I would try to contact Karen first thing the following morning, Thursday. That meant an A-Level English class from nine to twelve-fifteen – one of the high points of my week since the students, mostly women, were mature and actually wanted to learn. I didn’t like being even a few minutes late for them, since several had organised immensely complicated child-care back-up to ensure they were on time. What I had to do, then, was get in bright and early, find where Karen was supposed to be for her first class, and leave a message with whoever was teaching her saying that I’d like to see her at break. That meant, of course, getting access to her file. Staff room, fifteenth floor; classroom, tenth floor; office where the files were kept, eighth floor. No problem.
Provided there were lifts.
At least getting in at the crack of dawn meant I got through the traffic easily and found an accessible parking slot: a distinct plus. But an ominous minus: I was parked alongside not one, but two, lift company cars. The engineers took pity on me and let me go up with them in the last functioning lift as far as the tenth; and then that too stopped.
Eight o’clock. I could sail through my preparation and still have plenty of time to sort out Karen. There was no point in trying to get access to her file until eight-forty at the very earliest. Administrators were the unsung heroes of William Murdoch, now the Further Education Funding Council Paper Chase was on, but they worked in general normal office hours, not the ad hoc ones visited on the teaching staff.
Nor was there any point in trying to raise Griff for the latest news on Andy: he’d made it clear that he would contact me as soon as he heard anything. I could scarcely ring Ian, in case it flushed out Stephenson. All I could tell myself as consolation was that if Andy wanted me, he knew where to find me. He’d even talked his way through college security on one famous occasion, when he had little more than an hour between flights and wanted to give me a fresh pineapple he’d acquired; I never did tell him it shot from being hard as the devil’s head to soggy and rotting with no intervening state of just-rightness. I’d have given a lot to have him appear right now bearing a rotten pear.??? apple. A very great deal.
If I’d been hoping for some sort of communication from Karen, to save me the pleasures of all those stairs, I was disappointed. There was the usual mess on my desk one of these days I would have to set aside an afternoon to uncover the wood that lurked under all that paper.
Right: preparation. Dubliners. Entrapment.
The telephone. Andy?
No. Nor Griff, nor Ian. A woman’s voice I vaguely recognised but found hard to place.
‘It’s Julyarris.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s Julyarris! Karenarris’s mum.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I prompted her. Then it dawned. Mrs Harris. Karen’s mother.
‘I should think you are! If it hadn’t been for you putting ideas into her head, none of this would have happened.’
Despite myself, my pulse speeded and I felt sick. What had I said? What had I done? Nothing! All I’d ever done for Karen was introduce her to Andy and then have them photographed together – in the company of her mother, moreover. Not guilty.
I put my voice into cool, professional mode. ‘Let’s start again, Mrs Harris. Firstly, what has happened?’
‘She never came home last night. Been mooning around ever since Saturday, she has.’
‘Mooning around?’
‘You know – all weepy and dreamy. And then she phoned and said she was going to find him.’
‘Him?’
‘That cousin of yours. I mean, he’s a nice enough lad—’
‘She phoned you? When?’
‘Last night. She was crying, couldn’t stop crying – and she said she’d phoned you and you’d been ever so unkind.’
I hoped she didn’t hear my indignant sigh. Unkind? All I’d done was tell her the simple truth.
‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself! A young girl looking to you for help and you turn your back on her.’
‘What sort of help did she want?’
But the woman was sobbing.
Hell. A teenage girl not returning home: everyone’s nightmare scenario. My head was already racing with strategies to find Karen. For one thing, I couldn’t imagine the press letting slip an opportunity to bash an uncaring teacher. Poor Richard. All he wanted was a quiet life for a couple of months. And I’d forgotten I ought to talk to him about Naheeda …
‘Mrs Harris? Mrs Harris, have you told the police yet? Because—’
‘Police! They’re a lot of use!’
‘I think they just might be in a situation like this. Just stay where you are – I’ll get a friend of mine in the force to phone you at once.’
