group of post-grad students were clustered outside the library. They looked across at her and smiled. Faith had given her first lecture the week before, and her face was becoming known. One of them, a tall young man with fair hair, detached himself from the group and came across. He said rather diffidently, ‘Faith, have you got any time today? Could I come and see you?’
She gave him a shrewd look, pretty sure what he wanted. She recognized him now: Gregory Fellows, one of the stars of the post-grad intake. He was due to deliver a seminar on his work to the group who monitored and evaluated research carried out under the auspices of the Centre. He was very bright, but most of his energies, Faith had been reliably informed, were focused on his work as a drum and bass artist. She was pretty sure he was looking for a postponement of the seminar. He’d need a good excuse. ‘My office time is at three,’ she said. ‘I can see you then.’
His face fell. ‘I wasn’t planning on being in all day,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you could…’
‘Three o’clock,’ Faith said. He gave her a wry smile of acceptance and she hurried up the stairs, aware that it was already after nine. She unlocked the door of her office, puzzled at Helen’s absence. She was only a few minutes late. She phoned Helen’s extension, but there was no reply.
Helen worked in one of the small cubicles on the other side of the building. All the research assistants were based down there–one of them might know where she was. Faith went along the corridor, her progress snagging on people who wanted to talk to her, either to set up meetings or to lobby her support for various projects that were being discussed that afternoon. She fielded these as diplomatically as she could, and asked if anyone had seen Helen, but no one had.
Helen’s cubicle was empty. The desk was tidy, the computer shut down. There was no coat on the hook, no bag under the desk. A photograph on the side of the computer made a splash of colour. Faith looked at it. It showed Helen, her eyes screwed up against the light, with her arms round her two children, Hannah, small and dark-haired like her mother, and the taller, more solemn Finn.
There was a pile of books on the desk–presumably in preparation for the meeting. Faith glanced through them; they were all standard texts about the role of women in National Socialism, except for one. The Memorial Book of Mir. Mir?
But no Helen. She checked the time. It was well after nine. She tried calling Helen’s home number but there was no reply. Then she tried Helen’s mobile. It was engaged. Faith let out a breath of frustration. She scribbled a note on a yellow post-it and stuck it on the monitor, then went back downstairs to the secretary’s office. She wanted to check the teaching schedules.
Trish Parry, Antoni Yevanov’s secretary, glanced up when Faith came through her door. ‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was cool. She had been unfriendly and obstructive from the day Faith arrived. Faith assumed it was to do with the fact that she had been given the job, rather than the internal candidate, but Helen had offered an alternative explanation. ‘She’s okay with the men. It’s the women she doesn’t like. She thinks they’re rivals for Yevanov’s affections.’
‘You mean she and Yevanov…?’ It seemed unlikely to Faith, though Trish was certainly attractive in a neat, English rose sort of way.
Helen grinned. ‘In Trish’s dreams,’ she said.
‘Have you seen Helen Kovacs?’ she said to Trish now.
Trish barely looked up. ‘Not this morning. She said she might not be in. Something about an appointment.’
‘Has she phoned?’ It wasn’t like Helen to leave people in the lurch.
Trish shrugged. ‘She mentioned it yesterday afternoon. Before she left. Early.’
Faith couldn’t understand why Helen hadn’t contacted her, unless…maybe she’d been relying on Trish, and Trish hadn’t bothered to pass the message on. ‘Did she ask you to let me know?’
‘Caroline deals with things like that, not me,’ Trish said coolly.
Faith didn’t say anything. Technically, Trish was in the right. There was a procedure for reporting absences. She made a mental note to warn Helen not to give Trish ammunition, and looked at her watch. She might as well start work on the article. If she left at ten thirty, she should get to Grandpapa’s by eleven,
