My rocky perch overlooks the Wollman ice-rink and it is a menace. In most places this would be serene: skaters swirling and scraping round the ice, left alone for us to all admire. But here each strictly controlled skating session is preceded by a quarter hour of safety messages and legal disclaimers. All sorts of loudspeaker warnings and regulations about when to take photos and in what zone those photos can be taken.
My mind’s a muddle, but being in this little corner of parkland is helping me to order my thoughts. My return flight is booked to leave in a few days. Me and Mum and Dad. And an urn full of ashes. In the meantime I will do everything I can to aid the police and aid Bogart DeLuca. I’ll update him as soon as my dinner with Groot is finished tonight.
I imagine KT sitting on this very rock eating a giant pretzel or flirting with Scott Sbarra. Or she might have even FaceTimed me from this spot before things became awkward. If I could go back in time and change things, I would.
Email notification. It’s from Groot. It says there’s a dress code: no jeans or leggings or T-shirts. I already know I’m going to hate the Harvard Club. If there’s any mingling and small talk I will not perform well. Where did you study? they’ll ask, and I’ll answer that I didn’t, and they’ll ask What do you do? and I’ll say I’m an admin assistant for a paint and wood stain manufacturer and then they’ll smile and nod and move on. The truth is, we can’t all be overachieving academics destined for the UN or a top law firm; some of us are meant to be normal, and there is no shame in that whatsoever.
Back at the hostel I shower and put on black trousers and a black shirt and black shoes.
‘You look smart, dear,’ says Mum.
‘Thank you.’
I step closer to her. Put my hand on her shoulder. ‘If you ever need to come and stay with me in London for a bit, Mum – for whatever reason – you can, you know. I don’t make much, but my job’s safe. If you need to—’
She places her fingertip to her lips for a moment, and then kisses me on my forehead and mouths thank you.
I leave without explaining about Groot because I worry they’ll want to come as well and then I’ll discover absolutely nothing of value. I want to see the professor for myself. Hold his gaze. Assess him.
The walk to the Harvard Club takes less than five minutes but the transformation is dramatic. From the manic Times Square end of Midtown to a string of clubs and expensive-looking hotels. The Algonquin, the Iroquois, the Sofitel. And then the red-brick Harvard Club with its flags, and a doorman in full uniform holding the door open for me.
‘Good evening,’ says the receptionist. ‘Member or guest?’
‘Er, guest. Of Eugene Groot.’
‘Of course, please sign in just here.’
I sign in.
‘Take a seat over there and I’ll let Professor Groot know you’ve arrived.’
She walks away and I feel uncomfortable in this vast room with its serious portraits and plaques and bookcases.
‘Ms Raven,’ says a man an inch or two shorter than my father, a man with sparkly blue eyes, tan skin and a well-groomed grey beard. ‘Groot. Eugene Groot, pleased to meet you.’
‘Thanks for seeing me.’
He closes his eyes for a few seconds, and then leads me towards an ornate staircase and says, in a low, discreet tone, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, it’s a dreadful tragedy. The whole department is in a state of shock.’
‘Thank you.’
He leads me through to a grand hall. A soprano is singing, filling the double-height room with her voice.
‘The Club’s been here since 1888. Most of the architecture is McKim’s work.’ He sounds strained when he talks. A little nervous. Overcompensating. ‘And yes, that elephant head is real.’
‘Did KT ever come here?’
‘Not that I know of,’ says Groot.
We walk through dark-red-painted corridors to another staircase. The steps creak like you’d expect in an old English house, and then we arrive at the dining hall.
‘Beautiful room,’ I say.
‘Isn’t it?’
We sit and are presented with menus.
‘It all looks very grand, but let me tell you the Harvard Club Foundation scholarship fund helps support numerous undergraduates through their studies. All this is a form of giving back.’
‘KT talked about you,’ I say.
He puts on his reading glasses. ‘Your sister was an excellent student. An enquiring mind.’
‘She was fond of you.’