This Is a Dreadful Sentence

by Penny Freedman

  ‘Oh good,’ I say. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? Having their own opinions, challenging received truths, that’s what we want from our young people, isn’t it?’

  A slight pink flush suffuses her moon face.

  ‘Not altogether. As a teacher yourself, Mrs Gray, I’m sure you’ll agree that opinions need to be backed up with knowledge and that a certain amount of deference to superior knowledge and experience is desirable.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Ah, deference,’ I say. ‘I must admit that’s not one of her strong points. We have always encouraged our girls to speak their minds at home, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Frankly,’ she says, growing ever pinker, ‘I find Marianne very attention-seeking. My lessons are constantly interrupted by her observations and questions. There is a great deal of factual material to be covered in this syllabus and I cannot afford to be stopped every five minutes by –‘

  I am conscious of a movement at my side. I turn to see Andrew slipping into the seat beside me and I must say I admire the cool way I simply say, ‘Oh, hello.’ as though he wasn’t the last person I expected to see. He has a Venezuelan tan and is wearing an Italian-looking jacket. He is a goodlooking man and I’ve always liked being seen with him even if I couldn’t stand living with him.

  ‘Miss Porter was just telling me,’ I say, ‘that our daughter is opinionated, challenging and not over-deferential. I made the mistake of thinking those were the qualities we wanted to encourage in the young, but apparently I am mistaken.’

  Andrew doesn’t miss a beat. He gives the wretched woman his sharkiest smile and says, ‘With all due respect, Miss Porter, I wonder if you’re in danger of perpetuating an outmoded female stereotype here. Does this school really want to go on producing young women who undervalue themselves, who fear confrontation and who want only to conform?’

  She makes a feeble effort at self-defence.

  ‘Mr Gray, I must protest! I never said anything about –‘

  But her poor little wings are broken and Andrew drives on relentlessly.

  ‘More than twenty-five years ago, we boys at the Abbey School were being encouraged to hone our wits and our arguments, to have the confidence of our own opinions. I appreciate that you have taken refuge in a girls’ school in order to avoid the challenge of teaching boys, but don’t you think this school has a duty to offer these young women an education that will fit them to participate as equals with men in a modern world? If not, then I don’t know what you think you’re doing.’

  I am gaping at him, torn between admiration and outrage. These are my arguments, many of them in my very words. I have been binding on about this for years and Andrew always batted away my opinions as though they were so much irritating trivia. Of course, he’s just a lawyer; he’ll use any argument that comes to hand to win a point. I have no idea whether he believes any of it or not.

  I turn to make some ameliorating remark to Miss Porter, but she has risen and is hurrying out of the hall. I am almost sure she is crying. I am ashamed. I have allowed my exhusband, a man who gets paid to bully people, to destroy this poor little woman and I have provided him with the ammunition to do it. All right, I admit I’ve got no time for her and women like her, but I still shouldn’t have let it happen, especially as I know what Annie can be like when she gets the bit between her teeth. She is probably being a complete nightmare in History lessons.

  We stand up and I shrug a sort of apology at the parents sitting waiting for their interviews with Miss Porter before grabbing Andrew’s arm and tugging him out into the corridor.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ I hiss.

  He looks injured.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to weigh in,’ he says. ‘You invited me to.’

  ‘I just wanted a bit of support. I wanted you to stick up for Annie.’

  He looks at me.

  ‘You know your problem, Gina,’ he says. ‘You content yourself with biting people’s ankles. You’re never ready to go for the jugular.’

  Oh, so that’s my problem, is it?

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were in Venezuela.’

  ‘I just got back. I’m practically straight off the plane.’

  ‘How did you know this was happening?’

  ‘Annie told me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She thought I’d like to be involved. I do pay the fees.’

  ‘And neither of you thought to tell me you were coming?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure till the last minute whether I’d be able to make it.’

