Chapter Twenty

 

 

 

It’s all well and good having sex in a good dozen different ways in a room expressly designed for sin and experimentation. But there’s one thing that’s liable to darken proceedings—and that’s introducing the elephant that’s currently in our room.

Namely the fact that my erotic author identity must be properly discussed before Annie does it for me.

I kiss him as we dress each other. We don silky robes, then head arm in arm to the kitchen. “About my book. It’s doing really well in terms of sales, now. You were pretty important in helping me find material but I had started writing it before I met you. Don’t worry, nobody knows you were my sex mentor.”

“I know all about it. Read it too. Didn’t think you could get away without me investigating?”

Come again? I stare into his green eyes. And try not to be distracted and mesmerized by a glimpse of bare chest and pecs—they must take a lot of gym work to hone. I shake my head slowly. “You know?”

“Yeah. Pretty sexy too.”

“Who told you? Dibian?”

“No. Ben did. I’m flattered—after all you’ve touched on experiences we’ve shared. It’s very well written. And hotter than a jalapeño sandwich with hot sauce. Eaten in a sauna straight from the barbecue. Makes me proud.”

“You’ve bloody read it? You knew and didn’t say? And now I have to bloody well wait until you decide you can finally tell me what’s going on with this Dibian thing?” I’m pushing my hair back and trying to regulate my breathing. At this rate I’ll need to ask for a paper bag to blow into.

“Dibian is a subject that will be fully explained when I’m given clearance to do so. As for the book, I’ve only read some of it.” He grins. “It’s a great read. I fancy the hero and heroine myself.”

I laugh and prod him. Then I give him a push and he yanks my wrist and kisses up my arm in a move he does oh so very well.

I feel myself heat to inferno level from my blushes. “I can’t believe you read that and never told me.”

“Izzy, babe, we’ve shared wild jungle sex in many ways and tonight you found a new fascination for straddle bars and BDSM sex toys. Why get all coy and girly about me reading your fantasy book?”

He has a point.

“Saying it out loud is different.”

He grabs my fingers and kisses each one at a time, then makes a delicious feast of the pinkie by sucking it in a scurrilous manner.

“There’s somewhere else we haven’t tried. Could feature in a sequel. The whirlpool?” He crooks a finger—he has the power to make me quiver and I all but leap at him.

“Thought you’d never suggest it. Add a chocolate fondue pot on the side and it’s pretty much ultimate fantasy nailed.”

His eyes light up and he yanks me in his wake. My perfect man—dark secrets and all.

 

* * * *

 

It’s funny how in life, when you tell a lie about something, the falsehood becomes a divine prophesy that the lie you told will bite your behind and leave marks. Well, that’s happening tonight with my car.

When I came unannounced, I pretended car trouble. As I head up the drive to the Hangley Grange gates, my car sputters then stalls. I try the ignition but it’s dead.

“Shit. C’mon.”

I scratch my head and flip the bonnet switch. But my car maintenance knowledge is as basic as my skills in advanced knot-tying. I can call the AA or maybe even have Will look? Sounds like a plan.

The driveway avenue here is a winding fairy-tale woodland affair with small lay-bys, where rhododendrons create quiet corners. I’m whistling as I walk but stall as I round the bend in the drive where the house is in clearer view. It’s Tessa. She of the crazy, deluded fantasies. She of the long blonde hair and claims of experience in Will’s bed. Psycho nutter in spiked heels. I gasp as Will walks out to meet her and they talk. When his hand goes to gently touch her arm, my stomach takes a disorienting dip.

I thought she wasn’t working here anymore?

I lurk, sniper-style, behind a rhododendron. I’m unseen in the dim light and my eyes widen as I watch.

She’s walking into Will’s house with him, her red sports car parked near the entrance—it wasn’t there when I came out. It’s as if she must’ve been behind the property when I left. Will told me she no longer worked here. Will said there was nothing between them.

So why is she entering Hangley Grange carrying a suitcase? And why is Will greeting her like she’s number two in the queue?

I’ve spent the last two hours having sex with my man in his house. And the next woman was in the wings for the main event. It causes me a pain in my heart to see him talk to her, then gently place a hand on her shoulder. I can’t watch more because there’s a raw feeling in my stomach like the flu bug that made me puke.

I return to the car, my pace increasing with each step and my head crammed full of my questions. I don’t feel ready to confront them—maybe I should? I get into the car to find my phone. I turn over the ignition on the off chance and the car starts. I drive away at speed and in such a state that only half a mile down the road, I wrap the car around a ruddy lamppost with a heavy metal thunk. The bumper’s hanging off and there’s a massive bash in the bodywork. It’s drivable, but only just. Will has another woman and all I care about is fleeing this place for good.

I feel as dented as my car.

Will’s a liar and he’s dead to me. He’s a cheat.

