Out of Mind

by Catherine Sampson

  I turned and took one last look behind me, back into the house. That house, Anita’s room, it had an awful, magnetic quality to it. The glass door to the garden was propped slightly open, and the lights inside the house shone brightly. I could see the area from which I had fled. On Anita’s elegant bed I could see not only Anita, still prone, but Kes, sitting with his head bowed. He turned to look at Anita. I could not see his face. He reached out and let his fingers brush the nape of her neck, but only for an instant. Then, rapidly, he withdrew his hand and touched his fingers to his mouth, then drew his palm over his face as though he were washing it clean. I heard a movement behind me and turned to find Jacqui there in the darkness. In her face I saw misery, but I saw something else as well. I saw calculation. We stared at each other. What had she seen? What had either of us seen?

  Chapter Nineteen

  THAT night, Finney turned up out of the blue. He rang the bell, then turned his key in the lock and stepped tentatively inside as I reached the hallway, William in my arms.

  “Hello.” I must have grinned or shown my pleasure in some way, because relief swept over his face. He raised a supermarket bag high.

  “I’m assuming you haven’t eaten since I last saw you.”

  “I’m quite capable of feeding myself.”

  “You’re a hopeless liar.” He walked past me and into the kitchen and flung open the door to the fridge. William, I noticed, was watching Finney carefully. I put him down, assuming he’d run off to find Hannah, but instead he squeezed in beside Finney for a better view as Finney retrieved the one item sitting on the shelf. “Fish for a Kid’s Dish,” Finney read aloud from the packaging, and William started to giggle. Finney glanced down at him, noticing him for the first time. “Hang on, what’s this?” He reached up to the top shelf and poked around. “Salami? Cheese? Cream? What’s going on? Has your mum been shopping?” he asked William.

  “It’s all Carol’s.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Finney.” He turned, surprised by my tone. “I tried to call you the other night, and a woman answered.”

  He stood there, a pack of Gorgonzola in one hand, salami in the other.

  “That would’ve been Emma,” he said. “She’d come round to use the computer.”

  “She said you couldn’t talk to me, she said it was a bad time.”

  “Then it probably was a bad time.” He was sounding defensive.

  “You didn’t phone me back.”

  “I didn’t know you’d phoned in the first place.”

  “You mean she didn’t tell you?”

  I should have handled it better. I should have just trusted him. He was there, after all, in my home, with food for the fridge. No greater love, surely, hath any man than that he buys groceries for dinner. But my questions had thrown a pall over the evening.

  We tried to talk, but as soon as I began to speak about what had happened at the Darling household, Finney became increasingly argumentative. What was I doing meddling? Didn’t I realize I was walking straight into the middle of a police investigation? I nearly asked him, then, whether he was really worried about me meddling in the Darling case or whether he was just angry with me for challenging him about Emma. Unusually, for me, I managed to bite the question back.

  “Okay, okay.” I held up my hands. “Look, I have to fly to Majorca tomorrow morning for filming. I’ll have to leave early. Do you want to stay or go?”

  Finney leaned back in his chair and looked at me from under heavy lids. “I have someone staying at my place,” he said. “I’d rather stay here.”

  I gazed at him. The expression on Finney’s face told me that my questions had to wait.

  “Okay,” I said less than graciously, “so stay.”

  The next morning Hannah was in high spirits, refusing to eat, refusing to get dressed, scuttling in and around the furniture so that I couldn’t catch her and remove the ton weight of nappy around her knees. William had tipped juice down his T-shirt and was outraged and wet, yelling loudly. These things always happened when I least had the time to deal with them. My flight was at eleven-thirty, but getting to Heathrow would be a nightmare. Finney came into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, running his hand through hair that was standing on end. He didn’t want to catch my eye, didn’t want to get involved.

  “What’s your problem?” Finney’s question to William was rhetorical, but William didn’t see it like that.

  “I’m wet!” William howled, omitting the consonants that would have given Finney the clue he needed.

  “He’s wet,” I interpreted, making another grab for Hannah, who was standing behind Finney aiming sharp kicks at his ankles.

  Finney squinted sleepily down at my son, and eventually his investigator’s eyes identified the problem. He picked up a tea towel and dabbed ineffectually at William’s T-shirt. With unusually clear enunciation, William yelled, “Don’t want you!”

  Finney turned to me, his jaw tight. “Can’t you give them some ice cream or something to shut them up?”

  I ignored him, but Hannah had heard.

  “Ice cream!” she squealed, then turned it into a chant.

  I rolled my eyes at Finney, but he just turned away to pour himself some coffee. Carol walked in.

  “All present and chaotic, I see,” she said approvingly. She whipped off William’s wet T-shirt, produced a dry one she just happened to have with her, and pulled it down over his surprised head, then swung Hannah onto her chair, telling her that if she kicked people, she would have to go to her room. Hannah hung her head, and Carol turned to me, looking what I can only describe as smug. She loves it when there is a crisis to be resolved, a mess to be cleared up, a scratched knee to be healed. She has a transformative ability that I simply cannot match.

