Authors: Patricia Hall
‘That sort of intrusive question may be the reason why Sir David is so wary of the press,’ Sanderson said, his voice silky but his eyes angry. ‘I told you last time we met what Sir David’s objectives are in setting up a faith academy in Bradfield. He doesn’t make any secret of the fact that this is to be a biblical, Christian school.’
‘A fundamentalist school, then,’ Laura said. ‘I’ve been talking to some people who are afraid that the school will take a hard line on issues like homosexuality and abortion, which are legal in this country, whatever some religious groups choose to believe. And a hard line can easily lead to bullying of young people, and even of staff if, maybe, they’re gay, or if the girls become pregnant and choose a termination. Is there any guarantee that won’t happen? That young people won’t be bullied by other children, or even by the school staff?’
‘There is good and evil in the world, right and wrong, Miss Ackroyd, and you can be sure that any school Sir David is involved in will make sure that young people know the difference. If parents don’t like that approach they can take their children away.’
‘And the staff? What would the school’s attitude be if it discovered that a member of staff was gay? Or was living in an unmarried relationship?’
‘I think it unlikely that the school would appoint anyone of that sort,’ Sanderson said, his own distaste very clear.
‘So you would discriminate, in other words?’
‘We would seek staff in sympathy with the ethos of the school. That’s not unlawful,’ Sanderson said. ‘It’s what Sir David does in all his academies.’
‘So what happens to existing staff whose faces don’t fit?’
‘They leave. We’re not ungenerous about that.’
Laura took a deep breath and decided that pursuing this avenue might do Debbie Stapleton more harm than good.
‘So what’s the timetable now? When will a new head be appointed?’ she asked.
‘The new governors are now in place, as a sort of shadow administration,’ Sanderson said. ‘They’ve drawn up a shortlist of candidates for the headship.’
‘Before the scheme is even formally approved?’
‘There is a lot of planning to be done. The timetable’s not unusual, which is something you would know if you’d done your research properly, Miss Ackroyd.’
‘And is Debbie Stapleton on the shortlist?’ Laura asked.
‘No,’ Sanderson said. ‘I’m afraid she isn’t.’ He hesitated for a moment and then steepled his long fingers under his chin.
‘You know I’m surprised you’re so hostile to this project,’ he said. ‘I would have thought that anyone born and bred here would be delighted to see a dilapidated old school renewed and given new life. Your councillors certainly are. Although I suppose with your grandmother so involved in left-wing politics, it’s only to be expected. We didn’t realise the connection until quite recently.’
Laura took a sharp breath.
‘My grandmother’s politics are nothing to do with me, Mr Sanderson,’ she said. ‘And mine are nothing to do with you. Anyway, this is a community issue, not a political one. And in any case, I give both sides of the argument. That’s my job,’ Laura said, draining her glass.
‘I do hope so, Miss Ackroyd,’ Sanderson said.
‘Even so, I still feel that Sir David should be prepared to
make the argument himself, especially as he’s a local man. His reticence will puzzle people. They will wonder what he has to hide.’
‘He has nothing to hide, Miss Ackroyd, and if you suggest anything of that sort in your article, I think he may be inclined to consult his lawyers. And your editor certainly would not like that.’
The threat was overt, but Laura merely smiled thinly.
‘He may be a powerful man, Mr Sanderson, but he should remember that Yorkshire people don’t like being pushed around. He will have to fight his corner, one way or another, and I hope he’ll still come round to the idea that putting his own case in an interview might actually help him. Will you relay that message to him, please?’
‘The answer will be the same. And I seriously suggest that you give up this pointless pursuit now. It really won’t do your future any good.’
Laura suddenly felt a wave of anger threaten to overwhelm her. She took a deep breath.
‘If that’s a threat, which is what it sounds like, I think you’ll find I’m not easily intimidated,’ she said.
‘I don’t think your policeman is going to help you with this,’ Sanderson said, his voice silky. ‘Sir David has much more powerful contacts than that.’
