Head Start

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Sophia’s father! I thought from the way he behaved in governors’ meetings he was old school – almost a clone of Dawes.’

  ‘He might be, mightn’t he? Funnily enough, he’s not even an incomer, though his wife shows all the symptoms. Toby was actually a pupil here for a while, though he prefers to refer to his time at public school – I can’t recall which one. I believe strings were pulled for some reason. None of this gets you any further, I know, but I wanted you to know that I understand what it’s like being an outsider – I’ve lived here for twenty-odd years but they still regard me as something of an interloper.’

  Someone else had said that. About Mrs Gough. After all those years’ service she’d been almost one of us.

  ‘If you want my advice, my dear, when they sack you – which they assuredly will do, if that child dies – tough it out and get the biggest settlement you can. And then take to your heels and run. Back where you came from.’ Nodding home her comment she got to her feet and headed out.

  I followed, leaving the door ajar so that Pat would still hear what was being said. ‘Mrs Webster—’

  ‘There are some battles you can win,’ she said, hand already on the front door, ‘and some you can’t. And when you’re in the middle of a power struggle, I’d say you can’t win. Just don’t get crushed.’ She let go of the door, stooping to reattach her spikes. ‘If you need a refuge, come to my cottage. Living in one of Brian’s holiday lets can’t be pleasant if he’s your chief enemy.’

  ‘My enemy!’

  ‘Oh, it’s an old-fashioned, even melodramatic term. But he wanted young Tom to take Janet Gough’s place, not you. Obvious, I’d have thought.’

  Yet Tom seemed to be my number one fan these days. Unwilling to sound naïve enough to suggest that, my mouth asked a question before my brain was even aware of it. ‘As a matter of interest, who owns the caretaker’s house? Where I started out?’

  She frowned. ‘It used to be what they called the Education Committee. Then when the cuts started someone bought it. I don’t know who – but I could find out. My grandson works for the letting agent.’

  ‘Not James Ford? Nice young man,’ I added truthfully. ‘He even insisted I stay at a decent hotel.’

  She shot me an impish glance. ‘We had better not debate who did the insisting, had we? Oh, my dear, how can we joke when a child is dying and you—’ She shrugged eloquently. ‘Are you sure you have an alibi for when the “accident” happened? You must be their chief suspect.’

  Apart from Pat, I must be. I was ready to throw up again. I smiled positively. ‘Teachers – just like parents – may talk about murdering their charges but I assure you that I didn’t.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. How can I contact you with the information about the caretaker’s house?’

  Great waves of paranoia surged over me. ‘I should imagine I shan’t be leaving here till quite late.’

  ‘Excellent. I will phone you here, then.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘She said a lot, but I can’t say I’m much the wiser,’ Pat said, merely glancing up when I returned. ‘Except it was good to have my suspicions about the owner of the holiday let confirmed. It’s nice to be right.’

  ‘When are you ever not?’ I asked ironically. ‘Though you might have told me about the cottage …’ More seriously I added, ‘Pat, you look done in. And why not? I’ve never even asked you how you feel. Finding Emma. Trying to revive her. I can’t imagine how you’re just managing to sit here as if nothing happened.’

  ‘That’s one of the problems of doing this job,’ he said. ‘They expect you to become inured to all sorts of horrors and, guess what, you do become inured. Same as they expect you to have the stiffest of upper lips and carry on with your job – and guess what, you do.’

  I nodded. Then the fear burst out. ‘Mrs Webster’s just uttered a truth I’ve been suppressing, despite what Carpenter said: I must be the chief suspect.’

  ‘Nope. That’s probably me, since I’m male and not from round here – and, of course, I found her. Oh, and I’m black. That’s only one step up from a wicked illegal immigrant. Let’s console ourselves with the knowledge that with one or two glaring exceptions my colleagues usually get the right person in the end. For all the confusion earlier, I’d back Carpenter to sort everything out.’ He paused, but I didn’t chime in to agree. ‘You know, Avo, if it weren’t for this Brian Dawes thing I’d go and get the best bottle of booze I could afford and we could go and drink ourselves silly. But I don’t somehow fancy doing that in your sort-of boss’s place. I’ll call the Mondiale for you and the Cricketers for me.’

