If Simon hadn’t wanted tea, I did, and I filled the kettle. Chris put out the mugs and sniffed the milk suspiciously. I decided not to notice.
‘Why don’t we take this into the garden?’ he asked. ‘Is this the key for the patio door?’
I nodded. The possibility of someone listening to us was unbearable. And I didn’t want anyone eavesdropping on my phone calls, either. When the phone rang I picked it up as if I might burn myself.
It was Richard Fairfax. I mouthed his name to Chris, who was dawdling over unlocking the door. He drew a question mark in the air and raised his eyebrows.
‘Sophie, my dear, I was wondering if you might be kind enough to do me the most enormous favour.’
That was Fairfax: no messing around with preliminary enquiries about my health.
‘If I can,’ I said, cautiously: three possible listeners after all.
‘My damned secretary – can’t think what she was playing at: usually a most efficient woman. She forgot to diarise it forward for me or I’d have given you more notice. There’s a function at the Botanical Gardens tonight. A reception for a Russian trade delegation. I wondered if it might amuse you. The gardens are worth seeing, after all.’
The Botanical Gardens were worth seeing at any time; that was why I’d taken out membership.
‘Can you give me a few minutes? I have visitors and I don’t know their plans. I’ll call you back.’
He couldn’t disguise the surprise in his voice: presumably most people agreed to his proposals. But he gave me his number.
Chris stolled down to the compost heap. I joined him and reported.
I suppose I expected a derisory comment about going out with a man old enough to be my father and my favoured makes of car. But he gazed into the humus as if considering a much more impersonal proposition. I waited.
‘I don’t think you’ll enjoy seeing Gavin and his colleague searching your home. And as far as Fairfax is concerned – well, you might have an interesting evening.’
I stared. He smiled back, blandly.
‘Have you got something on Fairfax?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea? Surely he must be a most moral and upright citizen to be chair of your board of governors?’
‘Board – oh, you mean a trustee.’
‘I mean the governors of your college. Well, your temporary habitat. Didn’t you know? Surely you should know all your governors by sight and name. In the interests of self-preservation at least!’ He broke off a young shoot of rhubarb, sliced the leaf and root on to the compost heap and started to chew; from the expression on his face it was less sweet than he’d expected.
‘In that case, I don’t think I want to spend an evening with him. It seems he’s not been entirely honest, to say the least.’
‘I’ll bet he thought you were just too tactful to mention it. Go on, let your hair down. That silk thing’ll be just the ticket. You know, the one you wore at the Mondiale. But leave your credit card at home. Dave Clarke was asking after you this afternoon, by the way.’
‘Hmph,’ I said. ‘OK. I’ll tell Fairfax I’ll go. And maybe it’d be better if you moved your car in front of Aggie’s and arranged for Gavin to come after I’ve left.’
‘D’you think he’d be embarrassed by the reception committee? Or would you be?’
I shook my head slowly. ‘I don’t know. I’d just prefer him not to know.’
‘And you’d rather we weren’t here, should you invite him back for a nightcap.’
It was either bite or not bite. It would irritate him more if I didn’t, so I simply remarked, as I headed back to the house: ‘If I’ve got bugs infesting the place, I’m hardly likely to have my nightcap here. No, it’d be champagne in the Jacuzzi chez lui. I do hope he’s got satin sheets.’
A walking stick is definitely a conversational asset, though I’d not recommend one if you are supposed to be juggling a bag, a glass of wine and a fork buffet. Fairfax seemed to have brought me along as a silent, decorative appendage to match the silent, decorative appendages of the other middle-aged men. As such I failed miserably, of course, but my temerity in joing in conversations seemed to raise other women’s spirits too, and I found that I was really enjoying myself. We sank liverish quantities of champagne, were treated by the peacock to a display on the terrace and were roundly abused by the mynah birds.