  “Thank you, Carol,” I said, looking hopelessly at my well-behaved children. I must be doing something wrong.

  There was a hammering on the front door. I found Tanya standing there, her face pinched with misery. She barged in furiously and started immediately to berate me.

  “How can you go along with this?” she demanded. “Of all the wrong places to put that man, it’s the worst.”

  “I haven’t gone along with anything,” I protested.

  “Well, he’s still there. He should never have been there in the first place. What sort of stupid game does Lorna think she’s playing?”

  Finney had been drawn out of the kitchen by our voices and now stood in the hallway, sipping from a mug of coffee. He said nothing, but Tanya addressed him angrily.

  “You do know that Lorna and Robin have set our criminal father up in a safe house?”

  She waited for an answer, but he gave her none, his eyes flickering to me, then away again.

  I shook my head. “I’ve done nothing of the—”

  “She’s told you, hasn’t she?” Tanya interrupted. “That they’ve put him in Ma’s house? Don’t tell me you think it’s a good idea?”

  She listened to the silence that followed her declaration. I looked at the floor, but it wasn’t about to open up and swallow me, so I had no alternative but to look at Finney. He stood very still, the mug of coffee in his hand. I don’t know what he saw in my eyes, but in his I saw weary frustration. He turned and disappeared in the direction of the bedroom, and I saw Tanya’s face fall, but then she gathered force once more and cried after him.

  “You’re a policeman, you should send someone around and lock him away.”

  The she turned and left, slamming the door behind her.

  Finney eventually reemerged. He’d had a go at combing his hair but had not been able to subdue it, and his chin was still unshaven.

  “Check your e-mail,” he said. “There should be a message there from my personal account—I have a friend in the police force in Paris. I asked him to help me with a little research. He came over—he’s staying at my flat for a day or two with his girlfriend, turning it into a bit of a holiday—and he put it all together in a file attachment. He didn’t wan
t to do it in Paris. It could have got him in trouble. Anyway, he said he’d send it last night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Take a look. I’ve got to run. You may want to think about what Tanya was saying.”

  He pulled open the front door, then turned to kiss me, but his heart wasn’t in it. I watched him walk off down the road. If he was losing faith in me, I had only myself to blame.

  I raced around, throwing a change of clothes in a bag to go to Majorca. At the same time, I printed out the message that was, as Finney had promised, sitting in my in-box. It came from Finney’s personal e-mail account, but there was no indication of the author’s name. I had no time to read it, so I stuffed the pages into my bag. It wasn’t until I was sitting on the plane next to Dave, who was snoring even before takeoff, that I had a chance to take a look. I thumbed through the sheets. My father’s name, Gilbert Ballantyne, appeared every few lines. Most of the documents were in French. Some were transcripts of newspaper articles, some appeared to be police statements. As I read, I pieced the story together.

  Here, then, was the school, a small, private girls’ school specializing in foreign languages. And here the scandal, as described in a newsmagazine. It began with the arrival of a man at the school gate one day and his request to see the principal. Somehow, although it was not entirely clear what the man had said to give this impression, the principal’s secretary was under the impression that the gentleman had a daughter he wished to enroll in the school. When admitted, the man had said, in perfect French, that he wished to apply for the post of teacher of conversational English. Questioned by a confused principal about the daughter, the gentleman said that he did indeed have a daughter, that her mother had recently died, and that his intention in seeking a job—although he was beyond retirement age—was to be able to pay for an education for this girl, who was called Sabine. The principal was a principled man, who also had a daughter called Sabine. Indeed, one of his principles was to provide a high-quality private education for what he considered a reasonable price, so that girls such as the motherless Sabine could attend.

  He asked Gilbert Ballantyne for a curriculum vitae, which Ballantyne provided the very next day. It was thick with teaching experience, in several countries with obscure dialing codes and uncertain e-mail access, and rich in praise for his mastery of English and English grammar, his precision of explanation, his prowess as a motivator. Gilbert Ballantyne was invited to bring Sabine along for an interview and to conduct a trial class so that the principal could watch.

  Sabine, charming and modest, her eyes still full of pain at the death of her mother, was immediately welcomed into the bosom of the school. Meanwhile, her father gave his trial lesson, and it was a class of sheer brilliance, as Gilbert teased English even from those who could scarcely say “How are you?” Their standards of English varied widely, but Gilbert had them working together so that the more advanced taught the less advanced and the troublemakers were given a pep talk that filled them with new purpose and direction.

  For six months, Gilbert injected new life into the school. Only later did some of the staff look back and wonder at some of the things that Sabine had said. Once she was overheard to talk fondly of her mother as though she were still alive. On another occasion she recounted the death of her mother, who had died in a car accident. Yet the very next week she told the story again, and this time her mother died as a blessed relief after a painful and lingering illness. Sabine was a good student, with a quick mind and an ear for languages, although some of the teachers noticed the young girl’s disturbing tendency to draw a tight clique of friends around her and then to play this clique off against those she did not like. Sabine even picked off those inside her clique whom she had marked out as traitors and inducted new members who swore terrified but exhilarated allegiance to her. Nevertheless, the teachers understood that this mysterious girl had experienced tragedy too young and must be given time to heal and mature. Certainly she never caused trouble in class, unless one counted the subtle loss of morale in some of those she had been close to and was close to no longer.

