Dying on Principle Page 19

  I turned to Chris. He was busy logging the time in his notebook. Then, like me, he used his eyes. I followed them around the room. Packs of software on shelves. A phone. A waste-paper basket. A couple of boxes of laser-quality paper. The desk itself was bare – Phil or someone must have tidied Dr Trevelyan’s desk for her. No one had been in her room – officially – since her hospitalisation. So why should Mr Blake have chosen to use it? He’d certainly made himself at home. His suit was hung neatly over the back of the chair, his folded shirt partly covering white cotton vest and pants. I could see the Marks and Spencer label in the vest.

  Chris noticed me at last. He smiled, almost apologetically.

  ‘All right, I’ll go quietly,’ I said. ‘But first, tell me – what can you smell?’

  ‘Smell? Of course it stinks in here: the man’s bodily functions packed up when he died.’

  ‘And? Anything else?’

  He shook his head. ‘Only your perfume. Different from usual. Sweeter. Very nice, actually.’

  ‘Time I went away, then. So you can smell what I can smell.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Not sure, but – No, I don’t know.’

  He nodded doubtfully. ‘Anything unusual will be mentioned in the pathologist’s report.’ He started to look round the room again.

  ‘Is there anything useful I can do, like tell Hector not to let anyone out of the building?’

  ‘Are you having me on?’

  ‘Not entirely. Thought you might want him to collect IDs or something before they leave, just so as you know who’s in the building.’

  ‘Who was in the building last night – that’s more to the point. He’s cold, Sophie. And in any case, I don’t want you wandering round this place on your own. Stay with me till Ian and co. arrive. They shouldn’t be long. And while we wait, for God’s sake try and work out why someone should want you out of the building by the time Blake’s body’s found.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘All that graffiti about you, all that harassment. Don’t you see that it all ties up? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Someone thinks you know something. And I’m beginning to think you ought, just for once, to be sensible.’

  ‘The students have their exams in less than a month. They were messed about having me wished on them for their last term. I can’t mess them about any more.’

  ‘Arguing again, are you?’ Ian asked, making me jump. ‘Team’s on its way, Gaffer. Anything I can do?’

  ‘I think you’re supposed to mind me,’ I said tartly, ‘until you can find someone more lowly to do it. But I’d have thought you could be doing something more useful.’

  ‘Can tell she’s a teacher, can’t you?’ Ian said.

  ‘Look, you’ll be in the way here,’ said Chris. ‘But I can’t let you roam round waiting for someone to do to you what they did to Melina.’

  ‘Or what they did to this guy? Don’t you think he’s been done in too?’

  ‘Let’s see what our expert has to say.’ Chris smiled at a figure out of my vision. The police surgeon was a young and very attractive woman. ‘Dr Patel may conclude it’s a natural death.’

  ‘Must have been a pretty exciting video game,’ Ian said. ‘What you going to do, Gaffer?’

  ‘Just preserve the scene until we’ve got something else to go on. Can’t waste good taxpayers’ money.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, Sophie, I reckon there’s something fishy. You know I do. But we live in the real world. We need evidence. OK, Dr Patel?’ Chris smiled and gestured. ‘He’s all yours.’

  They summoned a youngish PC to escort me to my office.

  ‘Funny thing, Ms Rivers,’ he said, pausing on the stairs, ‘but this place is so quiet. At the place where I taught there were always students on the move, whatever time of day it was. This place is like a ghost college.’

  ‘Study leave, I suppose. Where did you teach?’

  He opened the door to my office for me, checked there were no unwelcome visitors, and smiled. But before he could reply, his radio crackled and he sped off.

  He was right, of course. Compared to the noisy chaos of William Murdock, for instance, the corridors were unnaturally quiet. They always were. I was never jostled on my way to classes, never jammed into a corner of a lift. There was always space.

  I sat down at my desk. I didn’t want to think about Blake anyway, and perhaps someone at William Murdock would be able to help me. I might as well start at the top. I reached for the phone and dialled.