  I see what Annie is doing. She wants Andrew to meet the teachers. She knows he wants her to drop Drama and carry on with Latin. She wants him to see for himself how much her Latin teacher doesn’t want to teach her any more, and she wants him to meet her adored Drama teacher, the only bright spot, it would seem, in the sunless landscape of Annie’s school life.

  I send Andrew along to the refectory where, I know, the PTA will have provided a substantial tea for parents coming straight from work (by parents they will mean fathers: the assumption in the quaint world of Lady Margaret is that mothers still spend their days gossiping, gardening and golfing). He protests that he has been eating aeroplane food all day, but I send him anyway. I need to talk to the Economics teacher, a nervous young man who, I suspect, is being baited unmercifully by Annie and her friends and should be protected from Andrew at all costs.

  I find Mr Aidan Trevelyan (BA Exeter) without a queue and I slip into the seat in front of him, causing him to give a nervous little start. I decide to approach this interview differently. I shall be disarming.

  ‘I’m Marianne Gray’s mother,’ I say, ‘and before you say anything, I should tell you that I know she can be a nightmare. I’ve lived with her for sixteen years, so I should know.’

  I give a jolly sort of laugh. He peers at me with pale eyes beneath fluttering eyelids.

  ‘To be frank,’ he says, ‘I find them all a nightmare. Marianne isn’t the worst.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, disconcerted.

  ‘No. At least she’s well-informed. And she seems quite interested. Unlike some of the others. They seem to think it’s some sort of game.’

  I consider him. He’s only middle thirties but has a greyish aura. He thought he’d found a safe haven coming here, I think, but he’s found himself in a nest of harpies.

  ‘She certainly seems to be enjoying the course,’ I say.

  This is overstating the case, but you will remember that this is my day for being creative with the actualité. What Annie has in fact said is that Mr Trevelyan is a wimp and a dickhead but the course isn’t bad and she doesn’t mind carrying on with it.

  ‘Yes she seems to enjoy it,’ he says. Then, ‘They have so much energy those girls. It makes me tired just being in a room with them.’

  I am terrified that he is going to have his nervous breakdown right here in front of me.

  ‘She definitely wants to carry on to A level,’ I tell him bracingly.

  ‘Oh good,’ he says with the faintest flicker of surprise.

  ‘How,’ I ask tentatively, ‘do you think she will do on the AS papers?’

  ‘Quite well, I think,’ he says sadly. ‘She writes very well, and that’s half the battle.’

  Is it my imagination or does he flinch slightly as he says battle?

  ‘That’s good news,’ I say as I stand up, and then, because it would be inappropriate to give this sad little man a hug, I put out my hand and say, ‘Thank you so much for all you’re doing for Marianne.’

  I sound ridiculous to myself but he takes my hand and gives it a limp shake.

  ‘I do my best,’ he says.

  As soon as Andrew reappears, I steer him in the direction of Mrs Emily Duncan (MA Oxon) to discuss Annie’s Latin plans. I stake a place in the queue for Head of Drama, Ms Kirsten Donald (BA Cantab, MA Warwick) and I watch the encounter between Andrew and Emily Duncan from a distance. I see from Andrew’s body
language that he is in gallant mode. He’s leaning towards her, listening intently, nodding and smiling. He might as well be seducing the woman for God’s sake.

  By the time he has finished with her, I have reached the head of the queue for Ms Donald. I’m not surprised this queue is so long: Kirsten Donald is completely gorgeous. A natural redhead with clear green eyes and creamy milkmaid skin, she looks no more than twenty-five. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were fathers in this queue just standing here for the pleasure of looking at her.

  When we announce who we are, she leans across the table and seizes our hands.

  ‘I am so pleased to meet you,’ she says. ‘I’m sure you know it already, but I have to say it: you have a very remarkable daughter.’

