Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  And froze, swearing as someone in an SUV nearly removed her number plate as he hurtled past her.

  ‘Come on! This is a lane, not the M26! Thirty! You know, there’s a speed limit here for a reason,’ she said to thin air. And blow me if she didn’t heave the car round and set off down the hill after him.

  I could have reasoned with her: road rage wasn’t the answer. But I’d had time to see who was driving. Lady Preston’s estate manager. The man who kept vicious dogs. Maybe the man whose dogs had attacked Zunaid. The man working within earshot of the children whose voices I’d heard. Matt Storm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Diane was never going to catch up with a vehicle going that fast, and by the time she was approaching the harbour car park she was clearly having second, possibly third, thoughts.

  ‘Let’s just park here for a few minutes for you to catch your breath,’ I said, not adding that I’d love to have a quiet, touristy snoop round. And that Diane, nervous and overextended, was not the best person to be in charge of a lethal machine.

  It seemed we even had to pay on Sundays. I coughed up for two hours, though I suspected we’d be leaving within ten minutes. Churcham was not exactly Brighton, and we’d look decidedly out of place in our lunch outfits. But the place was pretty enough, in an underinvested way, with a couple of shops and a walk round the harbour wall. It was just the sort of place anyone would take a lot of photos: boats, sea, shingle. Diane perched on a wall. Me perched on the same wall. Clothes apart, all we needed was kiss-me-quick hats and an ice cream. When I spotted Storm’s SUV parked within fifty metres of the ice cream hut, I drifted us that way. I got a lot of snaps of Diane half-hidden by her overflowing cone, but a lot more she might have thought were of her but were actually of Matt in conversation with some individuals who might well have been innocent yachtsmen but equally might not have been. I made sure the number plate was clearly visible in at least one, but by then a cold breeze was bringing a sea fret in and it was clearly time to call it a day. Even an antique shop was only able to hold our attention for a moment.

  ‘I’ve almost forgotten how to work the heater,’ Diane joked as we dithered back to the car.

  We were well on our circumspect way home when she said, ‘I think that I saw the SUV that was speeding back there. I should have had a word, shouldn’t I? I bet you would.’

  ‘If he’d been a kid in the playground, yes. But not in real life. Not after Simon, Diane. Hey, fancy your friends knowing Caffy. I know this is a cheek, but I’d love to drive past my potential new home and see if the police tape has gone and she and PACT can start work.’

  The tape hadn’t gone. For the first time since yesterday’s fire, I wanted to weep.

  ‘Shall we have a look at your current place?’ she asked, as if seeing a second disaster might brace me.

  I agreed. But there wasn’t much to see. A tent had been erected over the burnt-out shell, suggesting that the victim was still in situ. My house – Brian’s, of course – was guarded with steel shutters.

  As we turned dismally away, a car braked suddenly and Brian emerged, running towards us. ‘My poor girl,’ he declared, enfolding me in a surprising embrace. ‘What a terrible tragedy. How are you coping?’

  When I couId pull back without giving offence, I said, ‘With help from my friends. I shall be staying at the Cricketers until I can work out something else.’

  ‘There’s no need – well, in the short term, perhaps there is – because I have other properties. Not as convenient as this, of course, but not too far away. Sadly the fire service haven’t been able to give me any firm idea of what happens next. I should imagine that’s a demolition job,’ he said, pointing to the cottage next door. ‘But they seemed to think that yours could be salvaged. In time, of course. Such a shame your own building plans have stalled, though I can’t imagine your ever wanting to live in a crime scene, no matter how good a job those women think they can do.’

  I’d never have imagined Brian and Caffy having the same idea.

  ‘I’ve seen some of their work,’ I said, almost truthfully. ‘I’m sure they’ll transform my place beyond recognition. Meanwhile, what grieves me is that lives have been lost,’ I added. ‘Innocent lives.’

  ‘Economic migrants! You’ll be telling me next you think we should let everyone in.’

  ‘I won’t because I don’t. But these people are victims not just of their own ambition – and over here we applaud if people want to better themselves – but of the vile scum called people traffickers.’

