Dying on Principle Page 6

  I was desperate to prompt him.

  ‘There’s something – look, I don’t know about this at all. Bring your tea through here.’

  Obediently, though he had drowned it in milk and I was hoping quietly to abandon it, I picked up my mug and followed him to Dr Trevelyan’s room.

  ‘It’s this “Access denied” thing, see,’ he said, unlocking the door, and then locking it behind us. ‘Worried me, like I was saying. And now she’s off for the duration, I had to find my way into the stuff – well, it’s my job, Sophie, I need to use the info. Not just being nosy, you’ll understand that.’

  I nodded: he’d need to know all about suppliers for simple day-to-day matters like ordering paper and ink cartridges.

  ‘So I thought I’d giver her files a scan, see if there was anywhere she might have left her passwords, see.’

  I saw.

  He switched on her computer. Her printer gave an engaging little set of pings, quite tuneful. The screen prepared for action.

  ‘I thought, while I was at it, I ought to check her e-mail. Just in case.’

  ‘You knew Dr Trevelyan’s password?’ I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

  ‘You may well ask! Well, to be honest, I watched her type it in once. Same as my bank PIN, as it happens, so I’d be obliged if you’d turn away. Thanks.’

  I looked at the room: bare to the point of anonymity. I’ve seen hotel rooms that were more welcoming. I thought of the posters I’d already stuck up in my new room, and of the plants I was persuading to grow on the windowsill. Dr Trevelyan had been in situ longer than I had, but might never have been there at all. And yet she didn’t strike me as the self-effacing type.

  The tapping at the keyboard stopped.

  ‘OK. Now look at this.’

  I peered over his shoulder. He started to read aloud, not well.

  I can’t go on like this. You know what I feel, but you don’t do anything. May God forgive you.

  I can’t.

  M.

  ‘Best show this to the police,’ I said.

  ‘You OK? Didn’t mean to upset you like this, love. Here, sit yourself down.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘My Aunt Fanny you are! And I think you’re right. It’s a suicide note all right.’

  Was it? If it was, it was the last thing I wanted to see. Maybe I could have helped. I should have tried. The hamster wheel started turning again.

  ‘And you know what?’ Phil continued. ‘I think Dr T did see her doing herself in, and that’s why she was so upset. And you’re right about little Melina – my reading of this is, she was a lezzie, see. A dyke. I wonder if Dr T is? You’re right, Sophie: makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  Wondering silently why he should choose to impute all these conclusions to me, I passed him the phone.

  ‘No, you get on with it,’ he said. ‘You know that policeman, after all. Nice-looking lad, I thought. And of course, the police get good pensions. I’ll have another dig at this password business.’

  And he tapped away again while I rang Chris’s number. No Chris, but a voice I didn’t recognise promised to pass on the message.

  The house was terribly quiet. Normally I find Radio Three or Classic FM as soon as I get in, though I switch over to Radio Four for PM. But the radio had been giving notice for some time, and it chose this afternoon to expire.

  Wanting a voice to keep me company, I checked the answering machine. A little bonus – two messages. One was from Chris, grave and hesitant, thanking me for the news and telling me I should be resting; the other from a buoyant Aberlene, reminding me of the evening meeting and telling me the address: a road in Selly Oak.

  I felt too low to cook a proper meal. In the fridge, there were a couple of tomatoes, a tired lettuce that ought to be eaten, an onion no longer young and some furry cheese. All the ingredients for a miserable sandwich. But it dawned on me, as I sat down and sank my teeth into it, that George would have been furious with me for sitting round lamenting my lot. Something bold, that’s what he’d have demanded. I could hear his voice, urging me off my bum and on to the bus. Because I was going to Selly Oak, that’s why, and the bus would drop me by a big Comet store where I could get myself not just a simple radio, but one of these all-singing, all-dancing affairs. Damn it, I’d been waiting long enough to get a CD player! OK, I’d have to carry a cumbersome ghetto blaster in a huge cardboard box to the meeting, but I could get a taxi back home. And I dived into my bookcase for the relevant Which?

  The trouble started at the checkout. There were a couple of whispers, and the kids behind the counter started to eye me. Then a sleek young man appeared and drew me to one side.

