Until we were torn apart. ‘What the hell are you doing, woman? I told you to keep away from here!’ a man yelled. Rufus Petrie. Then he let go, but as if someone made him.
Soon there was a grotesque melee in progress, the police more interested in keeping apart the antagonists than finding out the cause. I didn’t have the strength to step forward and yell at them. But it turned out it was no one else’s job. Whatever I said seemed to establish a shamefaced truce, finally established by the arrival of what looked like another police car but turned out to be an ambulance. I surrendered Lulabelle to their care and turned at last to the police. No, actually, if the paramedics had proper wipes, I’d cadge a few for myself.
Handing some over, the male paramedic took me on one side. ‘Why on earth did you bring her down here? It’s the first rule of first aid: avoid moving the patient.’
‘I know: her collarbone may be broken, and a few ribs. But the vomiting – that’s because of something else. I can’t explain … I absolutely need to talk to the police first.’
‘I told you you shouldn’t have,’ Horse Man put in helpfully.
‘I need to talk to the police first,’ I insisted. ‘They need to know. Now. Before anyone else does.’ But when a harassed officer came towards me, all I could do was point up the path.
I couldn’t frame the words.
There was a lot of discussion going on above my head. It seemed I’d passed out. In the middle of an argument about giving me brandy, someone was joking about my cycle helmet, saying it was a good job I’d kept it on. Helpfully someone responded by removing it. Some part of my head knew I had to keep it, beside me if not on my head. But I didn’t want to remember why.
And then, horribly, I did. Hands tried to push me down as I struggled to sit up. ‘There’s footage on the helmet cam,’ I said. ‘They need to see it before they go up. And no one else must. No one else can see it or go up,’ I added, furious I couldn’t say things clearly, even think things clearly, because of that one thing I couldn’t get out of my head.
I was in a quiet room, not unlike a dentist’s waiting room. Anonymous but comfortable. Or do I mean comfortable but anonymous? Caffy was holding my hand. Apparently when the police had asked if I wanted anyone with me while I waited to give a formal statement, I’d asked for her. Had I remembered that her partner, Tom Arkwright, was a senior policeman? I doubt it. Actually, I didn’t remember asking for her. Perhaps Superintendent Arkwright was something to do with the case – though when I’d last met him he’d been leading an armed response team – and he’d suggested Caffy.
‘You’re going to need a lot of therapy, Jane,’ Caffy was saying.
‘Not as much as poor Lulabelle.’
‘I disagree. I think you’ve got two things fighting in your head. The memory of finding poor Will and what has happened since. Then you’ve got the more immediate memory of what you found this time.’
‘Which has gone, completely. All I remember is this horse dashing across the road.’
‘Let’s leave it there. Now, because Tom’s involved, much as I want you to stay with us you can’t. But I can come to your place.’
I shook my head. ‘He’ll need you, will Tom. Once he’s seen – not just the footage on the helmet cam but the actual scene of the … Caffy, it’s a dead woman, isn’t it?’
She looked me in the eye. ‘Yes. So where will you stay tonight?’
‘Home.’
‘Not on your own.’
If only I still had Geoffrey.
‘I’ll be fine. I hate it,’ I told her, ‘when stuff happens and I can’t control it. Take being down on the lay-by. Throwing up. All these people milling round all chafing the fat—’
She laughed. ‘I’ve never heard anyone but Tom use that expression. “Chafing” means “chewing” – right? So all these people were holding forth—’
‘And none of them was saying or doing anything to the purpose. And I couldn’t find the words to explain why they shouldn’t be – or why they shouldn’t go up that track. Because they’d find a woman—’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At least I’d been checked over by a doctor straight from Trollope, who’d insisted on giving me two sleeping pills for later despite my equally firm refusal. I’d also got my statement out of the way. They’d offered to let me do it later, but I insisted. Once it was out of my mouth and on paper, I didn’t need to remember it again. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be stuck in my memory for ever, but it did mean I could start using the techniques for forgetting vile things my therapists had all worked at over the years. Caffy had offered to stay with me, still literally holding my hand, but I refused. She’d been through very bad times herself, and didn’t need any of her latent memories nudged into activity. Let her remain the serene and fey woman she was, under all her practicality. It was good to have her waiting for me when it was all over: the chocolate she pressed into my wildly shaking hands – yes, it was organic and Fair Trade, of course, Caffy being Caffy – was as excellent as it was welcome. Comfort food to savour.