  ‘Oh, you Guardian-readers,’ he said with an avuncular smile.

  Diane was checking her texts. ‘I’m sorry, Jane, but I’m going to have to push off – I’ve got a couple of late bookings for tonight. I’m afraid I may have to ask you to move rooms.’

  Brian and I bade each other worryingly courteous farewells.

  ‘I was lying,’ Diane said, as soon as she had started the car. ‘I’d have hit him if we’d stayed. But I didn’t want to lose you that offer of a roof over your head.’

  ‘It’s not his to take away. He and his insurance company have to find me alternative accommodation. It’s part of my contract. But I shall be so glad when I’m no longer beholden to him. Now, may I ask you to drop me at the school? There are some things I simply have to get done for tomorrow.’

  ‘Remember the chef packs up at nine, won’t you? Though I daresay I could always rustle up a sandwich if you’re not too late.’

  ‘After that lunch and that ice cream, I may never eat again. But I’ll call you if I’m going to be really late.’

  The first thing I did was forward to Will some of the photos I’d taken, the ones I itched to see on my nice big computer screen. But I couldn’t ignore the pile of jobs on my desk.

  Ought or must? Which should come first?

  On the grounds I was paid to do one task, no matter how much I wanted to nail anyone involved with what I was increasingly convinced was a people-smuggling gang, I turned to admin. Fortunately Tom was being a wonderfully efficient deputy head, as if anxious to prove that one or two incidents between us in the past were mere blips in an excellent working relationship. So it wasn’t long before I could upload the photos I’d taken and could see much more detail.

  A text came through. Ed. R U free?

  I was about to text him back saying I was too busy or in the bath or something. But if I was either of those things I might not have picked up his text. If in doubt, say not out, is the umpire’s dictum. A friend of mine had added a rider: If in doubt, do nowt.

  There was no car outside to show where I was. It was the work of a moment to make sure I was locked in and no lights were showing. Then I could go back to my office and look properly at those images.

  Then I picked up my phone. To text not Ed, but Elaine and – not at all as an afterthought – Will.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ Elaine gripped my arms and peered at my face, as Robin closed the heavy school door firmly behind them.

  ‘Not a ghost. Someone I thought of as a friend. One of the photos on my phone. But the definition’s not quite good enough to be sure.’

  ‘No problem. We can sort that out.’ She looked at Robin, who nodded.

  ‘It’s pretty well my day job, if no one else is around. If I’ve got the right kit. Let’s see what you’ve got.’ They peered at the images I showed them. ‘It’s hard to tell for sure, so don’t panic … Yes, let’s head to Canterbury nick and I’ll sort those out.’

  Elaine nodded. ‘How many people know you intended to stay at the Cricketers tonight?’

  ‘Brian Dawes. People who knew about the problem with the cottage would probably make an intelligent guess, so I’d include Ed van Boolen.’

  ‘That’s the Wrayfield skipper?’ Robin confirmed.

  ‘Right. And a good enough mate to ask me to a One Day International. He pulled out, and told me to give the tickets to a friend – and then said he was in again.’

  ‘Hm. An
yone else?’

  ‘My car’s ensconced at a crime scene, so people would know I wouldn’t be going far.’

  Elaine pulled a face. ‘Good job I’ve alerted Lloyd and Jo, then. Can you phone Diane and get her to put anything you might need in a bag?’

  ‘OK. But I can’t put her pub in a bag. Or her. What about their security?’

  ‘Your room may be occupied by someone else if I can fix it. And there’ll be other surveillance. Don’t worry, Jane – no one will be put in harm’s way. How long do you need to finish up here?’

  ‘As long as it takes you to call Diane.’

  ‘OK. We’ll stop off at Canterbury nick first – get these images logged as evidence and take a preliminary statement from you.’ She was already dialling, and was as terse with Diane as she had been with me.

  I was just about to grab my bag when I stopped. ‘I need to double-check everything’s locked before I go. Right?’

  ‘Right. I’ll come with you,’ Robin said.