 

* * * *

 

Rampant hurt doesn’t cover my feelings. Inside me is a churning, dark pool of pissed-off rage. I can’t believe Will is two-timing me. I know for a fact he’s lied. I’ve swallowed his lines and he must think I’m easy to hustle.

I’m so gutted about it all I can’t bear to discuss these events. Not even with my closest pals. I cry and drink a bottle of wine as a nightcap but next day throw myself into work and developing a full avoidance strategy and anti-Will emotional shield.

“Still no news on Dibian. Will’s not in today,” says Jack when he pours me my tea. Jack is back at work on a trial basis—it’s his first day in. There’s more emphasis on tea than actual manual labor but it’s great to have him back.

“Hold on, girl. You got an asbestos throat or something?”

I set a new tea-drinking speed record, because Will’s not in and I want to seize my chance. I leave a note in his office in an envelope and the deed is done in under ten minutes.

It reads,

 

We’re over, Will. I saw Tessa. I don’t want to talk. Leave me the hell alone. Bullshit is your specialty. Keep your key and put it somewhere painful.

 

The key he entrusted to me is now in two bits, thanks to a hacksaw and a dose of revenge.

Now attached to the biggest piece is a cardboard tag that reads,

 

For Tessa. Your next in line.

 

* * * *

 

I almost walk right into Lydia Salter on my way back from Will’s office.

“Um. I think it’s best we don’t talk. I got your message.” I begin to walk past, but Lydia reaches out a hand to stop me.

“I’m sorry. I came to find you to apologize. I lied and I’ve felt terrible ever since.”

“What for? Making sure my boss told me off for taking an interest in your welfare? I’m sorry you felt I was poking in my nose.”

Lydia shakes her head. “I tried to cut myself—self-harming, the doctor calls it. I’ve been doing it since the stuff with Sophie and Ellen started but hiding it from Mum. She surprised me in the shower and saw the marks. I thought by lying about you and making it your fault, I could ditch the blame. You were right. You’ve always been right.”

I stand still staring at her. Lydia’s okay. I was right. She’s okay. But she might not have been. Thank God this has all come out.

I try to take in the enormity of what she’s told me. “Lydia. Why have you been hiding this?”

“I wanted to be accepted. I know they weren’t being kind but I wanted a gang. I was sick of being a nerdy, clever geek.”

God. It’s like listening to a tape of myself at her age, recorded for hideous posterity. I badly wanted to fit but did at the expense of my trust. I almost ended up with a broken neck. How low is self-esteem when you’re prepared to take those odds?

“Lydia. I’m sorry. Thanks for the apology.”

“I am sorry I pushed you away.” She’s crying, so I comfort her and rub her hand.

“I’m glad you’re here to tell the tale. How are you going to cope with seeing these girls again? Aren’t you back at school a bit soon?”

“They’re being talked to now—Mum came in to see Rogerson. I said I wanted to come back. I can’t avoid it forever. When Miss James called to say you’d been worried about me, Mum asked questions and I felt cornered. Then she came into the shower. I was so embarrassed but I couldn’t evade admitting that something was wrong. She saw the wounds.”

“You’re alive. That’s what counts.” I hug Lydia. “Why was it so hard to tell me?”

“Like an idiot running to teacher?”

“I meant what I said.” I stare at her long and hard. “Like you, I made a big mistake when I was at school. I fitted in with the bullies by not speaking out. I nearly came unstuck—we both need to go and thank Ms. James for stepping in.”

“Thanks for telling my guidance teacher. She helped sort this out.”

“Come on. Let’s go and find Miss James then. Thanks and apologies all round.”

And that’s not a phrase I ever thought I’d hear myself saying. But I’m very glad Lydia’s come through this.

 

* * * *

 

Lydia leaves after we’ve done the necessary and Annie slides a note into my hand as I go to leave her office. I stall, shocked, and stare at her, wondering what she’s doing and what this is about.

“From Dibian.” Annie’s features are pinched as she stares at the envelope in my hand.

“She’s been in touch?”

“There’s a meeting shortly and you’ll know the full story soon enough. The letter arrived in my pigeon hole and I intended to pass it straight to police. There was an entreaty to give it to you. Look, I’m taking a risk here so please give it on to the cops when you’re done. Dibian’s in custody already so it’s evidence.”

“Shit!” I raise my eyebrows at this news. “I’ll make sure the police get it.”

“There’s a nice computer fraud sergeant called Tessa who came to interview me when I first had suspicions about Dibian.”

“You reported Dibian to the police?” I say it slowly because I’m struggling to process this revelation. “Wait, Tessa—is a policewoman?”

“I knew Dibian was up to something so I voiced my concerns to Rogerson. Dibian was always at work, in her office, at night on the computer, sometimes weekends. I’d agreed extra overtime with Rogerson to develop an orchestra workshop. When I caught Dibian lurking in the admin office after hours when she’d no business to be there, my suspicions arose.”

“So where did Tessa come in?” I’m still struggling to work out why she’s moonlighting as Will’s maid or if that was all a cover for their liaison.