  They were bouncing my Barclaycard.

  ‘I’ve only got about £90 on it,’ I expostulated. Dinner for Chris.

  ‘I’m sorry. Is there any other way you’d wish to pay?’

  I wanted to storm out, but a dramatic exit wouldn’t secure me my radio. Neither, of course, would my cheque-guarantee card – £50 limit. And though there were large signs everywhere promising me interest-free credit, I didn’t think they’d regard my application with particular enthusiasm in view of my Barclaycard problem. So, having established that they’d keep the radio for me till I returned on Saturday, I left quietly, keeping my temper under control.

  I couldn’t vent it at Aberlene’s, either: a couple of other people had already arrived and were sitting at the dining table in her back room. Hers was a big Edwardian house, and every time I walked down her hall I wanted to peel up the floor and take it home. But peeling up Minton tiles isn’t easy, even if she’d let me. Occasionally she tantalised me further by reminding me that her garage floor was even better – it had once been the kitchen.

  I knew the two musicians who sat to my left: Simon and Adrian, a tutti viola and very handsome with it. Simon slipped a sealed envelope across to me – my invitation, formal if belated, to become a trustee. Then came Frank Laker, a middle-aged and nondescript solicitor. He sat almost opposite me. We were three short: two apologies, and the other new trustee was late. We dithered about whether we could start the meeting without him. I buttoned my lip: I wasn’t going to express an opinion about anything until I’d seen the others in action. Aberlene, on my right, raised a quizzical eyebrow at my continued silence; this was a Sophie she didn’t know. Eventually, after what appeared to be a whispered prompt from Adrian, Simon, as chair, decided we should start.

  We were about halfway through the second agenda item when we heard a car door slam, and the front-door chimes started on ‘Colonel Bogey’. Why Aberlene hadn’t got round to changing it I didn’t know; but each time it sounded she would wince apologetically.

  The man who took the empty seat opposite mine, the other new trustee, was none other than the man who’d refused to buy a raffle ticket the previous night. How was it Aberlene had described him? ‘Sharp enough to cut himself’? Well, his suit was sharp, all right. That clean sort of sharp which speaks of very little change from £1,000. The shirt was silk, as of course was the tie, and he emitted faint but tantalising odours which showed just how excessive everyone else’s aftershave was. This, Aberlene told us, was Richard Fairfax.

  We all smiled, and he nodded back, hard-mouthed, as if smiles were irrelevant to a serious meeting. Simon restarted the meeting, and the agenda moved along briskly. Then we started on investments.

  My only flirtation with the stock market was a few Abbey National shares. I didn’t even know where to look up share prices in the business pages, so I thought I had more to learn than to contribute. But I did remember Aberlene saying that the orchestra wanted ethical investments, and here was Richard Fairfax talking about firms everyone knew had connections with the arms trade. When Simon made a gentle protest, Fairfax looked at him coolly. ‘Are we discussing what the orchestra want or what would be best for the orchestra?’

  ‘Even if that goes against the wishes of the orchestra?’ I asked.

  ‘As a committee
, and in particular as trustees, our task is to make money for the society. We have no other brief.’

  Frank, I feared, was about to agree with Fairfax, perhaps out of male solidarity. I caught Simon’s eye, willing him to call for a vote before Frank could succumb. The problem was, I had no idea of the constitution. Did committee members’ votes count as high as the trustees’? Perhaps a vote wasn’t the best manoeuvre after all. I coughed gently. ‘I’m sure some compromise must be available. Perhaps Mr Fairfax’s expertise would enable him to suggest alternative investments with an equally high yield?’

  I must have sounded convincing. Aberlene beamed at me, and Frank sighed with what sounded like relief. Simon seemed about to argue, but Adrian touched his hand lightly and smiled at him. Simon flushed with an embarrassment out of all proportion to any implied rebuke. I looked from one to the other.

  ‘How soon would you want such suggestions?’ asked Fairfax.

  ‘Would a week be too soon?’ Simon asked tentatively.

  Fairfax produced a gold-inlaid fountain pen and a slim diary.