  I am prepared for most things on these occasions, but not this. I stare, speechless, and she sweeps on. Marianne, she tells us, is a star. She is not just talented, but creative, original, thoughtful, disciplined, a natural leader and hugely supportive of others. We gaze at her in wonder. How has she achieved this miracle transformation in our child? What kind of witch is she?

  Andrew rallies a bit.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he says, ‘she won’t be able to continue with Drama beyond AS level. She’ll need three academic subjects for the university course she wants to do.’

  ‘She wants to be a lawyer, doesn’t she, and she’s doing History and Economics A levels?’ Her voice is lovely, her accent soft, seductive Scottish. ‘I think she’ll find that Drama is a perfectly acceptable third A level for a law degree. And very useful. What is a courtroom, after all, but a place of theatre?’

  She turns the green eyes full on to Andrew.

  ‘You’re a lawyer yourself, aren’t you, Mr Gray? Would you not agree that a sense of theatre is important in your job? Are you not a bit of an actor yourself? Would that not be where Marianne gets her talent from?’

  And Andrew, for once, is utterly nonplussed. He grins foolishly but he is speechless, silenced. The cat, it appears, has got his tongue. I sit and savour this unprecedented state of affairs. The woman, I tell myself, really is a witch. Then he does the only possible thing and removes us from her magic circle. He clears his throat, thanks Ms Donald for her time, says that we shall have to discuss the question further and now it is he who bundles me out of the hall.

  Outside he recovers a bit and suggests that he comes back with me to talk about all this. He probably hopes I’ll give him supper too. He can’t come back to my house, though, because I’m harbouring a wanted woman in my house and I’ve vowed not to let Andrew into that imbroglio.

  ‘I’m knackered, Andrew,’ I say (perfectly truthfully). ‘It’s been a hell of a day. How about a pub lunch tomorrow? Check your diary and give me a call.’

  Then he climbs into his shiny monster of a car and I mount my bike and pedal off home.

  The house is silent when I return; it feels deserted. I find Annie in her room, though, lying on her bed, listening to music. She doesn’t ask how the evening went and I’m not volunteering anything till I’m asked. She doesn’t turn the music off either, so I shout over the top of it,

  ‘Where’s Ceren?’

  For answer, she hands me an envelope (one of my own envelopes, I recognise) addressed to ‘Mrs Gray’. I open the letter, which reads as follows:

  Dear Mrs Gray,

  I am safe and I stay with my friends. Please tell the police they not worry for me. Please not to telephone my parents.

  Thank you that you are kind teacher.

  Ceren Vural

  I know what this is: this is my get-out-of-jail card. How carefully she has written it; no-one would guess that she has been living in my house. My first response is pure relief, I must admit, before I start to worry about where she has gone. Has she really gone to friends? If so, who? Will they look after her? Does whatever she knows put her in danger?

  ‘What did she say when she left?’ I ask Annie.

  ‘She was gone when I got back. She left a note for me too.’

  ‘Do you mind if I see it? You can see mine.’

  We exchange letters and I read:

  Dear Marian,

  Thank you so much you are so kind to me. I enjoyed talking and music with you. I must leave now because I make trouble to your mother and you.

  Don’t worry to me. I am fine. I hope I see you again.

  Ceren

  ‘She knew you didn’t want her,’ Annie shouts, still without turning her music off. ‘We let her down. She came to us for help and because you’re so thick with the police all of a sudden, we let her down.’

  I go downstairs and put two pizzas in the oven, and in the twelve minutes I am instructed to leave them in there, I down a glass of red wine. We eat in silence. Annie has nothing to say to me and I know better than to raise topics of conversation only to have my words frozen in mid-air by her icy contempt. I swallow another glass or two of wine and get up, still in silence, to clear our plates. As she is leaving the room, Annie says, ‘Your policeman friend called, by the way.’

  ‘When? What did he want?’

  ‘He wanted to see you, I imagine. He certainly didn’t come to see me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘All sorts of things. We had quite a chat.’