“Sergeant Tessa Davenport came from Scotland Yard to interview me. Initially I thought the case had gone cold or maybe I’d imagined it. Tessa has told me today that Dibian’s been apprehended and charged. And you should tell her about your letter. I’m trusting you to do the right thing.”

How crazy and weird and messed up has life become? My pulse is racing and I’m finding breathing normally tricky. I want to back out and run to sit down quietly to absorb this but I don’t. I stand my ground. I struggle to find my voice. “I’ll get this to the police. Thanks, Annie. It seems you’ve done a lot of things right lately.”

I need to find out what the hell’s been happening directly under my nose. But first I need to read what Dibian has to tell me.

 

* * * *

 

Dibian has sent me a letter. With the username and password for my Omazod royalty account. The letter is briefish but written in her familiar fountain-penned flourish.

 

Izzy, I’m sorry for what’s happened. Please pass on to Jack how much I regret what I did to him too.

You’ve probably guessed but there was no fraudster boyfriend. No amount of excuses or words can wipe away the shame of what I’ve done.

I’ll say only this—I never meant to use you or Jack but I do find temptation hard to resist. I knew you had a bestseller on your hands and Jack was too trusting—I couldn’t stop myself, even though I’d been defrauding online for years.

The police are on to me. It started as an experiment—I’m good with computers and great at numbers. English teaching isn’t my only flair. Then it became habit. I’ve amassed a fortune—with good reason.

My sister lives in the States and has a rare cancer with no insurance cover. I’ve been funding her care. Yes, it’s no excuse, especially when I’ve taken so much. When you found me crying in my car I’d had bad news about my sister’s worsening health. I’d promised myself I’d give up the online racket. I wanted to stop but it was an addiction. Like I said, I have a problem.

You’d be surprised how easy it is to get into a system and secrete away a company’s cash. I knew you were writing the book before you told me, I’d been reading it on the server. I always knew you had something special.

You were a friend. It’s over now and I’m glad they’ve stopped me.

Dibian

 

The day’s end bell rings and I’ve a staff meeting. I shove the letter in my pocket and go.

The staff meeting is in the library and I’m there before anyone else arrives. I have so many questions and I need time to myself to collect my thoughts.

Why has Will lied about Tessa? And what the hell’s been going on—from Dibian’s hidden thievery to the realization that our school is a tangled web of intrigue?

Fiona marches up and sits next to me with a loud exhalation. “God, this place has boarded the loony express. Have you heard? It’s everywhere. Even the radio. And officially nobody’s told us yet.”

I purse my lips, summoning the strength to say it. “Dibian’s been charged with fraud.”

“And the rest! Massive fraud—using the school system to access the local authority’s bank accounts, I heard. She’s been nicking left, right and center from a lot of people for a long time. The story makes for juicy copy. They’re saying there were piles of money stacked inside the grand piano in her living room! Can you believe that? And to think I used to lend her change for a coffee in the canteen. Sheesh, some people take the piss! Wanna read the story?”

The strangled gasp I’ve tried to keep inside because I long to cry escapes without permission and it’s loud. I hold back the tears but I’m gulping in air. Fiona grabs me into her hugging arms.

“Shit, Iz!”

My voice is shaky with hurt when I whisper, “The grand piano—I sat admiring it in her room. I asked if she’d duet an Elton-George Michael number for a laugh. Shoulda been a rendition of Abba’s Money Money Money. Was I a willing dupe?”

“Should’ve been I Fought the Law and the Law Won. She’s going to go to prison for a very long time, babe. And you need to realize it’s got nothing to do with you.”

“I trusted her. What kind of crap judge of character am I?”

“She was charmingly believable, doll. Don’t beat yourself up. You weren’t the only one to fall foul of her sticky fingers. Somebody told me they saw her nicking the silver cutlery at Will’s buffet by sticking it in her Carmen Miranda skirts!” Fiona shoves a piece of printed paper in front of me. It’s a leaked news article about Dibian that’s already appeared online.

I scan the text and have to go back and read whole sentences again because the shocks derail me. Her fraud amounts to millions. What she took from me and Jack is nothing compared to her aspirations as a fraudster. I’m speed-scanning the print to glean more.

Scotland Yard’s fraud squad have arrested a North London secondary school teacher in connection with the theft of embezzled funds from the authority’s education service and assorted companies. Her haul of at least two million pounds is the biggest in UK online fraud history perpetrated by a single individual. Victims include local authorities, travel firms, a hotel company, online banking accounts and a department store chain.

 

My eyes fall on a name lower in the story and I stall. My heart beats fast as I replay the words and realize I can’t take more in. These developments have corrupted my head’s programming.

“Scotland Yard’s fraud inspector Will Darby successfully led the covert operation within the school.”

Fiona’s voice is right beside me but I don’t absorb her words. “Once a footballer, now William Darby, secret star of the Yard.”