  Simon looked hesitantly round the table. ‘Should we – if it’s convenient – decide on a date for our next meeting? We usually rotate venues, Sophie and … Richard,’ he said, with growing confidence, ‘so no one member gets lumbered with us all the time. And we like to ask members who don’t live too far out to let us use their homes – getting us all out to Redditch or somewhere is a bit of a pain. Sorry, Adrian: Alvechurch is too far.’ He smiled apologeticaly at Adrian. ‘But at least we won’t disturb your cats.’

  Adrian held the smile a moment longer than was socially necessary. No one else seemed to notice. I didn’t want to.

  ‘How about Harborne?’ I asked to end the silence. ‘My place.’

  ‘Next Thursday we’re in Bristol,’ said Aberlene. ‘And then the following one it’s Newcastle. So it looks like—’

  ‘I would say this coming Monday,’ said Fairfax. ‘Unless that too is inconvenient?’ His voice challenged us to object.

  No one did.

  The musicians greeted Aberlene’s offer of coffee with delight, and settled down for what was obviously going to be a long gossip. But my biorhythms, centred on nine-o’-clock classes, had started to object to late nights, and I declined any refreshment. I considered calling a taxi, but the Outer Circle bus stop was only half a mile or so away down a well-lit road. Then there’d be a similar walk at the other end. On a May evening, walking would be a pleasure.

  But when I was only halfway to the bus stop, a red BMW stopped a couple of yards ahead of me. Clearly someone didn’t realise that the red-light district of Balsall Heath was two or three miles further into the city. Instead of leaning across to his passenger door, however, the driver opened his own. He winced so badly as he got out I thought for a moment he was ill and needed help, but he soon straightened and applied a social smile. Richard Fairfax.

  ‘I believe you were heading for Harborne, Ms Rivers. May I offer you a lift?’ He walked round now to the passenger door, and the smile edged closer to his eyes. ‘You can write down my number first if you like. It’s what my daughters did.’

  Laughing, I did just that, and accepted his invitation.

  The price was answering a series of questions which provided him with information about me: it felt more like a preliminary job interview than anything, particularly as he was disinclined to answer any of my questions. I did learn that he had had his family when he was young, and that both daughters were completely independent now; living in the USA. A Mrs Fairfax, if one existed, did not merit a mention. Oh, and he travelled a lot.

  ‘Just got in from Saudi Arabia,’ he said casually. ‘Arrived about eleven yesterday morning. I know I ought to delegate, but I like to make sure the job’s well done. I slept through a lot of that concert, I’m afraid.’

  Could he possibly be making an oblique reference to and apology for his odd behaviour over the raffle tickets? I couldn’t tell.

  From me he extracted a brief CV, which did not excite him. He did ask a couple of questions about George Muntz College, to which I felt it politic to reply with reasonable enthusiasm. And then we established I was to return to William Murdock as soon as our computer project was complete.

  That took us to Harborne Baths. To get us to Balden Road I mentioned the inconvenience of my bouncing Barclaycard. He offered computer error as a possible cause. I agreed.

  His courtesy extended to opening my door from the outside and escorting me to my door. We bowed, like occidental Japanese, and that was that.

  8

  Friday might as well have been in February as May. I don’t think it got properly light all day, and rain sluiced down, soaking me in the couple of hundred yards or so between home and George Muntz. Four uniformed constables looked self-conscious and cold on the steps. Inside, the foyer was now in absolute chaos, with the whine of drills and a couple of radios on competing wavelengths.

  I lounged over to Peggy, who was all too delighted to tell me what was going on. The police were finding out who’d been in the building on Tuesday evening and were interviewing them. Moreover – it was clear where her priorities lay – the deputy chief executive had decreed that only administrative staff were to be admitted to what was to be called the Executive Suite. Or was it Management Suite? That was Hector’s theory. Whatever it was, it was not for the hoi polloi: students and academic staff were equally unwelcome.

  ‘And do you know what he called you lecturers?’ demanded Peggy, wide-eyed. ‘He called you a shower. “The blue-collar shower”, that was what he called you.’