  ‘You didn’t let him in?’

  ‘Of course I did. I thought it would look suspicious otherwise.’

  ‘But Ceren – ‘

  ‘Ceren had gone, hadn’t she? There was one thing though. She’d left that scarf thing she wears behind. It was on the sofa. I noticed it as I took him into the sitting room, so I spread it out over the back of the sofa like a throw. Quick thinking, I thought.’

  Panic, on top of the wine, is making me dizzy. I sit down.

  ‘Oh God, Annie! Did he say anything about it?’‘

  ‘No. It was fine. Then I made him a cup of tea and we talked.’

  ‘What about, for Heaven’s sake?’

  ‘You, mainly. He wanted to know all about you. And about Pa and all of that. He told me all the boys fancied you when you were his teacher. And he was very keen to tell me that he’s only six years younger than you.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said that being a mother and a grandmother had made you old before your time, that you weren’t interested in men and that you and Pa were still like that.’

  She brandishes her linked index and middle fingers at me before she sweeps out of the room.

  22

  Tuesday: Investigation Day Thirteen

  ‘The blood on the knife is Yilmaz’s,’ Scott was telling the team, ‘but we’ve had no luck yet with the fingerprints. There are two sets on the handle but no match with the database. So –‘

  Simon Kerr interrupted.

  ‘Are we going to take prints from the students, then?’

  ‘We can’t, Simon. There’s no hard evidence against any of them. We’ve no justification for treating them as suspects. They just happened to be doing the same course as Yilmaz. They’re our suspects because two others in the class have gone missing and because of those messages that have appeared on the classroom board, which we assume were written by one of the students. Some of you are sceptical about those, I know, and you may be right. They could be something and nothing. The Director of English is convinced that they’re significant, but I’m not sure.’

  Scott saw Kerr’s eyebrows go up as he and Boxer exchanged a quick look before Boxer asked, ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘We keep digging. The SOCOs are back at the crime scene. I’ve told them I want them crawling over every inch of the place this time.’

  ‘How the hell did they manage to miss a bloodstained knife last time round?’ Paula Powell asked.

  Scott raised his arms in a despairing shrug.

  ‘Said they didn’t realise they were expected to examine every book in the place. They concentrated on the area round where the body was found, the office, entrances etc. It just happened that the knife was hidden next to a b
ook I was interested in. Luck. The only bit of luck we’ve had in this case.’

  His phone rang and he saw that it was Gina, finally returning his calls, he assumed. Well, not now. He cut off the call and continued, ‘We do have something from forensics. Fibres found near Yilmaz’s body are Indian cotton, pink, green and white, and the hairs found nearby aren’t Yilmaz’s. They’re dark and the DNA is female. We’ve no idea whether they’re significant. They could have been dropped there any time. The cleaners go in on alternate mornings, so they last cleaned on the Wednesday morning, the day of the murder, but they admit that they only sweep between the rolling stacks where they’re standing open. They don’t move them apart.’

  He looked around at their faces, blank with discouragement.

  ‘Any progress on the Mikhail Belenki connection, Steve?’ he asked.

  Boxer shook his head.

  ‘Nothing yet. The Russian police won’t play ball any way. Official line is there’s no Russian Mafia. All an invention of the West, apparently. We may get something from the Turks, though. I’m waiting on that.’

  ‘And Amiel? Any credit card or phone activity?’

  ‘Nothing. And he doesn’t seem to have bought a new phone – not that we can trace.’

  ‘OK, Thanks. Keep at it. And let’s hope the SOCOs come up with more. Oh, and though we can’t fingerprint the students, we have got something - a pen from one of the classrooms – a boardwriter they use for the whiteboard. Apparently the students as well as the lecturers write on the board. They’re looking for a match with the knife handle. We should have those results by tomorrow.’

  As he left the room, his phone beeped the text message signal and he read:

  Have heard from Ceren.

  Safe and sound.