Ian, solid to the point of being impregnable – he’d be ideal. I had both his home and his work number. Choosing the latter I tapped so fast I mis-dialled and had to start again.
When at last I got through I explained as tersely as I could what Mrs Harris had said. ‘I know you’re nothing to do with missing persons,’ I added, ‘and normally I wouldn’t dream of bothering you, but—’
‘I know. You’d talk it through with Chris if he was here, wouldn’t you?’
I let that pass. ‘It’s just this obsession Karen’s got all of a sudden for Andy – I’m really concerned. Concerned for her safety, of course.’
‘And ever so slightly watching your back in case her family starts making trouble for you at college, eh, Sophie? Come on – I wasn’t born yesterday.’
Was it just a greyish conscience? ‘Guilty. But most of all I want that kid found,’ I said truthfully. ‘Involvement with a man who’s been receiving death threats sounds dangerous to me. Involvement at any level.’
‘Hmm. Now, let me get this straight so I can tell Her Nibs. What’s the connection between you and Andy and this kid?’
‘She was with me when I ran into Andy in town the other day. She went doo-lally – you know what kids are. Anyway, she wanted to see his concert and I managed to wangle her a job backstage.’
‘Doing what?’
‘She was a washer-up. But she spent a lot of time in the kitchen, flirting with the caterers and with Andy’s chef.’ I stopped abruptly: I didn’t want to give anyone the idea I was terribly close to having myself. ‘She left a couple of notes for me to pass to him – and another one asking me to burn them all. And last night she phoned in tears, wanting me to let her talk to him.’
‘Which you couldn’t, not knowing where he is.’
‘Ian, I may not in the past have been entirely honest on occasion, but I’ve never lied to you or Chris. I wish I knew where he is—’
‘OK, love. Give me her phone number. You’re right – this isn’t really my bag, but I’ll either find someone whose bag it is or pretend it’s mine. How about that?’
‘No one could ask for more, Ian.’
So there was no need to hare round looking for Karen. But now I had to update Richard on developments that could only hinder his downhill trundle to retirement. Having a student despatched to Pakistan, possibly as an indirect result of something that happened while she was in our care, was bad enough; losing one through a crush on the cousin of one of your less conventional members of staff was even worse. I couldn’t predict how he’d react.
He took one look at my face, gestured at the more comfortable of the visitor’s chairs, and poured me nectar from his percolator. Then, as I’d hoped, he fished in his deepest drawer for his treasury of chocolate biscuits. The trouble was, I was braced for a bollocking; to my embarrassment, and even more to his, his unexpected kindness made me cry. The poor man didn’t know what to do. While I burrowed for tissues, I could sense him opening files, rearranging items on his desk, trying to keep an appropriate distance – when what I’d really have liked was a quasiavuncular arm round my shoulders.
I made an effort. ‘Sorry. You’ll have to stop being nice to me. Did they appoint your replacement yesterday?’
He blinked at the change of subject, then looked grim. ‘I suppose it’ll become common knowledge soon enough. You remember there were two jobs up? Two Heads of Department, mine for A-Level and GCSE, and Don’s for NVQ and GNVQ? Well, they’ve merged them. One man’s been appointed to run the lot.’
‘I suppose it’s logical, the way everyone’s talking about post-sixteen education,’ I said cautiously.
‘Of course it is. But to change the job description on the day of the interviews? I don’t know what the boss was thinking of. Worrall usually plays things absolutely by the book. The Principal with principles – you know the joke. Oh, Sophie, the sooner I’ve gone the better.’
I wasn’t the only one who needed a shoulder to cry on.
I’d just finished the A-Level class; we’d romped through the story about Mrs Moonie, who dealt with moral problems like a butcher deals with meat – with a cleaver. A couple of women had hung back to talk to me about their last piece of homework, and another wanted to discuss the assignment I’d just set, so I was quite late back to the staff room. Twenty-five minutes before the next class, then a quick dive out to a centre for the disabled, where another of our students was on a placement: but not yet.