  I gave him my most scathing look. ‘Are you imagining that I’m leaving this building with the governors’ meeting here planning to sack me?’

  ‘Assuming they meet here. I’d bet it will be in someone’s nice big house.’

  ‘You’re right. Again. It’ll probably be the one next door, Mrs Tibbs’s, since Brian Dawes was burgled a couple of days back – you know what, I can’t even remember the different days of this week: everything’s a blur. But the good news is that the teachers are going to produce a report in support of me and everything I’ve tried to do. And my union should back me.’

  ‘I thought unions were all pretty toothless these days.’

  ‘They provide support and legal assistance at the very least.’

  He didn’t look convinced. ‘The teachers’ move is interesting, though, especially if they go to the media. The trouble is, I suspect it’s the parents you need to woo. And if someone’s already been prepared to sue, and for such a trivial reason, that doesn’t sound terribly likely.’

  ‘And the more fuss is made, the more likely Simon and his mates are to find me.’

  ‘Ah. Simon’s mates.’ There was a long pause. He broke it with utter banality. ‘Hang on, when did you last eat?’

  ‘Eat! Who could eat when all this is going on?’

  ‘Does the pub do takeaways?’

  ‘No idea. In any case—’

  He fished out his phone and tapped. I could hear Diane’s voice, saying the Cricketers was a pub, not a pizza parlour, but since … Very well, she’d organise sandwiches for us.

  ‘And for the teachers still in the village hall,’ I reminded him in a stage whisper.

  Two lots of sandwiches, it was agreed. And Diane would bring them herself.

  ‘Mrs Webster? She’s the widow of some big entrepreneur. Loads of money, but that’s not going to help her soon.’ Putting down an old-fashioned wicker basket beside her, Diane touched her forehead sadly. ‘She’s started Alzheimer’s, they say. She has good days and ones when she’s just a bit off-kilter. And those will start to take over. Yes, it’s just gossip, Pat, but it’s from a good source, though I certainly wouldn’t dream of revealing it. Now, the teachers say they’ll be over here in half an hour. Not Melanie – her father’s had a nasty turn and she’s had to go over and see him. It’s not as if he was a halfway decent dad to her, either – left her mum to fend for herself for years. Then he just turned up out of the blue and the silly woman had him back. Would you believe it? And then she dies and poor Melanie’s left holding – well, not the baby, of course. But her own children have just had kids, and they’re on at her to babysit all hours. They were even trying to persuade her to give up work and be a full-time nanny – unpaid, I’ll bet. Just because she’s a widow they think she’s not entitled to a life! But she dug her toes in. She said she wouldn’t as long as Mrs Gough needed her; then as long as the school had no head; then till she’d got you properly run in.’

  ‘She’ll be here for a long time, then,’ I said.

  ‘You mean she’ll be running in your replacement?’

  I hope I didn’t flinch.

  ‘Do you think that they’ll sack her or that she’ll resign?’ Pat asked, as if I wasn’t there.

  Perhaps he’d get more out of her if I pretended not to be, much though it went against the grain.

  Diane
settled down on to the spare chair. ‘If it were me I’d cut and run. Letting a child die – not that Emma’s dead yet, please God – isn’t actually a sacking offence. So she’d be able to sue for wrongful dismissal and make a bundle. And toughing it out isn’t exactly an option if the governors are still the same – especially that Toby Wells. Nasty little bugger, pardon my French. I didn’t like him when he was a child and I don’t like him now. He ran rings round poor Mrs Gough, absolute rings. But he was bright, very bright, and always two steps ahead. I think all the staff heaved a sigh of relief when he passed his eleven-plus and went off to grammar school. But then somehow or other he fetched up at some public school. No idea why. And then he comes back with that miserable cow of a wife and makes a damn nuisance of himself here.’