“Will is a chief fraud cop,” I whisper, processing what’s happened as I speak it aloud. “Tessa works with him. It was an undercover sting to catch Dibian. Was I being investigated too?”

The article falls from my grasp and Fiona retrieves then reads it, “One time pro footballer Will Darby scored fast-tracked detective promotion post-football after trailblazing in a pilot scheme partnered with FBI fraud experts. Scotland Yard continue to develop such partnerships to great acclaim. Darby’s track record is unparalleled.”

I stare ahead in iron-clad disbelief, then I see the man himself walk through the doorway. He’s tall and grim-faced in his dark suit, with slicked-back hair, and inside me there’s a maelstrom of stormy disbelief.

I’m angrier at his lies than I’m ready for and I grip my bag’s rim so tightly it hurts my palm.

“Lies and more lessons on who not to trust,” I whisper.

“You okay, Iz?” Fiona asks, and she touches my arm.

“Never. Fucking. Better.”

Who am I kidding? Anger is so much easier to swallow as a bitter pill than heartache.

“Is it me or does Will look like a total policeman now I know?” I ask her.

“He’s the same to me. You don’t look okay.” Fi watches me oddly. As if I’ve styled my pet chihuahua’s hair with a set of rollers and tongs. If I had either to hand I’d use them to inflict harm on the inspector who’s come to visit.

Will looks tired. I don’t know whether to be concerned or gratified. Why have I been so ruddy effing thick? Has any of what I’ve been experiencing of late been real? The realization hurts like a throbbing ache that won’t abate.

He walks past me without meeting my gaze so I speak out. “Sir? Nice undercover performance. You played us a blinder.”

He flashes me a steely warning glance and his jaw clenches. I find I want to kick him somewhere painful but Tessa enters the room and Annie’s by her side and they’re talking.

“Oh, look. You’ve brought your cheerleading squad.”

“Izzy. Stop this now,” Will commands.

The police, Rogerson and the guy I saw Will with in the canteen the other week stand in a group. Annie comes to my side and slips her hand over mine. She squeezes when I hand her Dibian’s letter with my other hand. She nods, then gives it to Tessa who flashes a hesitant smile.

Tessa approaches. “Izzy, I’m sorry about my visit. I thought you were going to blow our cover and took action. Got the rap for it, too, from the boss. You didn’t deserve to get so caught up in things.”

“You’re right. Maybe some of you could’ve told me the truth.”

“Couldn’t risk it. We were close to a collar,” Tessa answers.

“She is his colleague,” Annie explains. “Not Will’s girlfriend. I know when you’re jealous—can read it a mile off—I’ve had plenty of practice.” My eyes search Annie’s for truth, because I find, right now, I’m not sure who to believe. “Tessa’s got a partner. Let it sink in.”

I force on a sarcastic face. “Cagney or Lacey? I don’t give a stuff.”

“She’s into girls. How many ways do I need to say your man is still your man? For fuck’s sake, girlfriend, wakey-wakey!” Annie walks off.

Will stands nearby and doesn’t make any move to communicate. There is not a flicker of a glance or a glimmer of emotion. I feel like the biggest idiot ever to breathe, so I say nothing.

It’s over. He’s only involved in ‘the job’. I was a mere casualty of crime busting. Bugger if that’s not shit, so I can’t hold my anger.

“When were you going to confide?” I challenge him but Will is still tight-lipped.

Rogerson throws me a dagger-spiked glare and even Tessa looks like she’s about to go Hawaii Five-O crazy and cuff me against a wall. In a blink, they’ve closed ranks to protect their hero.

I refuse not to have the last word. “I guess you were on work experience. The FBI may think you’re hot shit but I’m left less than impressed.”

 

* * * *

 

“So you see,” says Rogerson, summing up like a vicar at a turgid wake, “the BBC were here undercover for Crimewatch. Their staff are covert Scotland Yard. This was a huge sting and an important case.” He steeples his fingers, and I figure this will be the biggest deal of his entire teaching career. “Miss Hicks not only defrauded the London Borough of Barnet’s education department, via cleverly linking into their management accounting system and syphoning off money, she also had an Internet fraud scam going with a whole string of companies.”

Will sits behind a desk, in front of a Scotland Yard logo, looking like Batman without the suit or gizmos. He’s a policeman. An inspector. And he was never a teacher, he used that as a suitable foil for his undercover machinations.

“I can’t believe he kept it all secret,” I’m muttering.

Fiona flicks me a shush glance and some of those in the front stare to see what I’m on about. They probably think I’m having a flush.

Will briefly slides me a silent quiet command. Shit. It’s Daniel Craig complex come to life. And I’m a Bond Girl gone bonkers.

I should’ve guessed it was too much to dream. The bottom would fall from my fantasy relationship—it always does. I should stick to books—and teaching. I’m passable at those.