  ‘Was it indeed? I thanked providence – which watches, of course, even sparrows – that I was soon to return to the Spartan but familiar William Murdock. But not as quickly as the new inhabitant of my room apparently believed.

  All my belongings now sat in a heap on my chair. He had logged into my computer and was tapping determinedly away. He was so busy that he didn’t notice when I came up behind him. Little bursts of asterisks, eh? And repeated ‘Access denied’ messages on the screen.

  ‘Hunting for my password, are you? Try “piss off”,’ I said.

  And he did!

  ‘Never heard of irony?’ I asked, reaching across and switching off. ‘What are you after, sunshine?’

  ‘Don’t sunshine me!’ He struggled to his feet, all six foot plus and beer belly of him.

  ‘What else should I call you? I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I presume you know who I am, since my name is on the door, but I sure as hell don’t know you. And –’ I took the ashtray and ostentatiously put it outside the door – ‘I’m not at all sure I want to.’

  I removed my gear from my seat and sat down, arms folded and one trousered leg aggressively crossing the other.

  It struck me at this point that I wasn’t on very good ground. I was a mere visitor here, and could easily be thought to have violated the code of polite behaviour. Perhaps Sunshine thought so too. Getting truculently to his feet, he leaned over me with a particularly thick forefinger inches from my nose. It was too close for me to focus on, but I could smell the nicotine.

  There was a tap on the door, and in, uninvited, walked Ian Dale. However casually he might try to dress, everything about him announced that he was a policeman. I’d have loved him to rock backwards and forwards on those large, wide feet and say ‘Hello-ello-ello, what ’ave we here?’ But he didn’t need to.

  ‘I was wondering if I might have a word, Ms Rivers,’ he said. ‘In private,’ he added, holding the door ostentatiously for Sunshine to pass through. ‘Hmph. Still, I suppose you can’t expect more than a grunt from a pig,’ he said reflectively. ‘In a spot of bother, were you, Sophie, love?’ he said closing the door firmly behind him, and pushing in the snib for good measure. ‘Overreached yourself a bit? Like a chihuahua taking on a bloody great pit-bull. You ought to watch yourself, Sophie. One of these days it’ll be you we find in a skip.’ His smile was affectionate.

  �
��Take a pew, Ian. And tell me what I can do for you.’

  ‘You can tell me what you think of that suicide note. Tell me, would a kid about to kill herself really use a computer to tell the world?’

  ‘To me it smells. But these computer wizards do take them remarkably seriously. There are all sorts of computer noticeboards, people communicating with other users and forming relationships with people they’ve never seen. The information super-highway, that sort of thing.’ And then I looked hard at him. ‘Come on, Ian, I bet you’ve got a lot more information than I have. All those uniform people crawling around looking for forensic evidence. All those statements. I’m looking to you to update me.’

  Or Chris: where was Chris if Ian was here?

  Ian smiled. ‘Let’s start with that Trevelyan lady. Doped up to the eyeballs she is, but the medics say they’ll reduce her medication as quickly as they safely can. Then we can maybe get a bit of sense out of her.’

  ‘She must really have seen Melina fall, you know.’

  ‘I wonder which window she was looking out of,’ said Ian, idly getting up and looking out of mine.

  ‘Surely your forensic people could tell you that? The angle she landed would tell them that.’

  Ian narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because – you’re taking the mickey, Ian! You and Chris know all this. Why—’

  ‘Actually the pathologist reckons the injuries are more consistent with her landing on something flat than on that skip.’

  ‘Like paving stones? Jesus, you mean someone moved her? Was she still alive when they – when they …’

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said flatly. ‘Pathologist will have some ideas, no doubt. But Chris would like to find some evidence. That’s why—’ He shut up abruptly.

  ‘Ian,’ I said amicably enough, ‘I have this terrible feeling that you’ve been sent here to baby-sit me. Chris doesn’t want me to leave my room for a bit, right? What’s going on outside?’

  Ian blushed.

  ‘Are they out there now, looking for bits of her skin and bone?’ I said, brutal for my sake, not his. ‘And Chris didn’t think I ought to have my sensibilities disturbed? Well, tell him something from me – he was bloody right!’