In fact we were so busy gossiping that we missed the function-suite exit and made our way instead through the hothouses. A shoal of fish rose to the surface of the big round pond, as if expecting to be fed. And then, silent and almost colourless, with opaque eyes and a blind, rapacious mouth, another figure joined them. Perhaps it was its sheer size – it must have been two feet long – that made it so repulsive. Or perhaps it was a reminder of another, more sinister world better forgotten.
The carp mouthed us silently out of sight.
17
Chris had left a brief note on the stairs. There was some good news to start with: his colleagues had found a tarpaulin after a hunt through rubbish tips, and yes, there were appropriate bloodstains, so he could push forward his inquiries. The second paragraph tersely invited me for a lunchtime pint the following day, which I couldn’t help feeling sounded fairly ominous. We would meet at my house first, twelvish. Apart from this there was no evidence that he and Gavin might have spent the evening tearing my house apart.
I’d said good night to Richard Fairfax on my front doorstep. The question of coffee or more had simply not arisen. After a token sip of champagne, he’d been silent for the latter part of the evening, and I’d seen him slide a couple of tablets into his mouth two or three times. It didn’t need the arrival of the monstrous carp to make him go pale. During the short drive back from the Botanical Gardens we’d talked in an uncritical way of some of our fellow guests and of his desire to grow better azaleas.
I swear that when I arrived at George Muntz I had no intention of doing anything of which Chris would not approve. But by absolute coincidence my college photocopying card ran out. We have a plastic-pass system to enable us to take up to two hundred and fifty copies; then we have to get another from Personnel. It was no longer a simple matter of tapping on their door and being let in. I had to battle with the sort of security system I’d always associated with blocks of flats. Although I was swiftly admitted, the service when I got in was nowhere near as prompt. Someone had just brought in her new baby: no doubt she’d started her leave before I arrived. There was, of course, a great deal of cooing and chucking under chins, which the baby bore with fortitude despite the fact that all the department must have been round it – probably fifteen or sixteen women. I looked round the office and, seeing nothing more interesting to do, plonked down on the nearest vacant chair to wait. Quite by chance I found one by a computer, the monitor of which was still full of data.
Down the left hand side was a row of names. Adams, S.; Ashcroft, R. B.; Atkins, P. J.; Barratt, S. R.; Blake, D. M.; and so through the alphabet down to Forster, who to my regret was E. N., not E. M. Between the names and the figures was a column of abbreviations: L, .5, MS 5; MS 10; Ch. Exec. It did not take much effort to work out that I was looking at a list of staff, with their rank and, by the look of it, their annual salary. Blake, D. M., Ch. Exec., £85,750.
Blessing the introduction of beautifully silent laser printers into the college’s administrative system, I decided to print from the screen. I had a fair idea of what I might do when I got my new photocopy card.
The evidence was inescapable. The little grey plastic box sat accusingly on my kitchen table. None of us said anything. Finally Gavin picked it up and carried it back into the living room. I watched him stick it back under the shelf on which my phone sits. We exchanged glances.
‘Pub, I think,’ I said at last. ‘For that drink you mentioned, Chris.’
The two men escorted me in virtual silence, not straight to the pub, however, but to a bench in Queen’s Park.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Gavin said at last,
as if it was his fault.
Chris nodded. He was slumped forward, elbows on thighs, hands drooping loosely between his knees.
‘Have you had any deliveries recently?’ asked Gavin.
I shook my head.
‘Had your gas fire or central heating serviced?’ he pursued.
I shook my head again.
‘What about those flowers?’ Chris asked.
‘Aggie took them in and put them in the sink. In any case, the only bug they’d conceal would be the six-legged variety.’
‘Are you sure about that? That it was she who put them in the sink? Not someone purporting to come from a florist?’ asked Gavin.
‘Ask her yourself. But I’d bet my holiday that she did it herself. She guards my place like her own, bless her. You’ve seen her, Chris!’ I said, trying to sound positive when the only conclusion I or any of us could draw was that someone I knew socially, a friend, perhaps, had planted it.
‘You cold?’ Gavin asked.
I regarded my shaking hands with distaste. ‘Probably. Yes, time to go in for that pint, I’d say.’