As mysteriously as Caffy had appeared, Jo and Lloyd arrived to take over, frogmarching me from the police station to their car. Who had told them where I was – Lloyd was clearly off-duty, in gardening clothes, by the look of it – and that I needed help? Caffy didn’t know them: I had to make introductions. But need them I did. So any protests I made weren’t very coherent and not at all forceful. Except for one demand: I wanted my cycle back. And the helmet.
Cycle? What cycle?
It took a long time for Lloyd’s colleagues to discover that though the helmet was safe at the police station, no one had a clue where the cycle might be. Top marks for someone, then. Since it was fairly new and not the cheapest model, chuntering under his breath Lloyd phoned the evidence officer at the site.
‘No, I’m not bringing her over to ID it,’ he said tetchily. ‘She’s been through more than enough. And that’s one place she doesn’t need to see. If she ever does again,’ he added. ‘Yes. Straightaway.’
We’d barely got as far as the car when his mobile rang. ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking! What sort of sick bastard does that? Rescue what’s left of it. Fucking idiots!’ He put a brotherly arm round me. ‘In the past, Jane, we’ve agreed that a quick burst of anger can be really quite good for you. So, prepare to have one – and polish up a few choice swear words. OK, have some of mine.’ He grinned shamefacedly at Jo. ‘Right under the noses of my mates, some thieving shit’s removed your saddle. He was just having a go at the lights when he was interrupted. Scarpered. Into the sodding woods. Steal their granny’s mobility scooter, some folks.’
‘One consolation,’ observed Jo, ‘is that they won’t be riding far on a saddle-less bike, will they?’
‘Not if it’s in the back of Seb Nelson’s car, they won’t. Which is where it should bloody well have been in the first place.’
‘I know what you’ll say, Jo, but I want to go and pick it up now, please. No, listen: I got the statement out of the way because my therapists have always said it’s best to confront demons sooner rather than later. That’s why I need to go. Not to the murder site,’ I said carefully, ‘but the lay-by. I’m going to have to see it every day anyway. And I’d rather do it now.’ I hadn’t convinced them. ‘You know the advice they give about having a fall and getting straight back on your bike – except, of course … Oh, dear. Sorry.’ At least I was giggling this time, not howling hysterically.
‘Elaine!’ I greeted the officer clearly making other people dance to her tune, ‘I didn’t know you were SIO.’ I was quite proud of myself for remembering the title in such circumstances. ‘Does this mean—?’
‘Never you mind what it means, because actually I’m not. I’m just passing through. It’s DCI Boyd over there: the one that looks as if he’s just left your school,’ she said. She gave me a brief hug but then pushed me away, her eyes searching my face. ‘What in Hades are you doing here? You should be—’
‘Col
lecting my bike. And actually, all your lot milling round with your striped tape and hi-vis jackets somehow sanitises everything – makes it like something on TV. Something I can switch off, I suppose.’
I’d never noticed how shrewd yet compassionate she could look. ‘If that’s how you feel, who am I to argue? Apparently that kid Lulu or whatever is having tantrums saying she wants to be in school tomorrow. I don’t suppose,’ she asked, trying hard to make it an idle enquiry, ‘that you’re intending to go too?’
‘If Lulabelle’s going, I have to be there to support her. Normality. Stability.’
‘Which you need as much as she does,’ she said accurately.
There was a tiny pause. ‘Do you remember Jo and Lloyd? I think you met at that rather dramatic cricket match last summer.’
‘Yes, of course – one of us, aren’t you, Lloyd? And aren’t you a maths teacher, Jo?’
‘They’ve said they’ll keep an eye on me tonight.’ The two officers exchanged what I’d call a professional glance, somehow excluding me though it was clearly about me. ‘Look, Elaine, I know you’re short-staffed, but with all the goings-on in the close, and now this – what if someone recognised me? There were a lot of folk around … earlier. I’m a bit worried about my house – Brian Dawes’ house, that is. What if—?’
‘I’ll do something more subtle than mount a guard on it, which we couldn’t begin to afford to do anyway, even if it was much more than a case of “what if?”. I’ll yank a techie from his Sunday evening telly and get some monitoring stuff in place.’ She could probably have explained what each individual component was called and what it did, but she always feigned a technophobe’s ignorance. ‘Just don’t want him spotted going in and arousing suspicion, that’s all.’