  We worked as a team, looking in alternate rooms. All well. Until he called me. One of the outer doors was unlocked.

  ‘Locking up’s Ed van Boolen’s job, and Brian usually double-checks, but neither was anywhere to be seen – remember? So I did it, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did. And I suspect Will was looking over your shoulder … Not quite OCD. Just very conscientious.’ He grinned. ‘OK, let’s relock it, and in the absence of Will I’ll personally push it to make sure you’ve done a proper job. By the way, did Elaine tell you you’d have to lie down in the back passenger footwell with a blanket over you?’

  A civilian techie was doing even cleverer things enlarging details of the photos than I’d done, his task probably made no easier by Robin’s peering over his shoulder and making suggestions.

  Elaine came surging in.

  ‘No sign yet of Marcus Baker,’ I told her.

  ‘No. Nor the delightful Grazia,’ Robin said. ‘But I really think I should push off. We’ve got a big case conference tomorrow – I need to be on top of my brief.’ He dotted a kiss on her cheek, and headed for the door, turning at the last moment. ‘Jane, use your common sense, won’t you? No heroics?’

  He was gone before I could think of a riposte.

  Elaine took his place beside the techie, who, with a sigh and a meaningful glance at his watch, started to rerun the images. She watched in silence. At last she glanced at me, making space beside her so I had a better view of the monitor. ‘I recognise one of the company, but I gather you don’t? This one? No?’

  ‘It must be the company you keep, Elaine – I’m just a respectable teacher, remember.’ The techie moved to the next image, taken from a slightly different angle. ‘My God, I don’t believe it! Gerry Paine! Mr English First! The guy who wants nasty immigrants kept away from his kids lest they pollute them. What’s he doing there?’

  ‘Show me. My God, I think you’re right. That’s weird, isn’t it?’

  ‘Assuming he’s talking to people smugglers, not confronting them. Or am I making an assumption too far? You do think that that’s what Matt Storm’s involved with?’

  ‘You’re a witness, Jane: I can’t confirm or deny anything like that. I’m really sorry. But I daren’t do anything that might compromise a trial. I know I’m keeping you in the dark about a whole lot of things, but I have to.’ Touching her lips, she nodded in the direction of the techie. Suddenly I remembered one of my favourite TV series. Cagney and Lacey exchanged a lot of information in the ladies’ loo, didn’t they?

  Before I could suggest we adjourn there, Elaine pointed. Then she put her arm round me. ‘Yes, Jane – I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.’

  There wasn’t, much as I’d fought against accepting it. As I fooled around for Diane so she could get some snaps, a familiar face was looking – appalled – in my direction. With his arm round Matt’s shoulder, there was Ed van Boolen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ed van Boolen.

  My face wouldn’t move. Rigid with shock and disbelief, it must have mirrored that image of Ed’s. Or perhaps not quite. I suppose I was less surprised, having fought off admitting the very notion that he could have been part of what I was beginning to think of as a gang. He was a friend. Well, better than just an acquaintance, anyway. Someone I might have considered dating. A fine upstanding cricketer, who’d given so much time to the kids at the school. A man devoted to making things grow, though I had to admit he’d been very equivocal about rescuing my garden from all its chaos. Perhaps, now I came to think of it, he had a very good reason not to want to dash in and help me: he knew more about that garden, and especially about the garage, than I did. Maybe he’d even driven the poor kid there in the first place.

  I don’t think the others even noticed my distress. They calmly continued to scan each face they found, from time to time muttering names I didn’t recognise. I ought to say something, but my mouth was still too dry to frame any words. Some tiny part of me resented that something I’d initiated was running briskly away from me. Then I reminded myself furiously that they were the professionals. I was just a witness, a tired one at that.

  ‘… that one? Jane, do you know this guy? Hey, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, Elaine. But I could do with a coffee and a loo. In reverse order, actually. No, I don’t know him. You know, there are other names I’d like to throw at you. And there are questions I really want to ask. But a five minutes’ break would be great.’

