‘Forget it. Get to work.’
Half an hour later. I was ready to leave. She was still beavering through Kelly’s notebooks, and I noticed that she’d copied out two A4 sides’ worth of information. ‘Thanks,’ I said when she offered it to me. ‘We’ll look at that later. Now we’re off to Rissington, on a general trawl. Have you got a recorder with you? No? You need one. Small, but make sure it uses standard cassettes.’ I showed her mine. ‘Always have spare batteries and tapes, and label the tapes as you use them. Date, place, person. Also read that into the tape. Any interview that might be challenged later should be taped. Safest to tape everything. You can use it for notes, too, if it’s easier when you’re walking about. Take mine today: you can practise using it.’
She nodded. ‘Let’s go, then.’ She nodded again. Her silence was deliberate, but it wasn’t sulky. She followed me downstairs. In the reception area, I gave her the room key. ‘Take this back to the desk, and ask if there’s any messages. Ask for messages every time you pass the desk, even if you’ve been in the hotel. Most hotels are inefficient. Most people are inefficient. Check everything, yourself, always. OK?’
‘OK,’ she said, and trotted off. The Accelerated Trainee was taken with her, I could see from his body language.
‘No messages,’ she said coming back, ‘and a real creep on the desk.’
‘Were you nice to him?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly serious. If he fancies you he’ll put himself out for you. He could be a source. We need the messages he takes. If they fancy you, cash in.’
‘What possible use could that creep be?’
‘You don’t know.’
‘But I—’
‘No buts. When we leave, wave to him.’
‘Wave?’
‘Yeah. A little intimate waggle of your fingers, to show you’ve clocked him.’
‘But he makes me feel sick.’
‘You know that. I know that. We never let a possible source know that. Got it?’
She didn’t answer, but when we reached the revolving door, she turned and waved. The Accelerated Trainee blushed and waved back.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘We’ll go in my car. Which is yours?’ She pointed to a green Mini Open. I tried not to remember how much they cost. If I was going to teach the child, I couldn’t afford to be jealous of her. And after a bad misjudgement last year. I’d promised myself never to be jealous of rich kids, ever again. ‘Nice car,’ I said, rather too heartily. ‘Don’t forget to log your mileage on that. Keep a record of all expenses, always. If you don’t you’ll cut down your profit . . .’
‘Weird-looking place,’ she said as I parked outside GHQ. ‘Shaved lawns. Could have been a nice house, once.’
It was 1045, end of break-time. For me, it was a replay of yesterday. Warm sun, deserted grounds, boys’ voices in the distance, and a one-man reception committee waiting on the front steps.
But today, instead of Alistair Brown, there was a boy standing on the front steps. As we parked, he ducked into GHQ, and some moments later the Major appeared.
He was in good spirits. ‘Another fine day! Sunny! Warm!’ He shook hands with Claudia expansively, when I introduced them as best I could since I discovered I didn’t know her surname.‘Welcome to Rissington Abbey! Always glad to show a new person round! We’ve nothing to hide here, as Miss Tanner will tell you!’ He twinkled at me. The remark seemed intended to be taken at face value, but as the boy had clearly been watching for our arrival, presumably to see that we didn’t move about alone, I wondered.
‘I’ve some coffee up in my private quarters. Come and join me. We’ll go by way of the Mess, then you can see the Annigoni.’
We followed him into the hall, past the stairs, and through the house. Claudia hung back to ask me: ‘The Annigoni?’
‘Fashionable portrait painter, fifties and sixties. Did Mrs Major,’ I said. ‘Admire it.’
She looked at me with astonishment. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
Inside the Mess, I exclaimed at the painting. Mrs Major looked smooth, regal, and beautiful, but then all Annigoni’s subjects did. Then Claudia took over. ‘Her hair – it’s breathtaking – and he’s picked up the wonderful flowing line in the figure—’
I left her to her high-quality creeping while I had a good look round the room. It was very large, oblong, and wood-panelled. The door was in the corner of one long wall, the painting dominated the other, and there were french windows to the garden in the short wall furthest away from the door. A long polished table ran the length of the room and there were small desks and easy chairs all round the walls. A set of pigeonholes, labelled with names, a huge noticeboard, and a trolley stacked with coffee pots and dirty cups, presumably from break, suggested that as well as the Mess it was also the staff-room. It smelt of tobacco and furniture polish. A comfortable place to work, Rissington Abbey. But I couldn’t see any clues, even supposing there was anything to find clues to.