  If I wasn’t there, I couldn’t observe that other people shared her opinions.

  ‘Little man’s disease?’ Pat asked, with all the confidence of standing six foot two in his socks.

  ‘You mean behaving like a total bastard to make up for his lack of inches? Well, he was the one who sold the cricket club field, which might prove your theory.’ She turned to me as she got to her feet. ‘Don’t go until you’ve got this cricket deal cast in stone, will you, Jane?’

  When I spoke I surprised myself again. ‘It’ll take a lot longer than that for them to shift me.’

  ‘Well, good for you.’ She seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Time I was going. Got a pub to run. No, don’t even think of paying,’ she said, as I produced my purse. ‘This is my treat – mine and the cricket club’s.’

  ‘Just one thing, Diane,’ Pat said, getting up too, ‘you wouldn’t have another spare room at the Cricketers, would you? I’m a bit worried about Jane sleeping on her own in that cottage, you know.’

  ‘Not really. I had a couple of late bookings this afternoon – all paid up by credit card, too.’ She nudged him. ‘I never said you couldn’t share. Friends with benefits, you know!’

  ‘I’ll be OK, thanks.’ I was on my feet too.

  ‘Tell you what, Diane – I’ll sleep at hers, and she can have my room with you. The one I had last time, is it? Excellent.’ He sounded so authoritative that neither of us argued, not immediately, at least.

  ‘OK. If that’s what you want. I lock up about eleven-thirty, Jane.’ With a nod, she turned.

  I followed her out.

  ‘He’s worried about you,’ she said. ‘But you’ll be safe under my roof.’

  ‘Even if someone finds out I’m there? I don’t want to bring trouble to your door, Diane.’

  She gave a bark of laughter. ‘In that case come in through the kitchen. OK?’ She disappeared into the dark street; I waited till she was out of sight and locked the door behind her.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ I asked the second I returned to my office. ‘Why should you sleep at my place and not me?’

  ‘It was about my wanting to case your joint. After I check out the caretaker’s house, that is.’

  ‘You’re a suspect in a murder case and you want to add a spot of breaking and entering to your CV?’

  ‘I’ll do it very professionally. And I shall wear a mask.’

  ‘A mask!’

  ‘The sort of mask people wear for a bit of DIY sanding. Quite effective. And you can keep obbo if you want. How about that? Come on, Avo, a bit of action will give you a bit of an adrenalin lift and you’ll feel much better.’

  Funnily enough, it did. Having a real risk to face – my friend being caught breaking the law – trumped the theoretical ones hanging over our heads. In any case, within a very few minutes he was stepping over the inadequate little fence and half-walking, half-sliding across the playground. Although he clearly had something to report, he insisted on going back into the school and locking the door behind us again.

  ‘Very well – tell me what I found,’ he said, removing his mask.

  ‘Camera lenses. In the bathroom? Are you expecting some at the cottage too?’ I asked, my voice flat with an emotion I couldn’t identify. ‘In which case, can we assume that Brian Dawes is a very sick voyeur?’

  ‘We can assume that someone is. OK, Avo, my Kentish friends haven’t the time to search the crime scene thoroughly, and we certainly do not make life worse for ourselves by crossing that official tape. But there’s no embargo on emptying the other stockroom, is there? I bet you’ve still got some black sacks? To hell with our clothes: it’ll take your mind off the governors’ meeting.’

  ‘The teachers? They should be here in five minutes. Let’s wait and have another coffee with them and then start.’

  We’d only put the kettle on when the staff deputation appeared, their faces when they found we were on our own the picture of frustration. Giving the impression that they would run the governors to earth wherever they were, they set off purposefully into the night.

  Actually Pat was right about the spring-cleaning too: dealing with the years of accumulated stockroom rubbish was almost therapeutic. We quickly fell into a pattern. Pat retrieved a box or sack. I checked the contents. If there was anything worth saving, I labelled it and put it to one side. At the end of half an hour, the black sacks of rubbish outnumbered boxes of possible treasure by eleven to two. Yes, I’d been ruthless: it felt very good. No, I’d found nothing interesting. By now we were both sneezing. Pat actually had to use the asthma inhaler I’d only ever seen him resort to once before.

