A Matter of Trust by Maxine Barry Page B

warned Callum Fielding that when she went quiet and succinct in just that way, you needed to watch out.
    â€˜Porter,’ Callum said dismissively.
    â€˜Professor Porter is not my date,’ Markie said, still in that calm and reasonable voice. ‘I met him less than an hour ago.’
    â€˜Oh,’ Callum said, trying to pretend that he didn’t feel his pulse quicken in delight to hear it.
    â€˜You should both of you get back to the party,’ Sir Vivian spoke up suddenly. ‘This night air is clearing my head wonderfully, and I don’t need baby sitters. Please, you young people go back and enjoy yourselves. Callum, I insist.’
    Callum, Markie thought. His name is Callum. It suits him, somehow. Unusual and haunting, but sort of macho at the same time. Then she frowned. Wait a minute. Dr Fielding, the winner of the Prize, wasn’t his first name Callum too? Could this be the same man?
    She opened her mouth to ask him, then closed it with a snap again as she saw that he was looking at her with an expression that hovered somewhere between grim and impatient.
    â€˜I think you and I need to discuss something, Vivian, don’t you?’ Callum began, then swore very softly under his breath as they were interrupted yet again.
    This time by Porter.
    â€˜Come on you lot, they’re calling us in to dinner.’
    â€˜You go, I’ll stay out here and get some more air,’ Vivian said firmly. ‘I’ll come along in later.’
    Left with no choice but to comply, Callum strode frustratedly ahead, trying not to notice when Michael Porter reached out to take the stunning woman by her elbow. Or that he bent down to whisper something in her ear.
    Markie barely heard what it was, but she noticed with a shaft of savage satisfaction that the blond giant’s shoulders tightened when he saw the gesture. She made herself laugh provocatively. Good. So he wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended.
    With a toss of her beautiful head, Markie let the university Casanova walk her back into St Bede’s under the nose of Callum Fielding.
    *           *           *
    Nesta walked into her dark and deserted room, and fumbled for the light switch. Walking to the tiny sink, she filled the kettle and made some tea, rubbing her eyes tiredly.
    She hadn’t been sleeping well lately, but something told her that tonight she’d sleep like a log. Perhaps because it had been such a therapeutic evening.
    Her father’s friends had once again taken her out, this time also inviting three others over for dinner who’d known Brian Aldernay, and all of them had talked about him with both fondness and respect. Unfortunately, none of them had known enough about his work to become suspicious when that other, plagiarised work had been published. But if they had been, she was convinced they would have acted.
    She was sure now that everyone who mattered would heartily endorse her pursuit of the truth. And that was the reassurance she’d subconsciously been seeking ever since coming to this city. She was
not
being vindictive, nor was she being unduly harsh—the two things that had most worried her, when she’d set out to see Sir Vivian. This was not about a vendetta. This was about justice.
    She took her mug of tea and climbed onto the bed, finding that it sagged in the middle and rolled her determinedly into the centre. Giggling and wriggling into a more comfortable position on the wayward mattress, she leaned back against the headboard with a sigh. And found herself, unexpectedly, thinking of Rob.
    Rob Gingridge, a music graduate from her year at Durham. The tall, golden-haired, golden boy. They’d met in their first year at college, and had gone steady ever since. All her friends had envied her, for everyone agreed that Rob was going to be the next Simon Rattle. His good looks, personality and drive had made him stand out