* * * * *
Up in the Major’s quarters, we had our coffee and Claudia looked at the photographs, catching my eye behind the Major’s back and pulling a face. She thought they were even more extraordinary than I did, it seemed, though she blethered on about their artistic excellence. One advantage of having an assistant was having someone else to do your smarming for you. The Major’d taken to her and was asking her about her background and schooling. He recognized the school in Switzerland she named. ‘Les Trois Églises! Excellent!’ They swapped a few names while I wondered why the Major had never asked me where I went to school. Perhaps he was astute enough to know that the answer would be a conversation-stopper.
Then she asked to go to the lavatory and the Major and I were alone.
He had been standing by the window, with the sun streaming through the slightly dirty glass on to his braced, upright figure. He moved to sit on the sofa beside me and looked directly into my eyes. ‘Can I trust you. Miss Tanner?’
Now what was he up to? Half-exasperated, I acknowledged his charm. He was old: he wasn’t my type: but when he looked into my eyes and asked if he could trust me, I wanted to tell him the truth, that he should chuck me out, and never let me back.
Only for thirty seconds, though. I gave him my best open-faced, innocent smile. ‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘What is it?’
‘This documentary is very important to me,’ he said. ‘The school. My life’s work. Immortalize it. Huh? You’ll have influence with this boss of yours, a smart girl like you. Could you arrange it with him, to use us?’
What was so important to him? I knew he was keen, but there was an extra urgency about this. He was determined. ‘I can’t promise anything,’ I said, feeling a complete shit. ‘You mustn’t count on it.’
‘Perhaps if you understood – I rose through the ranks, myself Started out as a private. Went to Sandhurst late. Loved the Army, best possible way of life, but not always easy. Lose your old friends when you move up to the officers’ mess. Forgive me saying so, but Asquith told me you were a ranker too, so to speak.’
‘Television isn’t a rigid hierarchy,’ I said. ‘It’s not the same.’
‘Not quite, p’raps. But there are lots of university types in the BBC, huh? Damn fools, most of them, I expect, get on your nerves. Plenty of officers got on mine, but that might have been my fault. Probably was. Chip on my shoulder. But then I found my place at Rissington, and Anthea. Everything I’ve always wanted.’
‘You asked if you could trust me,’ I said. ‘What did you mean?’ As far as I could see he was trying to manipulate me with a sob-story, but he hadn’t told me anything confidential.
‘I’ve a dicky heart,’ he said, with an effort. ‘I may have to retire soon. If I live that long.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, unmoved by the blatant attempt at tear-jerking, but surprised that he’d admit the heart condition. ‘How can I help?’
‘I know you’ll do a good job. See the place as
it really is. An outsider’s eye. I want you to keep working here until you’ve got the measure of us.’
‘I can’t promise anything. It’s not up to me. Ah, here’s Claudia.’
The Major showed us the assault course, the firing range, the darkroom, and the fully equipped sanatorium. Up to then, Claudia had been keeping our conversational end up: all I’d asked about was the names of boys who passed us. I was still hoping for ‘Olivier’s friends’, Jake Boswell and Peter Newman, to turn up without me having to ask for them. They didn’t.
I perked up at the sanatorium. I wanted to know more about Alistair Brown’s mother. I hissed at Claudia and she carried the Major away into the furthest room, leaving me with the nurse on duty, a stocky Welshwoman in her forties with a lively manner, false teeth, and one of the wheeziest set of lungs I’d ever heard. ‘You’re not Mrs Brown, then?’ I said. She’d just been introduced to me as Mrs Owen, but I didn’t expect anyone inured to the rigours of the Major’s conversational style to find the remark unusual.
She didn’t. ‘Oh, no, I’m not. I’m the Matron now, Mrs Brown’s not well.’
‘So she’s not working at the moment?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘What exactly is the matter with her?’
