Dying on Principle

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Judith Cutler

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Judith Cutler

  The Lina Townend Series

  DRAWING THE LINE

  SILVER GUILT *

  RING OF GUILT *

  GUILTY PLEASURES *

  GUILT TRIP *

  GUILT EDGED *

  The Frances Harman Series

  LIFE SENTENCE

  COLD PURSUIT

  STILL WATERS

  BURYING THE PAST *

  DOUBLE FAULT *

  The Jodie Welsh Series

  DEATH IN ELYSIUM *

  The Sophie Rivers Series

  DYING FALL

  DYING TO WRITE

  DYING ON PRINCIPLE

  DYING FOR MILLIONS

  The Katie Powers Series

  POWER GAMES

  WILL POWER

  HIDDEN POWER

  * available from Severn House

  DYING ON PRINCIPLE

  Judith Cutler

  For Jonathan

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which is was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicably copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This title first published in Great Britain in 1996

  by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd

  5 Windmill Street

  London W1

  This eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 1996 by Judith Cutler.

  The right of Judith Cutler to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0143-0 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following: David Williams and Nic Landmark for their invaluable help with the electronics; Dr Peter Acland for telling me the effects of the electronics; Geoff Snelling for information about George Muntz; Paul Mackney of NATFHE for help and advice; Edwina Van Boolen and David Stephenson for their constant encouragement; West Midlands Police for their time and expertise; the Further Education Funding Council’s Reports of Enquiries into the Governance and Management of St Philip’s Roman Catholic Sixth Form College (Sir John Caines) and the Governance and Management of Derby College, Wilmorton (Michael Shattock).

  1

  If you’re going to steal a car, it really would be more sensible to pick one that hasn’t been carefully protected by its owner. Not that the kid inside the Montego estate could have guessed that it belonged to a double-bass player who played with electronics in his spare time.

  It was Sunday evening, and we were drinking in the Duke of Clarence after a Midshires Symphony Orchestra concert. The Duke is one of Birmingham’s smallest pubs, and, despite the ornate jukebox that sits near my usual table, Luigi, the landlord, has a violent allergy to canned music. And a flexible attitude to drinking hours. This suits the musicians – who can’t start drinking until after their concerts finish at ten – down to the ground. I sing with the choir they work with, so the place suits me too. A number of choir members had come in that night after a not very exciting performance of a not very exciting work – Elgar’s The Music Makers – including a quiet black woman whose name I didn’t know. She was fairly new to the ranks, and since no one else seemed to be making any effort to talk to her, I resolved to have a word when I’d pushed my way over to the bar.

  I caught Luigi’s eye. But then he looked over my head and smiled in the way he reserves for his most special clients. I glanced back and saw the other drinkers were making way for someone like courtiers for a queen. As well they might. This was Aberlene van der Poele, all five foot eleven of her. Tonight the way she had sculpted her hair made her look like a black Nefertiti. And they didn’t make space simply because she was the MSO’s leader, but because they liked and respected her – even the heavy brass, some of whose ideas were antediluvian in their sexism.

  I flapped a hand. ‘What’ll you have, Aberlene? Some of Luigi’s Lambrusco?’

  And then this appalling electronic screaming cut across the babble.

  Simon peeled himself from the silent jukebox. Upright, he was probably six foot three and had the broad shoulders you’d associate with a fast bowler.

  ‘They’re playing my tune,’ he said, pushing his way out.

  We all poured out after him, peering into the ill-lit street.

  There was Simon’s Montego, its headlights flashing SOS in Morse code. An electronic message pulsed across the screen: ‘Stolen car. Stolen car.’

  From somewhere came another dreadful scream. And then there was a moment’s merciful silence. Only a moment’s. Into the silence spoke an electronic voice: ‘This car has been stolen. Please call the police. This car has been stolen. Please call the police.’

  The car was shaking. At least this was as a result of human activity. A youth inside was desperately trying to open the door.

  If he succeeded, he’d fall straight into the arms of Simon and a couple of other bass players. From the approaching baying, it sounded as if Luigi was bringing Jasper to join in the fun. If I’d been the kid, I’d have wanted to lock myself in.

  At this point the law arrived in the form of two young men in a Panda. Simultaneously the car returned to normality. The lights stopped. The noise stopped. And the door released the kid into the officers’ arms.

  ‘All very coincidental,’ I muttered.

  Simon patted a rectangular shape in his pocket, grinned, and turned to the two men.

  And then the kid broke free.