Laura flushed angrily.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.
‘Whatever you take it to mean, Miss Ackroyd,’ Sanderson said. ‘No more, no less. But if you felt like a little chat with your boss, I wouldn’t blame you.’ He got to his feet, leaving Laura, for once in her life, lost for words. ‘Take Ted Grant’s advice and don’t push your luck,’ he said, and spun on his
well-shod heel and left her staring at her empty vodka-
and-tonic
glass in disbelief, still with her audience of now
goggle-eyed
suits.
She walked back to the office slowly, gazing into the shop windows but only half taking in the arrays of spring fashion which she would normally have studied with interest, even though the weather was still distinctly wintry. How had Sanderson uncovered so many details of her private life, she wondered? And even more worryingly, why had he bothered? And why take the trouble to discount the influence of Michael Thackeray who, even in normal circumstances, would be hugely reluctant to involve himself in inquiries by the
Gazette
? At present, he would be more furious than usual to be dragged into her affairs, although it was some faint comfort to know that the all-seeing eye of Sir David Murgatroyd had not penetrated so far into her private life to know that their relationship was teetering on the brink. Not yet, anyway, she thought grimly. If he or Sanderson poked their puritanical noses into her private life and uncovered the bleak options she was facing just at the moment, things could get very nasty indeed.
On an impulse, she called the town hall on her mobile and struck lucky with Peter Maxwell, the councillor in charge of the town’s schools. He was just coming out of a meeting and could give her ten minutes. She raced up the broad stone steps two at a time to the ceremonial floor, presided over by the ranks of Victorian aldermen in portraits notable for their self-satisfaction rather than artistic merit. Maxwell, a stocky man wearing a blue suit and tetchy expression on his pasty face, clutched a pile of files that threatened to spill over the floor as he went into his office and nodded to Laura without much enthusiasm.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve another meeting in fifteen minutes.’
‘I won’t keep you,’ Laura said. ‘I’m still working on my piece about the new academy at Sutton Park, and I wanted to check a few details with you.’
Maxwell let her precede him into the office before dumping his files on his desk and sinking into his swivel chair.
‘You know, this new school is the best thing that’s happened to this benighted town for years. Even this government comes up with one or two good ideas occasionally. I hope you’re not going to knock it.’
Laura grinned.
‘Well, I’m not sure David Murgatroyd’s the person I’d want in charge of my kids, if I had any,’ she said. ‘His views are so far out they’re over the horizon.’
‘But he comes clutching two million pounds, and with a lot more Government cash to follow,’ Maxwell said. ‘Where else would we get that sort of money for a brand new school? The council taxpayers? You must be dreaming.’
‘Did you know that they haven’t put Debbie Stapleton on the shortlist for the headship?’
Maxwell looked at her sharply.
‘They’ve told you that, have they? Well, I’m not really surprised. They’ll want to make a clean start.’
‘Is that clean as in virtuous, according to their lights?’ Laura’s tone was waspish but Maxwell did not rise to the challenge.
‘Clean as in a new beginning,’ he said, and Laura could not tell if he knew what she was talking about and thought it better not to enlighten him.
‘So basically the council will push the scheme through,
however much the governors and parents protest?’
‘Absolutely,’ Maxwell said. ‘And now I really have to get ready for my next meeting. Don’t let your grandmother work you up on this one. Believe me. It’s in everyone’s best interests.’
‘Except Debbie Stapleton’s,’ Laura said getting to her feet.
‘Yes, well, you know what they say about making omelettes. I’m afraid in this case Debbie’s just one of the eggs.’
DCI Michael Thackeray drummed his fingers on his desk in frustration as he scanned the forensic report which Sergeant Kevin Mower had just handed him.