Gurjit was waiting for me outside the staff room: her smile was perfunctory. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, ‘on a matter of the most extreme urgency.’
I could not resist looking at my watch.
‘It is extremely serious,’ she said reproachfully.
We found a room with little difficulty, this being the lunch-break, and I suggested she sit down opposite me at the teacher’s table. She pulled a student’s chair from behind a table, wrinkled her nose at the graffiti she found on it, and sat down.
‘Sophie, it is about my work at the airport. There is a most serious problem.’
I’d known there would be. But I didn’t want to believe that Mark had committed any sexual offence. I found I was pushing my hands towards Gurjit, fingers up, palms towards her, as if to fend off the truth. No, it had to be confronted.
‘Tell me.’ The counselling courses instruct you how to sit: leaning forward companionably. So that was how I sat.
‘I believe,’ she said slowly, but not hesitantly, ‘that theft is being committed against one of the organisations using the airport.’
God help me – I nearly said, ‘Is that all?’ Instead, I pulled myself together. ‘Theft? Why do you think that, Gurjit?’ I mustn’t sound judgemental, disbelieving.
‘Because the figures don’t add up. Incomings versus outgoings.’
‘What scale of theft?’
‘I don’t know yet. One or two items per consignment.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t just a mistake? That the missing items won’t be sent on later?’
She gestured dismissively. ‘The figures suggest – no, I think it’s regular. It’s fraud. I know how it’s being done, but I don’t know who’s doing it.’
‘Have you told the airport people? Mark Winfield?’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I – I don’t want—’
What didn’t she want? To risk having him laugh at her? To risk discovering his guilt? But my imagination was running too fast.
‘Don’t want what, Gurjit?’
She swallowed audibly, and fought to control her emotion. ‘Want to make a fool of myself – if I’m wrong. I – Mark—’
‘You value his good opinion of you?’ I asked, as gently as I could.
Bending over her shoulder bag to hide her face, she nodded. Oh, dear.
‘What evidence do you have?’ I asked, all business-like.
She straightened up again. ‘I didn’t want to print it out. Someone might have noticed, or noticed me bringing it out.’
If only my brain would work! Chris – not his area, even if he hadn’t been at Bramshill. What about Dave Clarke, an inspector in the Fraud Squad? He was up to his eyes with preparations for a big insider-dealing case; and moreover his eyes always had a predatory gleam when they shone in my direction. Not really enough excuse, if Gurjit was serious – but enough for now.
‘Sophie – couldn’t you come and look?’
‘Me! I don’t know the first thing about accounts!’
‘No, but I know enough to teach you. To explain, at least. Please! You have to come and visit me anyway, to see how I’m getting on. Please!’
I sighed. ‘When are you due in next?’ Please God, don’t let it be tonight.
‘Next week. But Mark said I could go in any time. I thought perhaps tomorrow—’
‘No.’ My voice was so emphatic, she looked up, startled. ‘No. If there is anything going on, then it’s important to behave as normal.’ Almost as an afterthought, I added, ‘So what’s being stolen? Booze, cigarettes? The usual high-duty stuff?’
She shook her head. ‘Medicines.’
Before I could summon up any intelligent questions, a scream came ricocheting up the stairwell. Then another. In my book theft gives way to violence: I was hurtling down the stairs before I knew it. Two floors down, there was a pool of blood. It wasn’t occupied by anyone, so I supposed that whoever had left it there was walking wounded. There was a trail of bloodspots downwards; I followed it to the eighth floor. Richard’s secretary, an imperturbable woman from St Kitt’s who was wearing her violet contact lenses as opposed to her turquoise or green ones, was pulling on rubber gloves and looking weary. An Afro-Caribbean lad was clutching a wad of lint to his ear. A distant emergency vehicle was getting closer.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘I was bloody knifed, Miss, that’s what. Fucking Pakis!’