  Simon and I were the ones who caught him first. Simon brought him down in a rugby tackle. The only way I could think of helping – being five foot one is not ideal in these circumstances – was to sit on him. Something wet on my neck told me that Jasper was keen to assist, and when the boy struggled and swore, Jasper offered up some truly Baskervillian howls. His rear end was probably going nineteen to the dozen.

  And at this point I was dragged to my feet and hur
led against a car.

  ‘You’ll be on an assault charge if you’re not careful, young lady!’

  Winded, I nonetheless scrabbled for my dignity. And when I saw Simon in an armlock, I found it. ‘Officer, please deal with the boy and leave Mr Webster alone. If there are any problems with his behaviour or mine, they can be dealt with later.’

  There was a little ripple of applause from our audience of musicians.

  The two PCs scowled. But they found a scapegoat: Jasper was discovered to be a dangerous dog, and Luigi warned to control him or else. I thought Luigi would have an apoplexy on the spot.

  ‘I reckon we all need a drink, Luigi,’ I said quietly.

  Luigi nodded. ‘Come on, Jasper – beer!’

  Encouraged by a sharp spatter of May rain, we trailed back into the bar. If Simon could deal with the attempted theft in a low-key way, it would be better. And he knew where to find support if he couldn’t.

  For a few minutes the conversation predictably circled round the theme of car-thefts-I-have-known, and what ought to be done to the young offenders responsible. Most people were liberal when it came to theft in general, attributing it to everything the Guardian would approve, but rather less so when it came to their particular incident. Indeed, the mildest of the viola players was audibly lamenting the passing of a far-flung empire to which miscreants could be shipped, at least those who had removed his cherished Volvo from his garage. As it happened, it was the car he’d been trying to sell to me, so I saw it as an act of a God with a more sporty taste in cars.

  I bought a bottle of Lambrusco, sparkling with grapes from Luigi’s family’s vineyard, and waved to Aberlene. She joined me, and poured.

  ‘Who are you looking for, Sophie?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s this new kid in the choir,’ I said, ‘a black girl, and I thought—’

  ‘Stop, Sophie. Stop before you say any more. You thought because she is black and I am black we might have something in common. Well, we might, but not because of that.’

  I blushed. I couldn’t embarrass us both further by saying that Aberlene is such a remarkable woman I tend to see her as a role model to all women, not just black ones. She is, after all, the leader of one of the best of the provincial orchestras – we in Birmingham are quite sure it is in fact the best – and has been approached by a couple of agents to take up a career as a soloist.

  ‘No matter.’ She touched my hand lightly and smiled. ‘There are worse things to worry about.’

  ‘Such as?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s talk of Rollinson resigning,’ she said abruptly.

  Peter Rollinson is the Midshires Symphony Orchestra’s principal conductor and its hero. He’s young, he’s exciting, he’s loyal to the orchestra, and he’s been tipped by those in the know to be knighted in the next New Year’s Honours List.

  ‘You’re joking!’ I said.

  ‘They’ve cut the funding,’ she said. ‘But perhaps – it’s still confidential, really.’

  I poured her another glass. ‘Silent as the grave, you know me,’ I prompted.

  ‘It’ll hit the headlines soon enough anyway, I suppose. But all this mess about saving all the London orchestras means they’ve cut the money to the provincial ones like us. Means reducing the number of players – ending the doubling-up of woodwind, and so on. Means we wouldn’t be able to take on extras for pieces demanding more than the standard number of players and instruments.’

  ‘You mean, no Rite of Spring, just endless eighteeenth- and nineteenth-century repertoire?’ And the orchestra had a name for being innovative and ambitious. I sucked my teeth sympathetically and topped up her glass.

  ‘He says he’ll resign rather than let standards drop,’ she said. ‘And that’s not all. They say they’ll have to freeze the instrument fund.’

  ‘Instrument fund?’ This was a new one to me.

  ‘Good instruments make a better sound. Many of the kids coming through music school now have huge loans around their necks and though they need professional standard instruments they can’t afford them. So the orchestra buys them for them—’

  ‘To keep?’

  ‘Not quite. But as long as they’re members of the orchestra.’ She rapped her glass down but gestured away my offer of a refill. ‘Still, enough of our troubles. How are you?’

  I poured the wine into my glass and watched the bubbles fizz up. ‘I’ve started a new college, on secondment. George Muntz, just down the road from me. And,’ I added, ‘I think, for once, I may have fallen on my feet.’

  And then it was Monday, and college.

  If you live near your work, you can do all sorts of extravagant things like reading the paper with your breakfast, and pegging out a line of washing. You can stroll out at eight forty and still arrive well before the official starting time of nine.