‘They’re still examining traces of human hair and other fibres and various unidentified smears they found in the passenger compartment of Duckworth’s car, guv,’ Mower said, summarising the document which he had already scanned for half an hour looking for anything which could remotely be used to charge Terry Bastable with his wife’s murder, and finding nothing. ‘It was in a fairly scruffy state. No one had tried to clean it out, that’s for sure. There were hairs in the boot, which got them a bit excited apparently, but they turned out to be animal. Duckworth apparently had a dog until recently, so that explains that. The bad news is that they’ve found nothing that looks even remotely like blood. Karen could have been in the car, but it doesn’t look as if she was killed in it, and her body wasn’t transported in it. You couldn’t have done either of those things without getting a speck of blood inside. The state she was in, I don’t think it’s remotely possible.’
‘So we’re left with the possibility that she went in the car willingly, if she went at all? That doesn’t seem very likely, does it?’ Thackeray sounded as tetchy as he looked, and Mower wondered what was going on in his private life to make him look as frayed as he had seen him since his near-fatal shooting.
‘The only other possibility is that he knocked her unconscious and took her off somewhere else to kill her. But the PM report didn’t suggest a blow to the head, did it? The damage was caused by a sharp instrument; there were burns, but not much in the way of major bruising.’ Mower shrugged. ‘We’ve not got much choice but to wait for the DNA tests on the traces they’ve found. That’s the only thing that’s going to give us a clear picture of whether she’d ever been in that car or not.’
‘So we’ve no choice but to let Bastable go for the time being,’ Thackeray said wearily. ‘There’s nowhere near enough evidence to charge him. Bail him to report back here in two weeks, by which time we should have got the DNA results back from the lab and we’ll have a clearer idea where we stand.’
‘Right, guv,’ Mower said.
‘What about the ad in the
Gazette
? Are we making any progress with that?’
‘Went in last night, guv, setting up a meet for Friday. Charlene Brough says they never got much notice. A few days at most. But the gap between events was usually about two weeks, sometimes more, so some people may get suspicious and not turn up.’
‘Probably exhausted,’ Thackeray said drily. Mower grinned, thinking how much stamina he could find in the right circumstances, but he said nothing. Furtive sex with strangers
was not his scene, he thought. And he was surprised at how many people seemed ready to indulge in it.
‘We’ve set the meet for eight o’clock, which is apparently the usual time. I’ve warned uniform that we’ll need some bodies that night to bring people back here. We can’t sensibly interview them out in that wilderness, so I’ll lay on vans. I don’t suppose they’ll be best pleased but we’ve got grounds to arrest them for public order offences, I think, if they get stroppy. It may be a remote spot but it’s still a public place, if we need it to be.’
‘Don’t provoke them too much,’ Thackeray said. ‘We need some cooperative witnesses on this one, or we’ll never crack it. I want chapter and verse on what went on up there that night.’
‘Right,’ Mower said. ‘But if we’re looking for someone who was just hiding in the trees watching the proceedings, they may not even have been seen.’
‘Someone must have seen something,’ Thackeray said. ‘We know they won’t come forward voluntarily so we’ll just have to go out and fetch them in. Once they know we know they were there, they’ll cooperate, for fear of something worse.’
‘I’ll sign Bastable out, though it grieves me to do it,’ Mower said. ‘He’s one of those punters you just know’s done something gross, even if you don’t know what and haven’t a cat in hell’s chance of proving it.’
‘In the bad old days they just used to fit blokes like that up and feel justified in doing it,’ Thackeray said. ‘But we live in different times – unless you’re a suspected terrorist, of course. Bring me some evidence, Kevin, or some cast-iron witnesses, and it’ll give me great pleasure to lock Terry Bastable up and throw away the key.’
* * *
Laura headed south out of Bradfield, down the link road to the M62 and then, foot down, to the M1 and the south. She had been astonished, and then elated, to receive a call during the afternoon from a woman she had never spoken to before but who claimed to be Sir David Murgatroyd’s PA in his London office, inviting her to meet him at a country-house hotel just outside Sheffield, where he could give her a brief interview. After her edgy meeting with Winston Sanderson only hours earlier, she had double-checked what was being suggested, hardly able to believe her luck.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘I was told earlier today that there was no way he would see me.’