  I didn’t recognise the voice on the switchboard but whoever it belonged to put me straight through to Mr Worrall.

  ‘Sophie! What a pleasure!’ I couldn’t help feeling that he was over-enthusiastic. ‘Perhaps you could explain why every time I’ve tried to speak to my colleagues at George Muntz this morning they’ve reacted as if I’ve been speaking Chinese?’

  ‘I believe –’ how much could I tell him? – ‘that Mr Blake is, er, indisposed.’

  ‘Indisposed! He spends enough time looking after himself – squash, badminton, golf. Very fine player, as a matter of fact. Perhaps,’ he added with commendable waspishness, ‘George Muntz takes less of his energy than William Murdock does of mine. Now, Sophie, how may I help you?’

  Even as I opened my mouth to reply, I remembered those hidden ears. Someone thought I knew something. Would an innocent question confirm their suspicions?

  ‘I wanted to ask about that new contract,’ I lied, blithely. ‘A lot of people here seem to have signed and I wondered what the advantages were.’ Perhaps I could drag the conversation round to student numbers.

  ‘To the employer there is every advantage. You give up your holidays for a maximum of thirty-five days to be taken when I tell you. And you work a minimum of thirty-seven hours a week.’

  I couldn’t suppress a whistle. I hoped it hurt someone’s ears.

  ‘Seems a drastic change. Why on earth should people want to?’

  ‘The employer usually offers a little financial sweetener to those who accept. And denies an annual pay award to those who don’t. And, of course, it is to the benefit of the college. If you can persuade everyone to work longer hours, it means fewer staff, and thus a better staff-student ratio.’

  ‘Better!’

  ‘From the point of view of our new masters, it’s better. We’re being funded on the basis of an 8 per cent growth in our numbers. If we don’t reach our target numbers, our funds will no longer match our outgoings, most of which, of course, are on staff salaries. Quod erat demonstrandum.’

  ‘What happens if a college doesn’t have enough students?’ This was what I wanted to know.

  ‘It has to find them pretty damn quick.’

  ‘How could it do that? Press gangs apart, that is?’ I had a nasty feeling I might have gone too far.

  ‘That would be up to the college,’ he said repressively. Of course he’d be circumspect: he was in charge of a rival institution. ‘But any college failing to recruit would go to the wall, Sophie.’

  Would it, indeed?

  ‘You must excuse me: I have a governors’ meeting in two minutes. I take it you’ll be winging your way to my office to sign on the dotted line?’ And then he added, as if for the benefit of those suspicious ears; ‘And next time we speak, perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me why you really phoned.’

  Because I want to come home! I thought. Because I hate this place where when I want a cup of coffee all I have is the memo forbidding it. Perhaps orange juice out of a cardboard packet would help, but I was shaking so much I couldn’t fit the straw into the little hole. I started to laugh.

  By the time I’d wrenched free the under-desk bug and dug out the one Chris had planted, and hurled them both from the window, I found I wasn’t laughing but trying not to weep. I might have been laughing again when I let Chris into the room and pointed at the open window.

  ‘At least it’ll have given someone earache,’ I said, trying to smile. />
  How I came to be sitting down with his arm round me and his damned smelling salts making my eyes pour with tears, I’m not sure. But for the moment I wasn’t moving. What I wanted more than anything in the world was warm, human comfort. I put my head against his neck and shoulder. The smell was warm and clean, a man very much alive. I could feel the pulse speeding in his neck. I would have to move my head only an inch or so to kiss him. If I kissed him, it would be for the wrong reason; if I had sex with him, it would be for the wrong reason. But just at that moment that was the only thing I wanted to do.

  I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Occasionally his fingers would stroke my hair, and he would move his head to touch kisses on to my neck. And then I knew that he wanted me at least as much as I wanted him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘But Blake—’

  ‘They can manage without me for a bit. Everyone knows what they’ve got to do. You’re not staying here any longer.’ He tried to make his voice authoritative, but his eyes betrayed him.

