4

‘You can take it in my office,’ Wilcox says.

He holds the door of the life room, allowing me to step outside then closing it carefully behind him.

As I reach the stairs leading to the hall he calls, ‘If it’s anything important, of course, you’ll let me know.’

‘Important?’

‘On the phone, I mean.’ He gestures irritably to the hall below.

As I go down the stairs I can hear his voice, bellowing from beyond the screens, ‘Is everybody gone on holiday, then? What’s going on in here, then, Pollard? The annual general bloody council of the desk-top somnambulists and chair-back heelers-overs’ union, is it?’

In his office, after closing the door, I pick up the telephone and hear the secretary’s voice at the other end and then, a moment later, a woman’s voice I don’t recognize at all.

‘This is Jacqueline Spencer,’ the voice reminds me. ‘We met briefly when you came up to the house to see Mrs Newman’s picture.’

She waits a moment for this to be confirmed.

‘We tried to get you over the week-end, but you seem to have been away. Mr Newman wondered if you’d like to meet him.’

‘Where?’

‘The most convenient place for him would be the site.’

‘What site?’

‘He’ll send a car to pick you up. Do you have a free day at all this week?’

She waits.

‘If you could give us a day he’ll be very glad to fit in with it,’ she says.

I tell her Wednesday.

‘I’ve got your address from Mrs Newman. There’ll be a car at your door at half-past nine.’

‘What’s it all about?’ I say.

‘The chauffeur will drive you there,’ she says. ‘He’ll be given his instructions’

The phone’s put down. I rattle my end of it for several seconds, listen, put it down, then look slowly round the office.

It’s only the third or fourth time I’ve been inside the room. Across one wall is arranged a set of shelves, crammed full of bottles containing a yellowish liquid. A door leads off at one side opposite the window; when I try the handle I find it’s locked.

I turn round to the door of the office itself and find Kendal standing there, his hands in his pockets.

‘I thought it was the Skipper,’ he says.

‘I’ve been taking a call.’ I indicate the phone.

‘That’s generous of him,’ Kendal says.

He takes out a note from his jacket pocket, unfolds it and holds it out for me to read. ‘Dear Kendal,’ it says, ‘I’d like to see you in my office some time today. Signed: R. N. Wilcox. (Principal)’

‘He’s probably inviting you to dinner.’

‘You think it’s that?’

‘Pollard’s been invited, too.’

‘I can breathe more easily, I suppose,’ he says.

He glances round the room.

‘Anything to steal? Borrow? Anything, you think, that won’t be missed?’

‘I’ve just been trying the door.’

‘It’s his private wash-room.’

‘Have you ever been in?’

‘Never.’

He opens the top drawer on one side of the desk. It’s packed to the top with india-rubbers. We both stare into it for several seconds.

‘What are those for?’

‘For rubbing out.’

‘But why so many?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

A footstep sounds from the hall outside. I close the drawer.

‘What’s going on in here, then? Mothers’ meeting?’

‘I’ve just received your letter, Principal,’ Kendal says. He holds it out.

‘I’ve just finished on the phone,’ I tell him.

‘From the Newmans was it?’

He gestures at the phone itself. Clearly he’s inquired about the caller’s identity before allowing me to answer it.

‘I’ve been asked to a meeting.’

‘Where?’

‘They’ve asked me, at the moment, to keep it confidential.’

‘With Mr Newman?’ He looks across.

‘That’s right.’

He gazes at me for several seconds.

‘You’ll give him my regards.’

‘I will.’

‘When’re you seeing him?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘Wednesday.’

He looks over impulsively to a calendar on the wall. For a moment I have the feeling he’s going to offer to come as well.

‘I’ll let you know how it goes,’ I tell him.

‘That’s good of you,’ he says.

I step over, cautiously, towards the door.

Kendal, the letter in his hand, remains standing by his desk.

‘I’ve just been complimenting Kendal on his work. I’ve heard one or two complimentary things about it recently,’ I tell him.

‘Kendal?’

‘He’d be a very valuable ally,’ I say, ‘if we had him on our side.’

‘Side?’

I close one eye.

‘In reference to that scheme we mentioned.’

‘Scheme.’

‘Vis-à-vis,’ I tell him, ‘things to come.’

I gesture vaguely at the college overhead.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’ I nod to Wilcox, nod to Kendal and, stepping outside, I close the door.

I can hear no sound at all, for several seconds; then, faintly, comes the growl of Wilcox as he begins to clear his throat.

I get out a cigarette, light it, and go up the stairs smoking, puffing out, as fast as I am able, huge, uncontrollable clouds of smoke.

‘Where were you at the week-end?’

‘I had an appointment,’ I tell her, ‘somewhere else.’

‘I called at the flat.’

‘I’m afraid I was out.’

‘So I discovered.’

She turns over, slowly, in the bed.

‘I don’t suppose Beccie’s been to see you.’

‘Beccie?’

‘Has she been,’ she says, ‘or not?’

‘She did call, as a matter of fact, one evening.’

‘I bet.’ She pulls up the bed clothes beneath her chin. ‘I hope you don’t encourage her. To come up here again.’

‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘I suppose I might.’

‘Honestly. Can you imagine?’

‘I don’t suppose she’ll mind.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Your husband,’ I tell her, ‘has invited me to meet him.’

‘I know,’ she says, and adds, ‘I’m not surprised.’

‘What’s it all about?’ I ask her.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You must have some.’

‘He just wants to meet you, I suppose,’ she says.

‘It’s very strange.’

‘No stranger than some things, I suppose,’ she says.

‘Did you know,’ I tell her, ‘I’m being followed?’

‘Not by a man,’ she says, ‘in a trilby hat?’

‘You know all about it, then?’ I say.

‘Honestly,’ she says, ‘he’s watching me.’

She smiles. Her cheeks, smooth and taut, are slightly dimpled. The grey eyes, mascara-ed, gaze out from the hollow of the pillow with an eerie light.

‘It’s a little insurance my husband’s taken out.’

‘On what?’

‘On me.’

‘He’s having you followed?’

‘You’re very conceited, thinking it was just for you.’

‘I’m not sure what I think,’ I tell her.

‘What day have you arranged to see him, then?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘Did he arrange that,’ she says, ‘or you?’

‘I suggested it, I believe,’ I tell her.

‘That was our day,’ she says. ‘Had you forgotten?’

‘I arranged it for the morning: I can always see you,’ I say, ‘in the afternoon.’

‘Magnanimity!’ she says.

‘We could go together.’

‘My darling,’ she tells me, smiling, ‘this meeting, I’m afraid, is just for you.’

Later, as she’s leaving, she says, ‘I’ve been asked, by the way, to give you this.’

She holds out a parcel, thin and flat, inscribed with her husband’s name, which, on arrival, she’s laid down on the chair inside the door.

‘If you’re seeing him soon I wondered if you’d mind.’

‘What’s this?’ I ask her and begin to laugh. ‘Not carrying messages, too,’ I add.

‘It’s something he asked for.’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s not at home, you see, at present.’

She turns to the door.

‘Is our man still in the street?’ she says.

When I look down at the road there’s no one there.

‘Probably his day off.’ She laughs.

‘Or perhaps his mission’s been accomplished, Liz.’

She laughs again.

‘But darling, it’s hardly even started yet!’

I see her moments later as she steps out from the door; perhaps it’s Ferguson she’s aware of most: without expression she ducks her head, glances down the street towards the town, then sets off uncertainly in the opposite direction.

Seconds later the man in the trilby hat comes into view; his hands in his pockets, he wanders off, idly, not up the street, but, glancing lazily around him, in the opposite direction to Elizabeth, towards the town.