‘Sir David has been known to change his mind,’ the woman said drily. ‘You must have been very persuasive when you met him. Anyway, he’s staying the night in Sheffield and then coming back to London first thing, so this is your only chance for a while. Can you get there?’
‘Yes, fine,’ Laura said. ‘Give me the directions.’ She knew that the trip would take up most of the evening, but as the alternative was to sit at home alone and brood she had no hesitation in devoting the time to work. She left the office at four, hoping to beat the thickening traffic which would soon choke Yorkshire’s major arteries, but soon found herself crawling around the outskirts of Leeds behind a stream of heavy lorries, and becoming anxious about her appointment. But to the south the traffic eased slightly and within an hour she was on country roads beyond Sheffield and heading towards the Peak National Park. The hotel, when she got there just as a misty dusk was closing down the view of the hills that surrounded the city, lay back from the road heading west into the high country, a solid stone mansion surrounded
by parkland and ancient trees where a few bedraggled sheep grazed.
She made herself known at reception and within a few minutes Murgatroyd himself came down the broad staircase, dressed in a dark business suit, with a file of paperwork in his hand. He crossed the reception lounge with long vigorous strides and held out a hand to Laura. His grasp was firm, his touch warm and to her surprise his smile seemed genuine, as it had been when she had accosted him at his academy in Leeds. She found herself reluctantly smiling back.
‘I’m sorry if Winston Sanderson has been obstructive. He oversteps the mark sometimes. He’s very loyal. Too loyal, maybe. He didn’t know that I promised you an interview,’ he said. ‘Winston sometimes misinterprets my intentions. Come and have a drink.’
He led the way into a comfortable lounge bar and ordered her the V and T she requested.
‘Have you got time to stay for dinner?’ he asked as he settled himself in the deep armchair on the opposite side of the table, putting his own Scotch down after a single sip.
‘Not really,’ Laura demurred, hiding her surprise, although the sight of the dining room beyond the bar, with its gleaming glass and silver, was enticing. ‘I have to be at work early tomorrow.’
‘Me too,’ Murgatroyd said. ‘But in London, which is why I couldn’t get back to Sibden House tonight. I have to leave here at crack of dawn. Perhaps I can show you round the old place next time I come up.’
‘I think that would be too late for the feature I’m writing,’ Laura said, still surprised by his friendliness. ‘I have been there, you know. Winston Sanderson invited me in. It’s a
wonderful old house. I’m surprised you don’t live there fulltime.’ But she knew immediately that was a comment too far.
‘It has very mixed memories for me,’ Murgatroyd said, his face darkening. ‘But I really don’t want to talk about my personal life. Ask anything you like about the academy programme. I’ve brought you some brochures about the schools that are up and running. I’m sure Sutton Park is going to be just as successful as the rest are proving to be.’
Laura glanced down at the table and sampled one of the olives the waiter had put down with the drinks.
‘I’ve already done a lot of research on all that,’ she said. ‘The reason I wanted to meet you personally was to talk a bit more widely. I understand you don’t want a lot of intrusive questions about your past, but what about your motivation? What makes a successful man like you want to become involved in education in a quite hands-on way? Is the motivation entirely religious or is it more personal? Do you have children of your own?’
Murgatroyd sipped his Scotch and looked at Laura with an expression which she could not interpret. In spite of his greying hair, he was still a good-looking man, Laura thought, and he evidently kept himself in trim, but it was his eyes which fascinated her. They were deep set and of an unusually dark blue, flecked with gold, and he tended to hold her own with slightly unnerving intensity for a fraction longer than was comfortable. She glanced away, while he appeared to be considering his reply.