  Meanwhile, Gilbert was a consistently popular teacher. When the principal suffered a heart attack, the school was plunged into chaos. So much responsibility had rested on this one man. When Gilbert modestly offered his services in whatever capacity was useful, his offer was welcomed with a Gallic sigh of relief. Of course, there were various contributions that Gilbert Ballantyne could make, several of which were discussed.

  No one, at this point, is quite clear how it came to pass that Gilbert Ballantyne, a man with no financial qualifications, even on the curriculum vitae held by the school, came to be given such responsibility, but that he was seemed a reflection of the high esteem in which he was held by the school community. In particular, the school secretary, a lonely married woman of some glamour, felt a deep bond with Gilbert, a man of a similar age, who looked a little lonely and who treated her with the utmost respect, unlike her husband. Everyone was also admiring of Sabine, who worked hard and had by now entered into all the school activities, especially the community welfare projects, at which she would help her father distribute soup to the poor in the winter. If there was, at that point, any criticism of Gilbert, it was only that he was in danger of exhausting himself with work. They diagnosed his excess of involvement thus:

  “C’est parce que sa femme, elle est morte depuis deux ans.”

  For six months, while the principal was in intensive care and then convalescing at home, Gilbert Ballantyne was, in effect, in control of the entire school budget. The teachers were surprised, but pleased, in his second month of tenure, to read an announcement (signed by the principal) that in fact the budget allowed for modest bonuses to be paid to all staff. The bonuses appeared in their pay packets at the end of the next month. There was also a staff party at a reasonably priced restaurant, at which a certain amount of red wine was supplied and subsequently imbibed.

  For some months these bonuses continued. Later, one or two of the staff would question where the money came from. But at the time it was deemed better not to inquire. There was even, among some members of staff, a certain amount of resentment that the excess in the budget had not been recognized and distributed earlier. One of the junior teachers was able now to put down a deposit on a house; another allowed herself to become pregnant, although she later regretted it.

  The week that the principal returned to work, Gilbert organized another party, a success like the first. He, however, was absent, sending a message that he had caught a bug and was unwell. Sabine, it transpired, had the same bug, a nasty virus that lingered. When, the next day, the school secretary rang Gilbert at home with a billing question about the party, the phone rang and rang, and she had the strange sensation that it was ringing into an empty space. The next week, dealing with the same billing issue, the principal pointed to the signature on the catering order form and asked the school secretary, “C’est à qui, ça?”

  “Mais c’est la votre, non?”

  When the principal shook his head gravely, the blood drained from the school secretary’s face. She hurried to the filing cabinets, from where she retrieved a large stack of documents, all bearing the same signature. She collapsed into her chair and stared at the documents. At the top of the pile was the letter authorizing the staff bonuses. She knew, also, that somewhere in that pile of paper was a letter signed by the principal informing parents of the annual school trip to London, detailing costs, and requesting that payment be made directly to the organizer, Gilbert Ballantyne. It was a letter that Gilbert had professed himself most unhappy with.

  “I don’t like to use my personal account for the girls’ money,” he’d protested. “Isn’t there some other way that we can do it?”

  But for some reason—the school secretary had forgotten now what the reason was—it transpired that the only sensible way to do it was through Gilbert’s account. Were there tickets to show for this? An itinerary? She rang the air
line advertised and then the hotel. There were reservations, certainly, in the girls’ names. A nonrefundable deposit, indeed, had been paid. The balance of the tickets should have been paid for a week earlier, but they had heard nothing from Mr. Ballantyne. Did he still require the seats?

  Her heart so heavy that it had taken refuge somewhere in her gut, the school secretary carried the documents through to the principal and placed them one by one in front of him, forgetting his heart condition and failing to note the pallor of the man and the drops of sweat that developed on his brow as they proceeded. She showed him the signature on the bonus notification.

  “Et celle-là, c’est la votre?”

  “Non. Ce n’est pas la mienne.” His voice was clipped, tense, quite unlike his usual tone.

  She showed him the letter about payment for the school trip. He read it without comment.

  “Non. Je ne l’ai jamais vue.”

  He reached his hand for the next document, read through it. It was a notification to teachers of the upcoming visit of the school inspectors. He had signed it during one of Gilbert’s regular visits to his house. Gilbert always carried a briefcase with him and would usually produce some piece of paper or other for his signature. For the most part, these were, like the notification of the school inspection, things of no great financial import.

  “Oui,” he told his secretary, “celle-là, c’est la mienne.”

  Relieved, she handed him the next document. If it was just the bonuses, well, the teachers would just have to pay them back, although she did not want to have to be the one to tell them. If the parents had lost the money on the school trip, there would be a huge loss of confidence in the school and some very angry calls that she would have to field, but the school would survive.