Will stands and inhales. “I want to offer Netherfield Secondary School my sincere apologies for the duplicity and undercover surveillance necessary in this case and the impact our actions have had on individuals at the school. This is a major case—Netherfield played a key role in securing our success. Scotland Yard is immensely grateful.”

I stand up. I say nothing. But I walk out.

The sex room in the basement wasn’t a dungeon or a playroom but a cell. A place that should have been padded because it’s certainly affected my mental health. The handcuffs were his day job. And I was sap enough to fall for the emerald eyes and smooth lines.

I can hear Will’s sum-up as I walk out. “We appreciate your involvement in this project. The mentoring footage will not be used by Crimewatch. Police will no longer be based at Netherfield and as of today filming is officially over.”

Amen to that.

Good bloody riddance. I feel kicked in the privates and my heart’s been shredded and pulped.

 

* * * *

 

It’s the next day—life must go on. Lydia and I take the stage at Assembly. Lydia takes a seat behind me and I go to the microphone center stage.

“To you, I’m Miss Tennant from the English department. But I’m more than a teacher—a long time ago I was a school pupil too. One with hopes and dreams and dramas and comedy moments as you all have. And regrets too. I’m not here today to talk about English, you may be relieved to know. I want to talk about how we treat people, and how we deal with the way people treat us can make the biggest difference of all. I urge you to think about facing the bullies around us. And letting your guidance teacher know if it happens.”

I tell my personal story about my teenage brush with emotional abuse. How I so badly wanted to be accepted I agreed a dare with a forfeit—to befriend a girl I knew from chemistry. How we met at night in the park to be accepted into the Cool Girl Gang—but neither of us realized we were being set up to be humiliated then beaten up as entertainment.

“I ended up in traction. I nearly had a broken neck—I was lucky. The end of this story is that Colleen ended up in hospital twice. The second time, after an overdose. She couldn’t face living with what the bullies had done. Fortunately she didn’t succeed. Think about it—if somebody doesn’t treat you with respect, tell your guidance teacher. It’s why we have them.”

Lydia comes over to the mic, her heels starkly clacking as she walks. I’m so proud of her.

“I want to thank Lydia for handling her own issue this week with bravery, courage and clarity. She realized she hid the truth because she thought she could handle bullying alone. Fortunately, she realized not letting her teachers help her was a mistake. By telling your guidance teacher and parents you enable us to put measures in place. She has come to tell you her story. I commend her actions.”

Lydia stands and reads out a piece of her own creative writing—it’s a Lydia-fied version of Cinderella in which Cinders questions her treatment by the ugly sisters.

She summarizes, “We have to speak out. The only fairy godmother is your decision not to settle, and to enforce change. Tell your teacher—she can help. Mine did. And my thanks go to Miss James and Miss Tennant.” For a girl who struggles to summon the confidence to communicate, she’s done herself and me proud.

Tears well in my eyes as the applause rings out around the assembly hall. And even as I’ve said the words I realize Will would say he played a guardian role while he worked among us. And Annie started the process for justice when she spoke up to challenge Dibian’s behavior. I push the thoughts away. But I don’t feel like any hero here—I was doing my job. Which makes me think.

At the end of Assembly, Rogerson tells the pupils that all filming is now off and explains that Mr. Darby is from Scotland Yard. The fraud stories in the newspapers are true and Netherfield has seen justice served.

As I walk down the stage steps, I’d like to believe him.

But, like Lydia’s story, life lately has a fairy-tale feel. The bubble’s popped and I’m left feeling empty. When I get back to my class there are three missed messages from Will on my phone. I power it down. As Lydia reminded me, time to change and move on.

 

* * * *

 

I’m sitting in the school’s sensory garden because it’s deserted and, while I have lunch on my lap, the last thing I want is food.

When I see Jack wander in to find me, my heart dips. I’d thought I could skulk here—turns out there’s no isolation and misery time at Netherfield Secondary.

I hit stop on my iPhone music player. I’ve been playing Adele songs—the morbid, toxic life-in-tatters mega-mix on repeat. It’s a nod toward self-indulgent self-flagellation over a relationship gone wrong.

Jack sits down beside me on the bench, undeterred by my mascara tracks or the massive lavender bush that always attracts the bees. He’s a brave guy. I still don’t comment. I solemnly take my sandwich out of its foil and bite it. It tastes like a cardboard fusion shit medley but I do my best at feigning enjoyment face.

“You can’t do pretend, girl. Never could,” Jack opines.

“Don’t know what you mean. Can’t you go and pick holes in somebody else’s life mess?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, girl.”

I want to spit the sandwich back out again but I won’t dismount my high horse. So I force down the arid crust.

Jack takes out a greasy aromatic sausage roll and my stomach growls with longing. Comfort food of the highest denominator. He looks at me with a sidelong Jack-ish glance, then splits it in two and hands me a half. The pastry flakes and lands on my trousers but I don’t care. I want to sniff the sausage like a coke addict.