  The techie muttered and kept his eyes on the monitor. Elaine flapped a hand in irritation, I thought, at having her concentration broken. On the other hand she didn’t look well, easing her back, and now chewing Gaviscon tablets. Maybe soon I’d have to be more assertive, but for the moment I would do something more useful to them – possibly. A teacher always needs a pen to hand, at one time red until educational psychologists thought it was too demoralising for children to have their work criticised so vividly. I fished a black one from my bag and, finding a scrap of paper on the table at which I was sitting, started jotting.

  News of Harry and Doreen – anything, even a burnt-out car

  The corpse in the garage of my new home (always assuming I get there)

  The corpse next door

  The kid who wouldn’t change his clothes

  The bivouac in the woods

  Justin Forbes and his promontory

  Was it Grazia or someone else who knocked me off my bike?

  Lady Preston: did she know about Matt’s activities?

  And were her pictures – if they existed – relevant to the situation?

  And were Matt’s activities illegal in the first place?

  And where is Will?

  Not that I added that to the list, of course. But I had sent him an awful lot of information and had had of late remarkably little feedback. Or did I mean contact? I hung my head, figuratively at least. I’d told myself all my dealings with him had to be professional. Hadn’t I? And any moment I’d be teenage-weepy because his dealings with me were being professional.

  I added one more note – mental, not literal:

  When can I go home? If not home, if not to Diane’s, then to Jo and Lloyd’s?

  Another five minutes of urgent conversation ensued. The hands on the big office clock confirmed it.

  ‘Elaine, I really do need that loo.’

  She jumped, as if a chair had spoken. And why not? She was doing her job, just as I’d done my part when I provided the material. More Gaviscon tablets.

  I repeated what I’d said. ‘I have a feeling that even with this ID I’m not just supposed to wander round till I find one,’ I added dryly. I had a feeling that even if she took time to escort me there’d be no Cagney and Lacey moments.

  She pointed vaguely. ‘OK. It’s third on the right when you go out of here.’

  I found not only the loo, but a coffee machine. I had enough change for a hot chocolate. Just the one.

  It was probably only my warning cough that told them I was
back in the room. That and the smell of the chocolate.

  ‘Sorry – you wanted some coffee, didn’t you?’ Elaine said. ‘You know what it’s like, Jane – you get engrossed … Now, we’ve done all we can with the people on these images. Do you want one last scan? Or can Steve here go home?’

  I hoped it looked as if I was giving it due consideration.

  Whatever I was going to say, Steve gathered his stuff and slid off.

  ‘What I would like is some information you may or may not be able to give me. This is a people-trafficking operation – right? And you must have evidence other than mine that these men were involved with it.’ A wary look was coming into her eyes. ‘Did you find the little boats I mentioned, at Churcham and at St Luke’s Bay? And what about that little shelter I told Will about – the one he warned me not to approach?’

  Elaine came across to me. ‘Jane, I know it’s frustrating for you, but this is our case and we can’t risk compromising it to make you feel more involved.’

  ‘I can see that – but the truth is I am involved. I got involved the day I was knocked off my bike and was rescued by two kindly people who have subsequently disappeared and had their place torched. All the times I’ve asked local builders to work on my new property only to have them make the feeblest excuses to run away. When I helped you deal with Zunaid. If I knew what you wanted,’ I added, ‘I might even have more information for you. If it’s not appropriate for you to question me more tonight, I might as well push off home. Oh, I can’t, can I, because someone torched the house next door.’

  Elaine’s head jerked up. ‘To the best of our knowledge, as we told the media, it was a vagrant who started it accidentally.’

  I spoke in my driest, most cynical headmistress voice: ‘So there were no traces of accelerant anywhere?’ I was only guessing but I’d bet my pension that I’d touched a nerve. ‘You see, I’d say that there was a pattern emerging.’ Speaking of patterns, I could see one in Lady Preston’s behaviour now: her interest, genuine or spurious, in the kids’ exercise. Her desire to come into school and see who was doing running practice – could she be checking up? Looking for someone? Someone concealed within the all-too solid and well-guarded walls of her estate?