  Even as he tucked me into his car and I looked at the fine hairs on his hands, I had to stop myself touching him. I had to stop myself pulling his face down to mine so I could kiss him. It would be a dreadful mistake. I couldn’t be his woman. There was nothing logical about the way I felt – in many ways we’d have made a most suitable partnership. But not now.

  His conscience got back into gear as soon as he let us into his house. ‘I’d better let them know where I am,’ he said, as if surprised to find himself there.

  I went into the kitchen to wake up his percolator, and dug out the whiskey. Jameson’s was a habit he’d caught from me. A tot each, that should help. I held my glass in my hands as if it would warm them as much as it warmed my stomach. Chris came in and took his glass without comment.

  ‘I said I’d got a migraine coming on, and had had to come back here to take some medication.’

  He was so pale it could have been true.

  The sitting-room phone rang. He strode off to answer it. I finished my whiskey, considered another glass, but decided against it. The coffee was ready, so I poured myself a mug; Chris regarded sugar as something entirely alien to tea and coffee, so there was none in the basin, and I had to ferret in his store cupboard to find a packet. The milk was virtually fat-free, of course. Right then I’d have loved the comforting richness of cream.

  When he came back, I poured his coffee and pushed the sugar at him. He winced.

  ‘I’ll have to get back – shit!’

  His radio this time. Automatically he turned from me to talk. I took bread and low-fat spread from the fridge, and looked for something to make into sandwiches. Plenty in the salad drawer, of course. And what I was sure would be low-fat cheese.

  He slumped at the table and stared at the whiskey.

  ‘Medicinal,’ I said. ‘Here. And you need to eat.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Chris, you’re much more used to it than I, but I bet you don’t like finding corpses either. What’s the surgeon think it was, anyway? Heart attack?’

  ‘Almost certainly. But she said she couldn’t be sure until after the autopsy – something inconsistent, she said. Didn’t understand her jargon, I’m afraid. Wonder what was on the computer to give him the heart attack.’

  ‘Cybersex?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He didn’t know whether to laugh or look shocked.

  ‘Well, there’s cyberspace and—’

  ‘But cybersex? Where d’you get the sex from?’

  ‘The smell of semen.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘That’s what I could smell – I’m sure it was! I’ll bet the old stoat was watching Internet porn. There’s a brisk exchange of it these days. And of course he’d be safe in Dr Trevelyan’s room. Might have given him an extra little frisson, wanking himself off thinking she’s safe in the loony bin.’

  ‘You do have the most elegant turn of phrase,’ he said. ‘I’ll get them to check the computer, anyway.’

  ‘Tell you what, Chris: get them to get a real expert to take it apart. Don’t let anyone just switch it on and try and get into his program.’

  ‘Why on earth—?’

  ‘In case someone’s loaded a program that deletes everything it doesn’t want intruders to see. Can happen. Honest, Gaffer. Please.’

  He raised a cynical eyebrow, but spoke into his radio. And wouldn’t, interestingly enough, accept any protests.

  I looked at his clock, a handsome Victorian specimen I’d often thought would look better in my kitchen than in his. ‘I’ve got my GCSE class in half an hour. An exam class.’

  He didn’t protest. Just reached for his sandwich and picked it up as if to eat it while he drove. Then he caught my eye and took a bite. His mouth so full it was hard for me to hear, he said; ‘But you’re moving in here until you can find somewhere else to stay – right?’

  ‘All right,’ I said. And ate the last of the cheese.

  Some malign fate must have had it in for my GCSE students. Having shed my ministering PC at the door, I’d done no more than take the register, calm and normal as if I were used to having my (erroneous) preference for oral sex plastered in front of anyone wanting a pee. The students themselves looked ill at ease, as if I might be about to interrogate them. Or as if they were ashamed that someone could have been so vicious, even to one of the enemy.