Florence flicked her eyes heavenwards. ‘It may have had something to do with the fact that you bottled him last week. Now sit still and let me look at that properly. The police and ambulance are on their way, Sophie.’
‘It’s that bad? Shit!’ I said, suddenly realising that I’d shed Gurjit en route.
‘Thought you were going to give up swearing for Lent,’ Florence said. ‘You were lucky, Earl, it’s a very clean cut. Not like what you did to him. Ah!’
I turned; the lift doors opened to reveal the community copper and a couple of paramedics. What really interested me was the suggestive intonation with which the constable told Florence he’d need to talk to her later, and the little flutter of her smile when she agreed. Someone’s day was going to become a bit brighter. I grinned, thought briefly of my lunch; but I knew I had to contact Gurjit, and, thanking goodness that it too was on the eighth floor, headed off to the office where the students’ records were kept to find where her afternoon class would be. Twelfth floor: and mine was on the thirteenth. No problem. Better to exercise the legs than the blood-pressure. But then I looked at my watch and pressed the up button, and waited. And waited.
‘What’s this, Sophie? I thought you always used the stairs,’ said Florence, coming up behind me on her way back from the loo. She’d taken the opportunity to put on fresh lipstick, add a little mascara, and spray herself liberally with Tendre Poison.
‘Just thought I’d treat myself,’ I said.
‘Well, you’ll have to save it for another day.’
‘But the engineers were in earlier! And they’d got them working by break!’
‘And the first one gave up as soon as they left the car park. Together with the one that hadn’t been broken in the first place.’
I was late for my class and still hungry. I took a mug of tea in with me but rather drew the line at eating bread, cheese and celery in front of a GCSE group. If I finished the class a couple of minutes early, I might just have time to catch Gurjit and a bite to eat before setting off for the work experience visit.
‘I thought you’d follow me,’ I said, running her to ground in the library.
‘I had a class to go to, and it was obvious you might be some time. Have you come to any conclusions about the thefts?’
I shook my head. ‘If you’re determined to keep it completely hush-hush, then the only thing we can do is have me visit you on a night you’d normally be there. I can’t make it tonight – I’ve got another visit. Tomorrow’s Friday and—’
‘I would be quite happy to work an extra shift,’ she said.
‘I sing on Friday evenings,’ I said. ‘In a choir. I can’t let the other members down.’
That should convince her of the seriousness of my commitment. As it was, I don’t suppose anyone would miss a back-row soprano, but I discovered an urgent desire to do something I actually wanted to do, rather than something I ought to be doing. We agreed to fix an appropriate evening soon. She seemed much calmer, as if sharing her anxiety had made it manageable; she even managed a smile. ‘When you’ve sorted it out,’ she said, ‘it would give me great pleasure to invite you to a meal at my home.’
‘That would be delightful,’ I said, surprising myself by meaning it.
The staff room at fast. Picking up my lunchbox caused a little avalanche of paper. A couple of pieces of late homework. Richard’s marking file – he must have put it down while he took a phone call. A query about a student’s coursework. And a note from Ian Dale: would I phone him?
It took so long to get through the police switchboard I had started on my lunch, so I had to ask for him through a mouthful of celery. There was a message: he’d pick me up from college at five. There was something he’d like me to see.
Was there indeed?
I’d never before done such a perfunctory placement visit. But since the forecast threatened snow, and the whole city had the air of imminent disaster, everyone working with an eye on the darkening sky, doubtless the employers were relieved by my praiseworthy efficiency. In any case, everything seemed to be going according to the textbook, so my conscience was relatively clean.
Ian was waiting in the college car park when I got back. He sensibly suggested that we went via Harborne on the way to drop off my car.
‘Via Harborne on the way to where?’
‘Acocks Green, love. There’s something you should take a look at.’
He wound his window up and started his engine before I could ask what; he enraged me further by grinning and tapping the side of his nose with his index finger. An impressive spurt of gravel, and he was gone.