  I stood at my front gate relishing the scene. The trees lining Balden Road were green enough to send poets into a flurry of synonym hunting, and the grass verges needed the attention of municipal mowers. One or two prouder householders, those who’d planted daffodils round public trees, had trimmed the grass outside their houses twice already. In the bright morning sun, everything looked good.

  ‘Morning, Sophie.’

  I turned. Aggie, my next-door neighbour, had already been to the shops and was returning with her Mirror. An early walk was her recipe for keeping fit. She was well into her seventies; her family had been in her house ever since it had been built, and she and her husband had simply stayed on when her parents died. Now she too was a widow, but with an active and attentive family of children and grandchildren.

  ‘Hope you haven’t left your washing out,’ she said. ‘Too bright too early, if you ask me.’

  Like her, I scanned the sky. She was right, of course. Clouds were already bubbling up to the west. If I admitted to having a line of towels, she’d send me back to get them in. She might even do it herself – she kept my spare key. But I was always concerned at the amount she did for me without letting me be helpful back. I kept mum. I’d just have to hope that whatever got wet would eventually get dry. I set off down Balden Road.

  Muntz College was a low-rise building originally intended as a teacher-training college. But now teacher training is done by universities – and who’d want to train as a teacher these days anyway? The building, considerably more couth than your average educational cheapo, had been acquired by the local education authority. Of course, I missed my William Murdock colleagues, and to be honest I missed the students as well. The William Murdock authorities had not been entirely sorry to see the back of me, however. I’d been involved in a couple of unsavoury incidents which had brought unwelcome publicity to the college, and though he was the first to admit that my activities had been praiseworthy rather than otherwise, the marketing manager winced visibly whenever he saw me.

  Muntz College is next to what is now called the Martineau Centre. This is a wonderful meeting place for teachers, with excellent facilities, including a swimming bath. Needless to say, it wasn’t built with the intention of making teachers’ lives easier. It was what used to be called an approved school, then a community school. In other words, it housed persistent young offenders in the days when short, sharp shocks were fashionable. But another penal policy had made the school redundant, and since the previous teachers’ centre had been on a particularly prime site near the city centre, it was natural that teachers would find themselves relocated out in Harborne.

  There was obviously a conference on there this morning: the car park was full of cars with alien parking stickers from many of Birmingham’s main colleges – Cadbury, Josiah Mason, Matthew Boulton. I would spend occasional moments wondering how Birmingham would have named its establishments had it not had so many worthy sons and adoptive sons. Pity history hadn’t found more daughters to commemorate.

  My path then took me into George Muntz’s car park, agreeably laid out with flower beds between the parking lots. Horace, despite the arthritis which had stif
fened him into a permanent question mark, was polishing the bevelled glass of the heavy front doors. He’d obviously just finished the brass finger plates, but spared me the embarrassment of having to dab my hands on them by opening the door with a flourish. He held the handle with his polishing cloth. George Muntz would look good if it killed him.

  The foyer was somewhat spoiled by the regulation dust-catching carpets, but beyond them was polished parquet and the receptionist’s desk. Peggy was just watering her greenery arrangement, which responded to her sensitive snipping and feeding by growing in carefully graduated heights. She smiled at me. Hector, the security guard, dusted a speck from his immaculate blazer and also smiled at me.

  It was at this point the day started to sour.

  Peggy abandoned her little brass watering can and burrowed under her desk. ‘Sophie,’ she said, ‘I know I can rely on you. Would you care to buy a raffle ticket for Oxfam? Thanks! Just put your name and address on the counterfoils. And you, Hector: don’t think you can get away from me this week.’

  Hector fished in his blazer for his wallet. ‘Where will the money go, Peggy?’

  ‘Wherever it’s needed, I should think.’ She tore off my tickets and handed them over.

  ‘’Cause I’d like mine to go to Africa. My cousin, he lives in Sierra Leone. The groin of Africa, he calls it. Sorry, Peggy,’ he interrupted himself, presumably out of respect for her forty-year-old’s feminine sensibilities. ‘The poorest country in the world,’ he amended, flourishing a fiver.

  ‘I can’t guarantee it’ll go there,’ said Peggy, eyeing the money with innocent avarice.

  ‘Well, so long as it don’t go to buy no arms,’ he said, writing his name on the counterfoils and tearing off his tickets. ‘What about you, sir?’ he added, straightening as a handsome man in his thirties appeared, blue-eyed, blond and extremely sleek. ‘Will you buy some tickets to help those starving kids?’

  ‘Mr Curtis, the bursar,’ whispered Peggy to me.

  Mr Curtis slipped his car keys into his pocket and turned ostentatiously away.

  ‘Raffle ticket to help Oxfam, Mr Curtis?’ pursued Peggy. ‘Only fifty pee.’