Dying on Principle (6 page)

‘Lutaslawski and Bartok,' he added.

‘Which particular bits of Lutaslawski and Bartok?' I asked cautiously.

‘Concerto for Orchestra
, twice.'

The Bartók is one of my favourites, and the Lutaslawski is no more than a challenge, so I accepted gladly.

‘There is a catch, though,' he added. ‘We're holding a raffle to raise money for Tim, Howard's son. The lad with the blood problem. Needs to go to the States. And the Friendly Society isn't authorised to pay up, even if it could afford it. The draw will be at the charity concert on 11 June, but we'll be trying to sell tickets at every gig we do until then. What we were wondering was whether some of the trustees might help us sell them, and since I've seen you in action with an Oxfam tin—'

‘Half an hour separating people from their money seems a small price to pay for two hours' music. See you by the box office?'

‘Can you make it really early? Six thirty?'

‘What about my tea?'

‘Curry afterwards,' he said.

And so it was agreed.

I was just in time for my class: somehow, under this new regime, I didn't think lateness was a good idea.

It was a two-and-a-half-hour session revising set books someone else had taught – another visiting teacher my arrival had thrown out of a job. The kids resented being deprived of someone they trusted so close to the exam, and didn't want to work on
Hamlet
. It wasn't until I asked them what they would do if someone they loved got bumped off by someone they knew that they came alive. One or two Muslims were inclined to think revenge was a duty, but the rest, to my relief, preferred to trust British justice.

I prayed silently that their faith would never be put to the test.

I've always liked Simon's greetings. I love being swirled off my feet and soundly bussed. When he was wearing uniform – the white tie and tails of the orchestral musician – the effect was dramatic, particularly when I wore, as I did tonight, a lightweight pleated skirt which flared
à la
Monroe. And in the glossy setting of Birmingham's Music Centre, it reached perfection. We celebrated with a quick Fred and Ginger routine, which drew a smattering of applause from people queuing for coffee.

My excuse was that there is a performer
manqué
in every teacher. Perhaps Simon didn't need an excuse, lurking, as he did, behind possibly the most sober instrument of the orchestra, the double bass. He was also justifiably proud of his physique, though to the best of my limited knowledge the only sport he participated in was crown green bowls.

‘Come on, Simon: to business. These 'ere raffle tickets. Point me to them.'

He did better, throwing me across his shoulder and transporting me fireman's lift to the stall the Friendly Society had set up just outside the auditorium. After that, people knew my face – and perhaps other parts of my anatomy – when I approached them with tickets and a predatory expression disguised by a friendly smile.

Most people responded generously enough, despite the occasional comment, which I could scarcely dispute, that Tim's treatment ought to be available on the NHS. The only person who really drew me up short was a man in late middle age. There was a general sleekness about his clothes and shoes that argued a bank balance above the average for even the Music Centre's affluent clients. But I wouldn't have wanted to carry the bags under his eyes.

‘Have you bought your raffle ticket to support Tim Stamford yet?' I beamed; surely a tenner at least from a hand with such a ring, such a diamond.

‘When is the draw?' he asked.

‘11 June,' I said. ‘At the Friendly Society charity concert.'

‘June? And this is still May. I'll keep the money till then. I'd rather it did some work than sat in some low-interest bank account.'

I gaped.

He walked away.

‘And may all your toenails grow in!' I said to his departing back.

The curry was expensive, the taxi fare home expensive, and Simon in private was not nearly as demonstrative as Simon in public. This was a relationship that would need either thought or work. And I wasn't sure that I wanted to spare either just at the moment.

Thursday morning found me at a loose end. I should have been in a meeting with the rest of the team, but two of them were off sick, so Sarah, an ESOL expert, and I, lamenting men's lack of stamina, adjourned the meeting and went our various ways.

Spring was definitely springing at last, and I felt a sudden reluctance to return to my eight-by-eight cell. Ten minutes by the little fountain would have worked wonders, but the only access was via the principal's study – correction, the chief executive's office – or the staff or conference room, which was currently occupied by people in conference: there was a notice on the door telling the world not to disturb the meeting.