Chris shook his head. ‘I think you should consider a few possibilities, Sophie. And they’re much the same as those you considered when we found the device in your office. If we remove it, whoever planted it will know.’
‘There’s always a possibility that there are other, smaller ones around too,’ said Gavin.
‘Shit. Didn’t you check? Or are you telling me there are others? Don’t pussyfoot around. I have a right to know the worst. I live there, after all.’
‘Let’s just say, don’t talk in your sleep.’
‘Jesus!’ I said bitterly. I found I was ready to cry. So I braced my back, and said jauntily, ‘Any ideas, gentlemen?’
Lunch was relatively silent; I was too preoccupied to talk. My half of mild seemed lukewarm, and the sandwich couldn’t tempt me. On the other hand, Chris and Gavin ate and drank with every appearance of enjoyment. After ten minutes I could bear it no longer. ‘What you really want me to do is live with the bugs. And have some of yours for good measure.’
Neither tried to deny it.
‘I ought to abide by your judgement. You’re the professionals.’
‘True,’ said Gavin. ‘But it’s your life they’re interested in.’
George Muntz was a-buzz when I got back after lunch. Everyone was clutching an A4 sheet of paper. Peggy gestured me over.
‘You’ll find one of these in your pigeonhole, dear. But you’ll have to fight your way through everyone else to get to it. So have a little read of mine.’ She passed me a familiar photocopy of rows of figures.
‘See what I mean?’ Peggy asked, over my shoulder. ‘And you see that there? That’s supposed to be his expenses: £25,000. Hmm,’ she said meaningfully, while I whistled. ‘And see, here’s that little toad Curtis. Too-poor-to-give-to-Oxfam Curtis. We thought he was doing well to get £40,000, and there he’s got £65,000, and £15,000 expenses.’
I pointed to the second Curtis column: Dep. Ch. Exec.
‘Quite!’ Peggy said. ‘Getting that sort of job. I told you he’s not got a qualification to his name.’
‘An unqualified success, you might say.’ And then I was suddenly serious. ‘Are you sure about that? Surely you must need all sorts of accountancy exams to get to his level?’
‘Well, you only need an art diploma to run the place,’ she said tartly. ‘That and a measly BEd. No,’ she continued, ‘Ellen, she was the receptionist before me, always swore that Mr Curtis never got above Ordinary National Certificate. Her nephew or someone was at college at the same time.’
‘But he claims to be – got any college notepaper there? Let’s look at the letter heading. He claims to be CIPFA and FCA. Have you ever mentioned this theory to anyone?’
‘Never thought it was any of my business, dear. And in any case, even if it was my business, who would I speak to? Mr Blake? He always looks so harassed these days. Sophie, what’s the matter? What have I said?’
‘Nothing. Peggy, you wouldn’t know which college Ellen’s nephew went to, would you?’
She shook her head. ‘And she died a year last Christmas, poor soul. Cancer,’ she mouthed, as if saying it out loud might spread the disease.
I nodded solemnly, then added, ‘I know this may seem an odd thing to say, but if you’ve kept quiet this long, it seems to me the sensible thing to keep quiet a little longer.’
I didn’t rub my hands with glee until I got back to my office, and then it was a very silent rub. My little ploy had worked. I wouldn’t have needed to use such underhand tactics back at William Murdock – they had a policy of open files on such matters, so if anyone wanted to know how much anyone was getting it was simply a matter of asking. Not for the first time, the tatty, underfunded old place glittered like an oasis.
I actually enjoyed teaching for the rest of the afternoon. At last I’d seemed to have persuaded the students that they, not I, would be taking the exams, and a gratifying number had produced essays for me to mark. I celebrated with a quiet, uninterrupted evening’s marking at home. Quiet, that is, apart from Beethoven and Brahms played very loudly on the radio, which I carried with me wherever I went.
If the listeners had bugged my bedroom, I hope they enjoyed the World Service which I left on all night to provide a lullaby. Today kept me company over breakfast.