‘She has multiple sclerosis. Poor soul.’ She gave a sympathetic wheeze and started to cough alarmingly. ‘But at least she can still make a contribution.’
‘What contribution exactly?’
‘The rotas. She can still do the rotas, and the ordering. She’s the Domestic Bursar really except we don’t call her that. But she’s such a marvellous planner, never forgets a detail, always thinks a problem through. She’s been an inspiration to me, I can tell you. It’s so much easier to work when you can rely on the backup. I’ve never gone to the cupboard for a bandage and come back empty-handed and I’ve never had to do overtime because my relief hasn’t turned up. At my last school it was always, “Sorry Mrs Owen, there’s a bit of a crisis,” and I’d have to work my free weekends. It’s just not on, that kind of thing. But never with Mrs Brown. She thinks of everything.’
‘Is she well enough for me to visit her?’
‘Oh, yes. She’s not bedridden. She’s up and about in her wheelchair. I saw her about ten minutes ago, going for an airing up the drive with the Captain. He’s so sensitive and caring. But then he would be.’ She wheezed again, this time with admiring sympathy, and clacked her dentures.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘What with his Call.’
‘Call?’
‘He misunderstood the Saviour’s meaning, that’s all. I’m a Baptist myself I don’t hold with Romans, in the usual way, and they’re bound to make mistakes, aren’t they?’
I struggled to make sense of the conversation: I didn’t want to alienate her. ‘His original Call was . . .’
‘To the priesthood, of course. That’s where he was before he came here, training to be a priest. Now he knows he has to do Christ’s work in the world.’
Martin Kelly, an ex-priest. Alistair Brown, nearly a priest. It was a link, but I couldn’t see the ends of the chain.
We had lunch in the canteen. Claudia’s face was a picture as she gazed at the food, but I hissed ‘eat’ and she forked in tiny mouthfuls of steak and kidney pudding, baked beans, and chips. She wasn’t doing badly. She’d been recording, and listening, and talking, and taking some of the weight off me, and I’d be interested to hear her impressions.
Once more, we sat isolated with the Major, though some of the other tables were overcrowded. This time I pointed it out, but he brushed it aside. ‘Respect. Huh? Good thing, let us get on in peace. Now then – your movements this pip emma. I’m not going to be able to be with you, but I’m leaving you in Alistair’s capable hands. We’re meeting him in the Mess for coffee after this. I’d suggest you split up. Miss Tanner, you’ll be with Alistair, of course, but what do you think if Claudia here goes to lessons with the Lower Sixth? Huh? Get a real feel of the education we offer. If you’ll forgive me saying so, you’re not long out of school yourself, you’ll see how it compares.’
Claudia, smiling politely, caught my eye and I nodded. ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said.
On the way back to the Mess, under the stairs in GHQ, the Major stopped and pointed. ‘The ladies’ cloakroom,’ he said delicately, and walked away from us.
I hustled Claudia in. It was a large, dark room, with bare wooden tables with vases on, two huge old basins, a cracked and peeling mirror and two lavatory compartments. There were more of the Colonel’s art studies round the walls. ‘I think the old man was batty,’ said Claudia, looking at a particularly winsome version of ten-year-old Mrs Ellis clinging to the trunk of a large tree while her semi-transparent dress clung to her. I put my fingers on Claudia’s lips to silence her and pushed open the lavatory cubicles. No one there.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘You take the tape recorder and try to get your paws on either of Olivier’s friends.’
I was flicking through my notebook to give her the names, but she forestalled me. ‘Peter Newman or Jake Boswell, it’s OK, I remember. What do we want?’
‘Anything about Olivier. Particularly his state of mind that last day. Plus anything on Alistair Brown and his mother, if you get the chance. Be careful.’
‘The Major’s got a heart condition.’
‘How do you know?’
‘When I went to the loo I checked through their medicine cabinet, and I made a list, see.’ She produced a sheet of paper and waved it in front of me. ‘Glyceryl trinitrate – it’s for angina. My grandfather has it – and then there’s Prempak-C, that’s hormone replacement—’
‘Does your grandfather take that too?’