The temptation simply to walk out of the building and work in my garden was almost overwhelming, but even I don't do things like that, so I decided to explore parts of the building I'd not yet had reason to visit; the drama studios, for instance, and the music rooms. Since poor William Murdock had neither, I was impressed by the plurals and by the fact they were housed in the performing arts wing.

This lay, soundproofing notwithstanding, at the furthest edge of the complex, where the building was also at its tallest – five storeys. There were practical classes in the dance studios and in the smaller drama studio, but the main drama studio was empty. The door responded to my push, and I found myself in a small theatre. Not so small either – not much smaller than Brum Studio at the Rep. It seemed very well-equipped too. Resisting a sudden urge to play with the computerised lights and sound effects, I took centre stage and made ready to soliloquise – purely, of course, to test the acoustics. Pity a class started to trickle in.

I pushed my way against the tide of people and set off up to the music area. This part seemed less well funded. The piano was badly out of tune, and the electronic keyboards years out of date. The last notice on the board was for aural exams in 1989.

The shoes I fell over on the way out, however, were almost new. I put them neatly to the side of the stairs, more interested in the fact that the door to the roof was open. I'm not, to be honest, a woman for heights, but since I was exploring I might as well do it properly. I'd celebrated the tenth anniversary of my sojourn at William Murdock with a walk on its roof, and hadn't known whether to be relieved or irritated to find I was too short to see over the parapet. Perhaps because the Muntz building was five storeys high, not fifteen, this parapet was the height you could comfortably lean your elbows on. I oriented myself and headed for the corner nearest my house, its roof strangely small and unfamiliar and – now I looked more closely – missing a ridge tile. To celebrate being in the open on such a promising day and to prove I had my vertigo under control, I decided to complete a circuit. Someone had drawn expansive yellow chalk circles around suspect-looking roof felt, and a bucket of tar steamed ready. I dodged round it, and looked over each of the corners. One had an excellent view of the playing fields – fields in the plural when poor William Murdock hadn't so much as a bit of tarmac for kicking a ball on. The last corner was the one nearest the area occupied by the maintenance staff. I looked down at a little shed with a motor mower half out, the canteen bins and a rubbish skip.

On top of the skip were some tar drums, some broken chairs, and a discarded life-size model from the art room. The thoughts came painfully slowly. How enlightened to use a black model. They had posed it clothed. A black young woman. And I knew, as I ran down the stairs two and three at a time, that it wasn't a model.

I could simply have dialled 999. I supposed I should have told someone in authority and let them do it for me: hierarchies clearly operated at George Muntz. But logic deserted me, and I ran all the way to my own office to make the call. Chris, of course. DCI Chris Groom.

His voice was calm and efficient. ‘You're sure it's her?'

‘Without going closer and having a look—'

‘No, don't do that. No point in upsetting yourself, Sophie. And you might just – you know – disturb something. Have you told anyone?'

‘No. And I've an idea I should have. But Chris, I couldn't just invite you over here to look at the view, could I?'

‘Hardly. Go and tell someone, and tell them you panicked. If it really is Melina, surely they'll have more important things to do than worry about protocol!' He waited for me to say something. ‘Come on, Sophie, you're not usually so shy and retiring.'

‘It's being new here, Chris. And – look, shouldn't you be putting your underpants outside your trousers and leaping into action? We can talk about my hang-ups later.'

‘OK. But I shall need to talk to you officially, mind, so don't worry if you find yourself getting sent for. Take care.'

There was another word, which he choked off. Poor Chris.

And come to think of it, poor Sophie. Now I had time to look, something radical had happened to my room: the arrival of another chair and several boxes of someone else's papers. And an ashtray, heavily used.

First things first, however: whom ought I to tell? The principal, I suppose, or, failing him the less than charming Mr Curtis. On the whole, since Peggy had described him as a gentleman and he'd been charm personified at the meeting that brought me here, I'd try Mr Blake.

