The Ghost

The cold war. The first miners’ strike in Britain since 1926. The military coup in Chile. And what do they do? They get a bottle of champagne and they go punting!”
    “I’ll drink to that.”
    She picked up one of the photocopies.
    “Listen to this,” she said and started to read:
    “The girls they all will miss us
    As the train it pulls away.
    They’ll blow a kiss and say ‘Come back
    To Cambridge town someday.’
    We’ll throw a rose neglectfully and turn and sigh farewell
    Because we know the chance they’ve got
    Is a snowball’s chance in hell.
    Cheer oh, Cambridge, suppers, bumps and Mays,
    Trinners, Fenners, cricket, tennis
    Footlights shows and plays.
    We’ll take a final, farewell stroll
    Along dear old K.P.,
    And a final punt up old man Cam
    To Grantchester for tea.”
    She smiled and shook her head. “I can’t even understand half of it. It’s in Cambridge code.”
    “Bumps are college boat races,” I said. “Actually, you had those at Oxford as well, but you were probably too busy with the miners’ strike to notice. Mays are May balls—they’re at the beginning of June, obviously.”
    “Obviously.”
    “Trinners is Trinity College. Fenners is the university cricket ground.”
    “And K.P.?”
    “King’s Parade.”
    “They wrote it to send the place up,” she said. “But now it sounds nostalgic.”
    “That’s satire for you.”
    “And what’s this telephone number?”
    I should have known that nothing would escape her. She showed me the photograph with the number written on the back. I didn’t reply. I could feel my face beginning to flush. Of course, I ought to have told her earlier. Now I’d made myself look guilty.
    “Well?” she insisted.
    I said quietly, “It’s Richard Rycart’s.”
    It was almost worth it just for her expression. She looked as though she’d swallowed a hornet. She put her hand to her throat.
    “ You’ve been calling Richard Rycart?” she gasped.
    “ I haven’t. It must have been McAra.”
    “That’s not possible.”
    “Who else could have written down that number?” I held out my cell phone. “Try it.”
    She stared at me for a while, as if we were playing a game of Truth or Dare, then she reached over, took my phone, and entered the fourteen digits. She raised it to her ear and stared at me again. About thirty seconds later a flicker of alarm passed across her face. She fumbled to press the disconnect button, and put the phone back on the table.
    “Did he answer?” I asked.
    She nodded. “It sounded as though he was in a restaurant.”
    The phone began to ring again, throbbing along the surface of the table as if it had come alive.
    “What should I do?” I asked.
    “Do what you want. It’s your phone.”
    I turned it off. There was a silence, broken only by the roaring and cracking of the log fire.
    She said, “When did you discover this?”
    “Earlier today. When I moved into McAra’s room.”
    “And then you went to Lambert’s Cove to look at where his body came ashore?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And why did you do that?” Her voice was very quiet. “Tell me honestly.”
    “I’m not sure.” I paused. “There was a man there,” I blurted out. I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. “An old-timer, who’s familiar with the currents in Vineyard Sound. He says there’s no way, at this time of year, that a body from the Woods Hole ferry would wash up at Lambert’s Cove. And he also said another woman, who has a house just behind the dunes, had seen flashlights on the beach during the night when McAra went missing. But then she fell downstairs and is in a coma. So she can’t tell the police anything.” I spread my hands. “That’s all I know.”
    She was looking at me with her mouth slightly open.
    “That,” she said slowly, “is all you know. Jesus .” She started feeling around on the sofa, patting the leather with her hands, then turned her attention to the table, searching under the photographs. “Jesus. Shit.” She flicked her fingers at me. “Give me your phone.”
    “Why?” I asked, handing it over.
    “Isn’t it obvious? I need to call Adam.” She held it outstretched in her palm, inspected it, and quickly started entering his number with her thumb. She got about halfway through, then stopped.
    “What?” I said.
    “Nothing.” She was looking beyond me, over my shoulder, chewing the inside of her lip. Her thumb was poised over the keypad, and for a long moment it stayed there,