‘No, Kate O’Mara, I think – or maybe Mrs Thatcher – I read about it in Cosmo. Anyway, that’ll be Mrs Ellis, and so will the Valium, I expect, and the Mogadon, and the Amytal. She must have tons of the stuff to leave so much behind.’
‘Why did you look in the medicine cabinet?’
‘Oh, I always do. It tells you so much about people . . . yours did.’
‘There’s nothing in mine.’
‘That’s what I mean. Not even paracetamol. Just low-protection suntan oil, which you shouldn’t use, and multi-vitamins. You wouldn’t need vitamin supplements if you ate properly. No proper facial care, either—’
‘What?’
‘I recommend the Clinique range, but perhaps you should consider Elizabeth Arden. My mother swears by it, for the older skin, and Mrs Ellis has the whole range.’
Why was she getting at me? ‘Shove it, you little cow,’ I said in a neutral tone.
‘Well,’ she went on reasonably, ‘you talk down to me like – like a great-aunt. I admit you don’t look old but ...’
‘I must just check that all is well in the examination hall,’ said Alistair Brown as we went down the front steps. ‘Do you mind coming with me?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. I was with him for a reason, I supposed, either his reason or the Major’s, and if I volunteered nothing then his purposes might become clear.
‘Lovely day,’ he said, and smiled at me. He was loping along beside me with his stooped, athletic walk. ‘Do you know the Banbury area at all?’
‘I’m afraid not. It seems very pretty.’
‘It is . . .’ He chatted on about the local beauty spots as we walked towards the canteen and past it to the Sports Hall, a large eighties building which I knew doubled as the study hall for examinations, and stopped by the outside doors. ‘Just hang on here a minute, will you?’
As he went in, I looked through the doors. About fifty boys sat, heads down, at desks dotted about the hall. Above their heads, in the high steel beams that supported the glass roof, ropes and rings were looped back: there were wallbars and basketball posts. Brown was headed for a teacher sitting at a raised desk, who looked up as he approached. Near him, at a smaller desk, sat Tim Robertson, reading. He didn’t look up. The door swung closed before I could catch
his eye.
I looked around the school, slumbering in the bright sunlight. It was quiet, peaceful: no boys anywhere. No movement anywhere. Afternoon lessons were going on, I knew. Somewhere in the sixth-form classroom block Claudia was being taught French, I hoped sitting between Olivier’s friends.
‘Now,’ said Alistair Brown rejoining me, ‘what would you like to see?’
By four o’clock I’d seen all of the school that I hadn’t already seen and we were headed back to the Mess, where Claudia was to meet us. I’d waited for Brown’s purposes to emerge: perhaps he’d waited for mine. I didn’t think either of us was much wiser. I’d got used to his rather self-conscious baritone voice, with its faint intermittent Scottish burr, and to the supportive touch of his hand on my arm, around the rose garden (‘Watch the moss on these flagstones—’) helping me up steps (“Treacherous, these’), and through perfectly normal doors (‘Rather a quick automatic close on this one’).
I didn’t like him touching me. Not because it was an unwanted sexual advance: because it wasn’t anything. I felt like a car on an automatic assembly line being manipulated by a robot. I didn’t protest because I was determined not to provide any input. Whatever happened, he must dictate. But as far as information was concerned, I got nowhere. I couldn’t try him on Olivier again, and I didn’t want to come out into the open about Martin Kelly until I was surer of my ground, so I just listened to his information about the school and thought how much better he’d look without his glasses, and if he’d stop blinking.
We were in the hall. He stopped, I stopped, and he blinked at me. ‘Miss Tanner—’
‘Do call me Alex,’ I said for the umpteenth time.
‘Alex – I don’t – I wonder—’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you have dinner with me this evening?’
Chapter Seventeen
We were in my room by five o’clock. Claudia was full of herself: on the way back in the car, she’d wanted to babble, but I’d stopped her. I wanted quiet, to think. I had to decide whether to send her back to London for the night, and I weighed up the advantages of having solitary thinking time against the advantage of a thorough debriefing, extra productivity on Martin Kelly’s notes, and two heads, however inexperienced one of them was, working on the case.
In At The Deep End Page 11