‘I came to religion relatively late,’ he said. ‘My family were not churchgoers and I gave God no thought at all while I was at school and at Oxford. In fact, after everything that happened to me as a child, the idea of a loving God was
somewhat alien to me. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I found Jesus, and I have tried to live my life according to His precepts ever since. It seems to me that if you have discovered the truth, you are duty-bound to pass it on if you have the opportunity and, put at its simplest, my wealth gives me that opportunity. I will be very pleased if the children who attend my academies pass their exams and make a success of their lives in secular terms. I will be much more pleased if they come to know Our Lord and are saved.’
‘But this implies that the school will proselytise in a way that the law does not really allow, if you use public money,’ Laura said. ‘And one that will make it very difficult for parents who don’t share your beliefs to send their children to your schools. It means your schools inevitably choose the families they want, rather than the other way round.’
‘Not at all,’ Murgatroyd said. ‘We find families of all religions – and sometimes of none – appreciate the firm discipline and moral teaching that we offer. If they are willing to abide by our rules, they are all welcome.’
‘But if the students themselves find that difficult, you throw them out?’ Laura pressed.
‘If they won’t follow our rules, we will suspend them, yes. Any good school will do that.’
‘So although your schools are supposed to be offering something better for young people who come from deprived backgrounds, if they prove too difficult, they’re kicked out? That’s not really solving their problems, is it?’
‘It’s a pity in many ways that this scheme only deals with older children. What I would really like to do is have them from five, or even from nursery-school age. Then I think we could make an even more significant difference. We would
reach them before the temptations of sex and drugs and violence get anywhere near them.’
‘And if their parents are drug addicts? Or father’s in prison? Or mother’s on the game?’ Laura asked sceptically. ‘Or the parents themselves are little more than children? You know the problems on some of the worst housing estates.’
‘I do, and that’s why I think a boarding school for such children would be good,’ Murgatroyd said. ‘In the long term, that is something I would like to pursue. I’ve been in tentative talks with the Government about that. I see no reason why boarding education should be restricted to families who can pay fees. There are other children who could benefit, from a much younger age.’
‘Give me the child before he’s seven? You almost sound like a Jesuit.’
‘I think that sort of approach has a lot to recommend it.’ The intense eyes were colder now, and it was obvious to Laura that Murgatroyd was beginning to regret his decision to see her. He clearly was not used to being challenged in any way and found her questions irritating.
‘You didn’t say whether you had children of your own or not,’ she said.
An expression flashed across Murgatroyd’s face which she could not interpret.
‘No children,’ he said. ‘I’ve never married.’ Laura wondered if that meant that he observed his own draconian precepts on chastity but she did not have the nerve to ask that question. Murgatroyd’s eyes were fixed on hers again now, still with that slightly unnerving intensity.
‘You haven’t really given me very much for the personal part of my profile of you,’ she said, throwing caution to the
wind. ‘You’ve obviously pursued a very single-minded course in business and, I suspect, in your private life. Do you think that what happened in your own childhood has inspired you – or even driven you – in the direction you’ve taken?’
Murgatroyd picked up his drink and took a gulp, his eyes turning opaque.
‘There are a lot of things which have happened in my life that I wish had never happened,’ he said. ‘But contrary to modern expectations, I don’t find that baring my breast to all and sundry – sharing my pain, as they say – helps me at all. Quite the reverse. I prefer the past to remain firmly where it is, in the past. So I think, Miss Ackroyd, we should call it a day now. When I get back to Yorkshire I would be very happy to show you Sibden House, if you think that will help with your article. I’ll give you a call, if I may.’
Murgatroyd got to his feet and Laura had no choice but to follow suit, feeling oddly that she had been sized up in some way and not necessarily found wanting, in spite of his brusque dismissal. She suspected that very few people were ever invited to Sibden House.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It would help to meet again, if it can be fairly soon.’ On his own home turf, where he had lived with his parents, she was sure that she could tease out some more personal revelations from this deeply reticent man. But for now, they shook hands formally, and Murgatroyd turned back to the stairs, leaving Laura to make her way back to the car. It was a long way to come, she thought, for not very much. She would have to do better next time or Ted Grant would pull the plug on the whole investigation, and that would be a pity.