  ‘Wouldn’t wearing your face mask help?’

  ‘I suppose I could give it a try.’ He did.

  Though he soon started wheezing again, he insisted that we press on until we had half the room clear.

  There was still no sign of anything incriminating. Unless there was some reason for a two-litre plastic Wall’s Ice Cream box to be stuffed full of old 35 mm cassettes – someone had taken a lot of photos. But until they were developed – and who would have the technology in these digital days? – we wouldn’t know if they were simply snaps of long-past sports days. All the same, I locked them in my office safe. He popped some sort of pill, and sprayed his nose. His bloodshot and swimming eyes dared me to comment.

  Without speaking, we mounted another attack. Our target was the back wall, even if that meant restacking some boxes without opening them. But our tally slowly rose, in roughly the same proportion as before. Although we found nothing else remotely interesting our progress felt good. But it wasn’t good to see Pat gasping at his inhaler again, his ribs and shoulders heaving. I shoved him out into the corridor hoping the air was more breathable there.

  ‘I’ll just have a puff of my spray—’

  ‘You stay where you are. I can carry on on my own.’

  He didn’t argue.

  Then my big mouth announced, ‘There’s something over there – where the plaster has come away. No. Don’t come in. I’m just pushing a couple of boxes across as if I don’t like signs that the place is falling down. Now I’m going to look really worried about you and shoo you out into the hall.’

  Once again he did what he was told. But strangely he did give me a hug as I emerged into the hall. ‘Another camera?’ he asked, as if asking tenderly about my health.

  ‘You bet.’ I hugged him back. Oscars for us next year.

  Back in my office he sneezed his way through half the box of tissues on my desk, but his breathing became easier. ‘Always wanted a dog or a cat,’ he said, over an apple he’d found in Diane’s picnic basket, ‘but I’d be like that all the time.’

  ‘You won’t get properly better till you’ve changed your clothes and showered all the dust off your hair and skin. Take yourself off to the Cricketers for half an hour.’

  ‘No, I’ll go to your place – I’ve never tried the bathroom there, have I? It’ll be “an experience”! Don’t argue.’

  ‘Very well.’ I passed him my keys. ‘Just to make your journey worthwhile you can bring me some clean clothes. I’m staying here. Just in case. But I shall lock up after you and not open the door till I hear your voice.’

/>   He gave me a grin I can only describe as rueful. ‘I thought I was supposed to be the bossy one.’

  I scrubbed my hands and got as much dust as possible out of my hair by rubbing it with a damp towel. It didn’t do much for the styling, but made me feel better and might reduce the chances of Pat having another allergy attack. Then I tried to settle down at my desk and produce a coherent account of my morning’s movements. It took several attempts, but eventually I could prove that – apart from about three minutes between my conversation with Wayne, the rodent man, and Pat’s arrival, I had been in full view of other people. But I had to think of it from Mandy Carpenter’s point of view: would three minutes have been enough to sneak away on my own, make sure that none of the pest team could see me, enter a room I believed to be locked and kill a child? Surely not.

  I ought to have felt better.

  Instead, I shivered – the sort of frisson that makes people remark that someone must have walked over their grave. And despite myself, I was very afraid – but not necessarily for my own safety.

  Pat had been gone a long time. Far longer than it took to shower and change – and even to run someone else’s clothes to earth in a strange house. Where was he? How would he feel if I phoned? As if I was some insecure nagging woman – well, he might not be too far out there. And I couldn’t honestly say that I didn’t feel safe here, could I? Even when the ring of the school landline set my heart beating so fast I could scarcely lift the handset, let alone speak.

  It was the last person on the planet I expected to phone me. Exaggeration. But who would have expected Tamsin Powell, from the Open the Book team, to call me?