“Get that inside you.”

“Cheers.”

“Don’t want you fading away. Apparently most of my stuff is coming back—Dibian’s handed over her spoils. It’s been impounded as evidence but it’s out of her clutches. Your money will be sorted out too.”

“Good news. That’s novel. Wonder when the birds will crap on that too.”

“Glass half-full if you please. Or I’ll leave and take my sausage roll back.”

I take a bite. Sometimes sausage roll is the best and only Band-Aid salve worth sampling. Good old Jack.

“Can we just not talk?”

“Will called me from Scotland Yard this morning and gave full details. When you’re ready to know about it, you can ask me.”

“I don’t care.”

“Izzy. Your book is big news, I hear. You’re going to be a very wealthy woman. Somebody has to claim the payments eventually.”

“By all accounts Rogerson is keen on me going for head of department, I’ll have no time for writing. And I’ve had my fingers scorched by writing heat, above my temperature range.”

Jack doesn’t talk of what I’ve written. We’ve never had that conversation. Which is good. He’s like the dad I never had. Erotica conversations would make my toes curl.

“He’s coming into school later.”

“Who?”

“Detective Inspector Darby. The man you’re faking doesn’t exist.”

“Don’t want to know.”

“He’s still Will. We fell for his charms because he’s a good man.”

“He’s no charms for me. He hid the truth about various things. He wasn’t honest or upfront plus he got his lines blurred. For a policeman he broke rules himself.”

“Said by the Maverick of the English department.”

I parry back with a death glare. I do not want to talk this over. Ever.

Jack wipes himself down to eradicate the pastry crumbs. “Remember Ada, the cake supremo who makes the perfect pies? Turns out she’s taken a fancy to yours truly. It’s never too late, you know. Sometimes you have to take a chance. I think I could make a go of this if she’ll let me. Believe me, her haddock bake’s better than a Thierry Henry hat-trick.”

“I’m pleased for you, Jack. Truly. She’s a lucky woman.”

“Trust me, one bite of her steak and mushroom lattice pie and I was smitten. I’m the one who stands to win most.” Jack stands and stares down at me, blocking out my sunlight with his bulky form. “For God’s sake, girl, what I’m trying to say is, you’re cutting off your nose here. It was more than his job was worth. If your allegiances meant you inadvertently told Dibian the truth, he’d have been sunk. He was investigating us all, not just you.”

“He told me falsehoods. There are too many question marks and I can’t see past the lies. I think he may have a woman on the side too.”

Although I’ve had a mini epiphany with the Annie truce, I still wouldn’t put it past her to have lied about Tessa being a lesbian merely to get back at me. After all, I did tell her Will was gay.

“Oh, well. That paints a different color of sky. And craps on the ship’s mast into the bargain. Well, I’m to pass on a message—Will says he wants to see you. He’s tied up in London with casework but he asked if you’d call. You won’t return his calls—he’s asked me for direct access.”

I’ve finished the sausage roll and now it feels wrong inside my tummy. I could well be throwing up into a flower bed for the second time in my life. And that thought makes me want to howl. “I won’t. You don’t know the full facts.”

I roll up my own lunch and foil and fire it into the bin with a great aim.

“Goal!” Jack declares and punches the air lightly. But the mood doesn’t fit. Usually I’d laugh but I can’t. My laughter chip’s corroded. Nothing’s funny.

And nothing but Miley Cyrus singing Wrecking Ball full blast hits my spot on how I feel. I have it bad for a man. I’ve been through all this crazy shit at school and yet the thought of being taken for an idiot again in my life hurts me.

“I came,” Jack tells me, “to tell you I’m proud of you. You sorted young Lydia out with a good outcome. You have to stop beating yourself up about Dibian. You seem to forget that you have a lot of wonderful friends—crazy, some would call ’em—but loyal works too. Did you know they went an’ bawled Will out on your behalf?”

I suck in a breath. But Jack’s always had the innate talent to get to me.

“Who did?”

“Fiona, Janey. That woman who runs the chocolate shop with the enormous—”

I interject, “Mo.”

“That’s the one. Dressed him down good and proper.”

I hadn’t realized they all knew about my dangerous liaison. But, while I’m at it, I still have issues with the Dibian thing and how it came to pass. “I still feel guilty, Jacko. After all, I introduced you to her. I feel responsible for what she did.”

“She was her own worst enemy. You’ve a good heart and saw the best.”

“I admire you and should have protected you at a vulnerable time.” It’s been going round my mind in a crazy loop of guilty mind corrosion.

“Izzy. I got off effing lightly, girl. What if she’d inveigled herself into my life and tried to pair up with a sad, old, lonely geezer? What if she’d taken me for a ride? I was lucky.”

It still doesn’t take the sting off my wounded trust. That I took Dibian so readily at face value. My prior experiences haven’t helped to educate my choices.

