London Calling - James Craig [91]
Joe wasn’t getting much yet for his thirty-five-pound train fare, but he ploughed on. ‘What kind of scandals has the club been involved in?’
‘They don’t really do scandal, Sergeant.’ Hawley shook his head. ‘That is the whole point. What you or I or Mr and Mrs Smith from Acacia Avenue might consider “scandalous” is considered de rigueur for these people. That’s what the club is basically for. It is a way of showing us that they don’t have to play by the rules. Meaning the rules that the rest of us have to obey. If you can’t sufficiently annoy the little people, you’re not fit to become a member.’
‘Where would I be able to find out more information about the club down through the years?’
‘How far back do you want to go?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Joe warily, not wanting to give too much away. Even Mr Medieval Boozing must be aware of the current crop of ex-Merrion celebrities. If he started gossiping around town, the investigation could still find its way into the press. ‘Maybe thirty years or so.’
‘There’s a student newspaper called Grantebrycge.’
‘What?’
‘Gran-te-bry-cge … it’s what Cambridge was called, back in the Middle Ages.’ Hawley spelt it out, letter by letter, so that Joe could scribble it into his notebook. ‘The paper has been going since just after the First World War. It comes out every two weeks during term time. How specific is the information you’re looking for?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘A fishing exercise?’ Hawley smiled. ‘Well, you might get lucky. Some American internet company started digitising the magazine archive as a PR stunt last year. Some of it might be online, but I don’t know how far they’ve got.’ He pointed along the street. ‘Their offices are just down the road. God knows if there’s anyone around at the moment, though.’
‘I’ll check it out, thanks.’ Joe took one last look at his Zen tea and decided to leave it. ‘Let me know if anything else comes to mind.’
The offices of Grantebrycge were housed in what looked like a small shop on a side street running towards the station. In the window was a copy of what Joe presumed was the front page of the latest edition, which was by now more than a month old. There was a website address above a cover feature about undergraduate hookers, headlined ‘Students for Sale’. More than half the page was given over to an image of a statuesque blond, wearing little more than her underwear, climbing out of a Porsche. Both her face and the car’s number plate had been pixelated out. In the top left-hand corner of the illustration it said: ‘As posed by a model.’ Joe scribbled down the email address and made a mental note to check out the ‘special investigation’ that was promised on pages four and five, once he next got online. Standing with this nose up against the window, he peered further inside. The place looked empty. He tried the door, which was locked.
Hovering outside the newspaper office, Joe watched a pretty blond girl walking up the road in his direction. From a distance, she looked similar to the model in the picture. However, there was no sign of any Porsche-driving punter on the mean streets of Cambridge that afternoon.
For want of anything better to do, he called Carlyle, but the inspector’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. Joe didn’t want to leave a message admitting that he’d found out next to nothing. Hoping that Carlyle was having a better day than himself, he wondered how long he would have to wait for a train back to London.
The blonde, meanwhile, had reached the Grantebrycge office. To Joe’s surprise, she stopped and smiled at him. In his experience that was not what pretty girls normally did.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
Unconsciously, Joe pulled in his gut and pushed back his shoulders. He gestured at the front page displayed in the window.
‘I was hoping to speak to someone at the magazine about back issues.’
‘You can find those online,’ the girl replied.
‘I need to go back a long way, maybe twenty-five or thirty years.’
A look of understanding breezed across the girl’s face. ‘Ah, yes, back