Heads You Win
“Corio … who?”
* * *
Sasha had to admit that losing both one’s job and the roof over one’s head could certainly be described as an emergency. He only wished he’d known about Gino’s proposal before he got on the train. But he’d been left with no choice once the operator told him his mother’s phone had been cut off. He spent a sleepless night on Gino’s sofa, and took the first train back to Cambridge the following morning. He had to fork out almost a pound on a taxi to make sure he arrived at the police station at 8:54 a.m. A young constable took him straight through to Detective Sergeant Warwick’s office, and not an interview room.
“Miss Hunter has withdrawn her allegation,” said Warwick, once Sasha had sat down.
“Please tell me Charlie hasn’t been to see you.”
“Charlie who?” asked Warwick innocently. “No, it was a simple piece of detective work that caused Miss Hunter to have second thoughts. We were able to point out to her that your fingerprints on the fire escape stopped at the second floor, and as she also claimed that you left her room within minutes of stealing the file, it’s difficult to expl
ain why it took you five and a half hours to get back to your college, unless of course you were tucked up in bed on the floor below.”
“But the college porter, Mr. Perkins, wouldn’t have been able to confirm the time I returned to college, because he was fast asleep.”
“Turned a blind eye, would be a more accurate description,” said Warwick. “If you’d been seen coming in at five thirty in the morning, he would have had to enter your name in his log book for breaking college regulations, and then you would have needed to explain to the proctors where you’d been all night.”
“So has Fiona got away with it?”
“Not entirely. Miss Hunter has been cautioned for wasting police time. Frankly, I’d have banged her up overnight if her father hadn’t had a word with the chief constable. Still, you’d better be off, as I understand you have a busy day ahead of you.”
* * *
“As you know, Elena, I’ve wanted you to join me for some time,” said Mr. Agnelli, “but you made it clear that there was no point in asking while you were still working for Mr. Moretti.”
“And there still might not be any point,” said Elena.
“My previous offer still stands. I’d make you head chef, and I can promise that you’ll never see me in the kitchen. I’ll double what Mr. Moretti paid you, and you’ll also receive ten percent of the restaurant’s profits. But you’d have to find your own accommodation.”
“And can Betty join me?” asked Elena. Agnelli nodded. “And will Gino be the maître d’?”
“Yes. I’d already agreed that with him. Is there anything else you were hoping for?”
After listening to Elena’s final request Mr. Agnelli said, “I’ll need to think about it.”
“It’s a deal-breaker,” said Elena, repeating Sasha’s exact words.
* * *
When Sasha left the police station, he ran all the way to the Union, where he found his campaign manager trying to explain to a voter where the candidate had been for the past forty-eight hours.
“The voting’s already started,” said Ben, after Sasha joined him at the bar and told him the latest news. “We haven’t got a moment to waste, because Fiona’s been telling everyone you’ve spent the past two days in a police cell. You’ve got to admire her nerve.”
“Not to mention her timing.”
“Pity Warwick didn’t lock her up for the day. That would certainly have helped our chances. But we can still win.”
They began to work the room. Several members shook Sasha’s hand warmly, while others turned their backs on him—one or two of whom he’d considered supporters, even friends. He tried to speak to everyone who hadn’t yet voted, even if he knew they had no intention of backing him. It was clear that some people still believed Fiona’s story, or wanted to, while others admitted to him that their own fingerprints might well be on that fire escape. Sasha didn’t stop until the last vote had been cast at six o’clock, when he joined Ben and Charlie at the Union bar. Fiona’s supporters occupied one side of the room, while Sasha’s filled the other half.
“When will you find out the result?” asked Charlie as she sipped a lager.
“Around seven,” said Ben. “So not long to wait.”
Ben’s prediction turned out to be wrong, because it was nearer eight when the retiring president, Chris Smith, entered the bar and made his way to the center of the room, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He waited for complete silence before he spoke.
“I would like to begin by explaining why we’ve taken so long to announce the result. Three recounts were required before the tellers were able to agree on the outcome. So I can now tell you that, by a majority of three votes, the next president of the Cambridge Union will be…”
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