“It’s because you trust that you’re the treasure we know you to be. I know it. Your friends know it. One bad apple and all that.”

I sigh and finger my temples. “I’ve been foolish of late. Will’s no exception.”

“Tea at mine? Tea and a truce? And we won’t discuss events. I have Hobnobs—half-covered chocolate kind. With the sports pages.”

I nod. Some things—not many—but some, I can still rely on. And Jack’s the rock to which I cling. The kind of man you can trust.

 

* * * *

 

There is a good side to Class Wars at Netherfield being stalled, a.k.a. called off, and revealed as a clandestine ploy to catch a thieving rat teacher.

Firstly, the fuss and extra work abate and I can get on with being a teacher. Secondly, the kids will knock off the exuberance and quit trying to outdo each other in the fashion, hairstyles and spray tans department. But mostly I get to see Andy Regis slope off with his camera, lenses and assorted tripods.

He salutes me as he walks past, but doesn’t approach. I’m guessing he’s a copper too. Which makes his double-crossing even worse. I’m piqued enough to confront him.

“So it wasn’t a BBC expenses account? And trying to date two women at once is just one of your foibles?”

He sighs but doesn’t answer.

I continue, “I always figured you were a crap cameraman. Sometimes your camera was upside down. Annie’s well shot of you.”

“Cheeky cow. I am BBC—this will be shown on Crimewatch primetime next week. I’m ex force. Scotland Yard. Fraud Squad—trained with Will. Hicks got too greedy. Great book, by the way.” He winks at me. “I’ll pre-order a sequel. Great to know what women want. Be even better if you could put a word in for me with Annie. She was hot.”

“Hell will freeze over first. And the hero of my next book won’t be police.”

“Dunno. Will has it pretty bad for you. He swore he’d tear my head off if I went near you again. Said he’d use my balls for penalty kick masterclasses. He’s been pissed off about some expenses account gaffe I’ve made—don’t remember anything about an old couple when we had our meal? Booked a free room on my expenses, thievin’ old codgers.”

I’d like to be flattered about Will but I’m too raw.

I’m cheering about the expenses rumble.

Andy was always a dick. I never figured on Will being one too.

Tarquin, on the other hand, does not take the weasel’s route of trying to skulk off. He’s more than happy to come up for another Yank-a-Hand demonstration in how to paralyze a writer–cum handshake.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you. There’s a chance we may come back for filler filming later. I believe we’d be interested in having you come in at airtime—perhaps an interview, as she was your department head and friend? I’ll let you get your head together on events.”

“I think I’d rather forget it’s all ever happened. We never did get to share that raspberry pastry,” I add. And, damn me, I wish I hadn’t. Why did I let my brain even go there? I don’t want a revisit.

“Then I must pop by and rectify. Soon. I’ll be in touch. Adieu then. Do think about that interview—you’re a key witness.”

The BBC slash Scotland Yard leave the building.

I’d like to say I’m happy. But, given the circumstances, I’m sad.

It was Netherfield’s hope of a bright new shining future. It ended up crapped on by life. And eye gouged. Like a Game of Thrones season ending that’s left the star players buggered, bullied and beheaded. And I’m left discombobulated and traumatized.

 

* * * *

 

“Come in.”

I’m answering a knock on my office door, but nobody appears. So I shout for the visitor to enter again, this time more firmly.

Mickey Peters appears around the door. His Mohawk hairdo looks like it hasn’t been brushed this week. I’m somewhat shocked. I haven’t seen him around much since I bawled him out in the car park. I think back on how much has happened since then. And how my car is barely holding itself together, having wrapped it around Totteridge street furniture. Shit. I need to get that sorted or buy a new car. My Omazod statement arrived this morning so maybe there’s hope?

“How can I help?”

“Jack Carson sent me, miss. He wants your ’elp, miss.”

“What with? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Didn’t say, miss.” Peters sniffs. It’s a filthy habit of his, yet so characteristic. I know he’ll never stop.

“Get a tissue.” I hold out the box and he takes one, then pockets it. I simply follow his lead. I lock the class door and he’s sniffing as he goes. “Use the tissue, Peters. They’re not on ration.”

He shrugs, then blows and we proceed. Not talking. Just the clack of my heels on the parquet. Accompanied by the occasional sniff.

 

* * * *

 

“Fuck.”

I’m saying it out loud and Peters is still there but I don’t care. I should’ve seen this coming. Jack’s in cahoots.

“You may go,” Jack tells the boy.

I walk into the basement and Will’s drinking tea with Jack. My heart goes crazy tempo when our eyes meet. It’s clear Jack’s got me here under false pretenses, so blow me if I’m staying to have them gang up and give me crapola.

“Not you!” says Jack. “This time, lady, you’re gonna listen and listen good. And not to me.” He removes his keys from his janitor’s coat pocket and shows me them pointedly. Then he locks us both in the room together. With a bold click and wobbling jowls and a glower, he stitches me up good and proper.