  The fire alarm rang.

  I think they were actually as irritated as I was when they realised they were to lose their class. They left their belongings, as requested, and trooped out in front of me. We processed down the main stairs and joined the throng in the car park. And not such a large throng either. Perhaps there were others elsewhere. I registered the group again to make sure none was trapped in a potential inferno, and wondered how I could manage to go walkabout. The arrival of the fire appliances, two ordinary ones and a Simon Snorkel, provided a diversion. I set off purposefully, as if wanting to speak to someone in an adjoining group. Then I went to the next, and the next. Finally I dodged behind the main buildings, into the areas of kitchen bins and other tat.

  God knows what I thought I was looking for. A fire, maybe. No joy on that front, anyway. Not so much as a smouldering rag.

  I worked my way round. Over to my right lay the yard where Melina had landed. Another skip waited there.

  By now I was by the computer suite, and another couple of yards would take me level with Dr Trevelyan’s room. I looked at the window. The blinds were still down, either out of respect or to conceal the activities of the police. There was police plastic tape festooned everywhere, and when I stared too long a WPC moved purposefully towards me. But I’d had time to see that all the flowerbeds were equally flat.

  Back to the path. Chris had better know. Fast.

  My quickest route was past the skip, the last thing I wanted to be anywhere near. I told myself I didn’t have to look, that I wouldn’t find anything if I did, that surely to God there’d be no more bodies. So I looked. And – if only my GCSE students had been there so I could have explained the meaning of ‘bathos’ – there was nothing there except a load of old wire and some electrical bits and pieces: valves, cable, the innards of what might have been a video. Simon would have had a field day. In fact, I might just phone him, to tell him what riches some Philistine was about to dispose of.

  I strolled casually back to the car park and my group.

  Everyone was restless by now. Usually there’d have been an announcement, probably that it was a false alarm, and that we were to return. Certainly there was no flurry with hoses, though the fire fighters were still standing by their appliances. There was a zooful of pandas by the main entrance, and a couple of patrol cars, their drivers sharing a quick fag with Hector. I detached them – Hector tried very obviously not to overhear – and explained what I’d seen. The younger had to stop himself saluting me, and scuttled off.

  My class and I were just trying to arrange an ad hoc class a
t a time to suit us all when at last Curtis appeared with a loud-hailer. Acting Principal Curtis, with, no doubt, an emolument suited to such a position, probably with effect from the moment the poor guy died. I would judge his speech accordingly.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have had a report that a bomb has been planted in the building. The police are taking it seriously. You are asked to remain where you are. More announcements will be made in due course.’

  It did not score highly.

  So, there we were, in the fitful sun of a May afternoon, with absolutely nothing to do. It was then I had my good idea. With permission from Curtis – no, he didn’t remember my name – and from a harassed WPC, I gathered together my group, herded them across the road, and spent the rest of the afternoon helping them revise in the privacy of my back garden. They had to drink their tea and coffee in relays because I didn’t have enough mugs, and they finished my biscuits, but altogether it was the most positive, if not ultimately successful, teaching session I’d had at George Muntz.

  And the good thing was, it took my mind almost entirely off the problem of sex with Chris.

  23

  When the students left, the house was very quiet. There were a couple of messages on my answering machine, so I broke the silence by playing them. Nothing obscene this time. Aberlene reminding me about fixing up supper with her and Tobias; Richard Fairfax trusting that I had suffered no ill effects after my weekend jaunt and hoping I might join him for a drink on Tuesday evening. Nothing to inflame the listeners’ ears. Suddenly I felt very cold; I shut and locked the patio doors. By now those listeners would know I’d discovered the bugs at work. Chris’s colleagues would already be planning their next move; I had a nasty suspicion that A. N. Other would also be busy.

  When Chris phoned, I was at the dining table working away with pencil and pad.

  ‘I’ll pick you up soon,’ he said.

  Nothing more. Well, not a lot of point, really.