Most of Friday was a perfectly ordinary day, which I found disconcerting in itself. I’d have expected some repercussions from my activities with the staff records, but the college had sunk back into its usual sullenness. I taught; I worked conscientiously on the project; and at last I had one idea. What about checking Curtis’s qualifications myself? Well, not quite myself. I wouldn’t risk another visit to Personnel, but I did have another resource.
I found all the small change I could and as soon as I could decently leave Muntz headed for a public call box. At William Murdock was a colleague in the admin, team called Luke Schneider, with an unparalleled ability to pull figures out of his hat. He also had a long memory and a keen sense of justice.
He greeted me as if pleased to hear from me, though since it was only ten minutes before his weekend was due to start I might have been mistaken. Certainly he didn’t seem to object that my enquiries after his health and wellbeing were perfunctory at best, and that I brushed aside his reciprocal questions.
‘Luke, I have the longest of longshots here, but I want your help.’
‘OK, girl, fire away.’
‘I want you to check someone’s qualifications. About fifteen years ago, say, and probably on some local government ONC course. The sort that could lead on to accountancy qualifications. I’m just hoping he did his exams at Murdock, but the ONC’s all I’ve got to go on.’
‘Fifteen years! But that’s paper records, Sophie. We’ve computerised back to ’86 now – but fifteen years!’ Then his voice changed. ‘Is it important?’
‘Might be. I can’t even promise that you won’t be wasting all that time anyway.’
‘Not so much the time, more my dust allergy. Look, I won’t promise, but if I can find anything I’ll call you back. Home or Muntz?’
I was about to say home, but then I remembered.
‘No! No, I’ll phone you, Luke! Don’t try to—’ But my money had run out and I had to hope he’d heard.
It occurred to me that if I had to live my working and home life within constant earshot of others, the less time I spent in either location, the better. Friday night was rehearsal night, of course, and then there’d be the pub afterwards. As for the weekend – well, there was a handwritten note from Richard Fairfax on my mat when I got home. Apart from brief surprise that he hadn’t got his secretary to type it, my main emotion was gratitude. He was offering me a day out on the river. Which river wasn’t specified, but I’d bet my life it wasn’t Birmingham’s mucky old Rea.
18
There were two messages on my answering machine when I got back from choir practice. The fir
st was from Simon: if we were having a recycling competition (were we?), then I ought to go with him to a car-boot sale he’d spotted. He’d collect me at ten on Sunday. The second was from Aberlene. She and Tobias were now known to be an item. They’d like to make a foursome with me and Chris (would they indeed?) for a meal. And since when had George Muntz College, Birmingham, had an outpost in Bradford?
It was too late to phone back and ask what on earth she meant. I’d hung on as late as I could at the Duke of Clarence, though Luigi and Maria had left it to the tender mercies of their macho son while they went to a family wedding back home and the temperature of the red wine would have made Luigi weep. Jess (Brum for Guiseppe) had also let the jukebox loose. It was only the thought of the eager listeners wasting hour upon hour waiting for me to say something significant that kept me out of my home.
Still assisted by the World Service I slept deeply, only to be woken by my alarm. Saturday, and I’d set the alarm? I slapped it irritably but then heard the paper arrive. And soon I realised it was a sunny day and I was supposed to be spending it with Richard Fairfax. I’d set the alarm because he hadn’t mentioned what time he’d be collecting me. For once it had nothing to do with my irritating overpunctuality; I simply didn’t choose to be caught dishevelled and off guard with sleep.
As it was, I was very dishevelled and completely off guard after showering and washing my hair when the doorbell rang. Surely not Fairfax already? I was tempted to let it ring; but then, at this hour, it might simply be the postman. Decent in my dressing gown, but my hair dripping because I’d put down my towel somewhere, I hurtled down the stairs. Not Fairfax; not the postman: Dave Clarke, he of the jeans and genitals, stood there. He stepped uninvited into the hall.
‘News for you, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘About your big fraud case.’ His voice rang out as if he were giving advice to a striker at the Hawthorns.
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