When I reached the foyer it was in chaos: piles of the sort of timber I associate with other people's home extensions, and raucous young men in overalls milling round, much to Peggy's tight-lipped irritation. I smiled wanly at her and headed down the short corridor leading to the principal's study. A desk impeded my progress, occupied, according to the gold-printed wooden block, by Mrs I. M. Cavendish, Secretary to the Chief Executive.

She was speaking into the phone when I arrived and chose to continue without acknowledging me: ‘I hear what you are saying, Mrs Jeffreys. Yes. I do hear. But I cannot imagine that—' At this point she rolled her eyes heavenwards; I too was invited to condemn her unheard interlocutor. ‘Mrs Jeffreys: you are taking antibiotics. You are teaching only a floor from the ladies' lavatory. Surely it isn't too much for Mr Blake to expect you to fulfil your teaching commitment.'

There was an impassioned murmur from the other end, causing Mrs Cavendish to hold the receiver at an elegant angle from her head.

‘Mr Blake will expect to see you in the classroom as usual tomorrow, Mrs Jeffreys. He does not regard cystitis as a cause for hysteria.' She replaced the receiver. Now she no longer saw me as an ally against a mischievous world, her eyes hardened.

‘Yes?' she said, uninvitingly.

‘I have to see Mr Blake, on a matter of the most extreme urgency.'

She picked languidly at a diary. ‘Staff, aren't you? Mr Blake sees staff on Mondays.'

‘I have to see Mr Blake now.'

‘Monday at eleven. Miss – er—'

‘Now.'

‘Mr Blake is in a meeting.'

‘He would want to be interrupted.' I expected her to get to her feet and head for the conference room, but if anything her smile was more languid.

‘A meeting at the Mondiale. The College without Walls Conference. Senior staff.'

‘Mr Curtis?'

‘All senior staff,' she said firmly. There was a distinct stress on ‘senior'.

‘All right, if you're holding the fort, I'll tell you. Though I expect you'll want to contact them and tell them the police are here.'

To describe Mrs Cavendish's reaction as extreme would be to indulge in understatement. I thought for a moment she was about to pass out, she went so grey so quickly. But she resumed her bored expression with commendable rapidity, touching her fingertips together in an irritating arch.

‘In what connection?'

‘With Melina. The computer technician. I don't know her surname. Perhaps you should find it and all her other details. I'm sure the police would be grateful for anything that'll save them time.'

‘They would indeed,' came Chris's voice from over my shoulder, ‘be very grateful.'

He introduced himself, ID and all, to Mrs Cavendish, and prepared to be charmed. Middle-aged ladies often seemed to find Chris desirable, a fact he was rarely slow to play on.

‘And of course,' he was saying, ‘if Ms Rivers has discovered something untoward, there need be no suggestion of foul play.'

Somehow he contrived to bow himself out without permitting her to accompany him, and somehow he contrived to bow me out with him.

‘Ian,' he said, raising his voice, ‘could you get a few details about the college from—'

‘Mrs Cavendish,' I supplied. And winked at Ian, who responded with a flicker of a smile. Last time I'd seen Ian he'd been winning a case of amontillado in a wine tasting.

‘I'll have to show you what I saw, first,' I said, leading the way to the music and drama block, and up the stairs. ‘Because I'm not entirely sure how to get to the place from the ground.'

By this time the door to the roof was locked.

‘What's up?'

‘I'm sure I didn't lock it. I'm sure I just legged it downstairs to phone you.'

‘You're sure?'

‘I'm nearly sure.'

He looked at me hard, but then smiled. ‘Could be important. But we'll worry about it later. Meanwhile …' He produced an interesting little bunch of keys and coughed gently. No, I wouldn't tell.

The door opened easily. The roof was still deserted but the patches had been tarred over and the buckets had gone. Presumably the workmen had locked the door when they left. Reluctantly I led Chris to the corner overlooking the skip, and pointed.

‘I'm afraid you could be right,' he said quietly. He gave my shoulder the nearest he could manage to a merely friendly hug, but released me far too quickly and spoke into his phone. ‘No evidence yet to suggest foul play, of course,' he said, more bracingly.