“So?”

“Hi would do,” says Will.

“Is there any point to this? And why are you back here when you only came to do Taggart does High School Musical?”

He shakes his head as his jaw flexes and his eyes narrow. “It’s not as cut and dried as you’re assuming.”

“Look. Can we make this discussion brief because I’ve marking waiting. You came, you got your collar. You fulfilled your jurisdiction and got a shag into the bargain. Can we leave it there?”

“Izzy. Does everything have to be so ruddy black and white with you?”

“Yes. I don’t respect liars, Will.”

“I never lied to you. I was doing a job.”

“Did you use me as your motive to get a way into the English department?”

“Initially I wanted to question you. It’s why I approached you in the car park. Believe me, I got so much more than I expected.”

“Did you fail to tell me any of that?”

“Detectives don’t break confidences. We were something entirely different. I would’ve told you in time. There was rather a lot of drama in the mix as it was.”

“Oh, and now I’m a drama-seeking missile in this?”

He stands to full over six feet height and paces the room. Must be said—a three-piece suit looks phenomenal on him. “You’re the only reason I’m back. And whether or not you believe me or want to hear what I have to say is up to you. I want you to hear the truth, then I’ll go.”

He hangs his head and watches his shiny dapper shoes. The suit gets my juices frantically flowing. Betraying juices that they are.

“Been in court?” I ask.

“No. Been for an interview. Got the job. At Hendon Police College.”

“My, but the job offers keep stacking up. Do you collect them?”

“Look. I didn’t come here for a war of words. I wanted to see you—needed to see you and urge you not to believe all the crap you’ve read and assumed about me. Yes, I’m a police detective inspector. Yes, I came here undercover. The thing is, before I even started proper pro football, my sights were on a police career and the dream didn’t fade. As soon as I left football, I took a criminology degree. Did well, then fast-tracked onto the force graduate track. Until now, I’ve mostly kept my head below the parapet, media-wise.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“To say I came here for work but I fell for the place, and for you. And I had genuine reasons for my issues when we met—I had major surgery for testicular cancer. It left me shell-shocked. Freaked out and trying to get my life back. When I met you, I knew I was meant to come here.”

“Oh.” My mouth forms an ‘o’ of surprise. “Sorry. About the cancer.”

“We never got to a point where I could explain—so I will now. The surgery was successful in stopping the disease. But it left me having problems in the sex department. I came out of it alive and vital and wanting to go back and do my job and live again. And you treated me like an out and out arsehole rather than a patient on the edge. All I could think about was shagging your brains out.”

“Shit. You make me sound like a night with Fanny Fish Market at Lonely Man’s Quay bordello.”

“Gimme her number—I might look her up.” His forehead wrinkles. “If you’ll let me finish,” he states forcefully. “I met you and I realized you were the most exciting, daft, infuriating, passionate and wonderful woman I’ve ever met. And now I’m certain I love you.”

“I don’t need to know anything. You’re out of here, aren’t you? I’m sorry about your cancer but it’s none of my business anyway. You’re a copper and you were just here doing your job.”

“I did a degree in criminology when I was at Spurs, Iz. I’m not the moron footballer womanizer you think I am. And if you really think what happened with us was just the job, you’re a bigger fool than I’ve realized. I thought we connected, Izzy.”

“And what about Tessa? She wasn’t a cleaner—she was a copper too. Why did she warn me off?”

Will moves to me, staring hard. “She thought I was ballsing up the case. She called me out that I was getting too close. She knows my job means everything and kept warning that if you knew the truth, you were the kind of honest person who’d spill the beans to Dibian. Didn’t we count? I’m not shagging Tessa—she doesn’t do blokes and I don’t do women who can beat me at arm-wrestling. Have you seen the guns on her? She may wear wildcat heels by day but at night she’s a gym-a-holic with a weights and protein drinks habit.”

I don’t need all this info. I really don’t. I need to sum up and move on as I risk getting entangled with Will all over again. “Look, you and me was a nice diversion. A thrill ride. Like a dark-covered, tantalizing erotic paperback. Overpromised under the covers. Ended up hyperbole masked as substance.”

“Spoken like an English teacher.”

“Most of the time I’m a good one. In plain old English, didn’t meet expectations. Read the book, bin it.”

Will moves to open the fire door from Jack’s lair, the one that says ‘Push In Emergency Only’. I know damn well that going out that way will cause the sirens to go off. Maybe even the fire brigade auto summons—is that such a good idea? He always was the kind of guy to go for the big action scene, not giving a shit about consequences or danger.

And ain’t that secretly why I loved him to bits and let him have full access to every private scared piece of my heart?

I can feel the tears well in my eyes at the realization.

“Will. You shouldn’t have come. It’s over. Plain and simple over.”

I put my hands on his and push the door.

And I run out, stopping only at reception to say that it’s a false alarm and we opened the door in error. Mistake but well and truly concluded.