‘I’ve got to pick up an overnight bag. I suppose he couldn’t just go into the house with me and leave with me, as if we were off for a romantic dinner.’
‘I’d best get hold of Toby Weston, then – he’s the only techie I could face snogging. Not that you would, of course – snog him, that is.’
‘Only very publicly.’ The effort to sound perky – actually, to sound anything like myself – was exhausting me.
She put a hand on my arm. ‘Go and sit in Jo and Lloyd’s car – I’ll get Toby to pick you up here.’
I was just doing what I was told when I had another idea: ‘The school! The schools, actually, but in this case it’s Wrayford, not the one up the road.’ I jerked my thumb.
‘What about it? No, hang on – Toby: have you had your Sunday roast yet? OK, change into something that looks as if you might be taking an attractive woman out for supper, bring some miniaturised surveillance kit and meet us in fifteen just outside Wray Episcopi. You can’t miss us. Yes: that job. But yours is a nice clean inside one with a bit of acting thrown in. No, not the damned Gondoliers. Amateur singer!’ she added in parentheses to me. ‘Now, school? You want Toby to do something there too? Christ, my budget …’
Attractive! I was still wearing my cycling gear and when I’d caught sight of myself in a loo mirror I’d been appalled by the sight of this haggard, sick middle-aged woman. For a start I put my shoulders back. ‘Actually, the school security system’s pretty good – CCTV everywhere, a lock and a keypad.’
‘And lots of kids surging in and out. A system’s only as good as its weakest point, Jane.’
‘I know, I know. I’ll get on to the security firm now – they have an emergency number. Where the hell did I put my phone?’
Ostentatiously she walked round me. Then she turned to Lloyd and Jo. ‘Is there an off button somewhere? God, you’re a control freak, Jane. Just leave it to these people, will you?’
I was ready to snarl or scream – but there’d been enough screaming. I held out my hand for the phone and texted. A promise of immediate action pinged back. And now – now perhaps I did have an off button. ‘Do you allow yourself chocolate, Elaine?’ I asked, producing some of Caffy’s from my pocket. All by itself, my hand embarked on a curious dance. I told myself it was natural to be cold: waiting for Toby was getting tedious. ‘Will your colleague be long?’ I asked through chattering teeth.
‘Only from Bridge. Just be grateful he’s not one of the team based in Essex.’
Jo and Lloyd were certainly happy with chocolate, even though they had to hold my hand still so they could break pieces off; eventually it transpired that Elaine was able to square the need for a bit of extra energy with what seemed a very flexible conscience.
Toby, the techie who admitted to having driven like a bat out of hell, liked it too. He was a chunky young man, pretty well my height, with a strangely rectangular body, the sort I associated with old-fashioned Welsh operatic tenors who’d not heard of the new vogue for singers to diet and use the gym. But he gave a charming smile, handing me solicitously into his car as if I were his granny. Elaine told us to meet up with Jo and Lloyd by the Cricketers, but changed her mind: we might just as well eat there. She’d deal with Diane, she added, before I could say anything.
Whatever she might have said to Elaine, and whatever she might want to say to us, Diane had kept the kitchen open for us – I hadn’t realised just how late it was by the time I’d showered and changed and packed an overnight bag. Yes, and applied some slap. That was better. Diane asked us to stick to the specials board, not the longer menu. So the four of us sat down, Toby included, for all the world as if it was a normal Sunday that had been full of normal Sunday events. Only the fact that from time to time I couldn’t stop my cutlery clattering on the plate reminded everyone that it wasn’t. Toby spotted that I was distressed by Jo’s solicitousness, and embarked on a self-deprecating account of his life on the amateur stage. At least laughing might disguise the fact I found I couldn’t eat. Suddenly one of those sleeping pills seemed a very attractive prospect.
To my distinct surprise, as we went our separate ways Toby kissed me, continental fashion, on both cheeks. Not an air-kiss, either. He’d also insisted on putting his number into my phone in case any of his clever little gizmos seemed to be playing up.
‘Was he flirting with you or not!’ Jo laughed, as she checked I’d got everything I needed in the guestroom they always offer me.
‘It’d show pretty poor taste, all things considered,’ I said. She obviously wanted me to talk to reassure herself I was all right. ‘In any case,’ I added, ‘he thinks of himself as a Thespian – and aren’t all Thesps a bit lovey-dovey?’
‘Or gay … Even so.’
‘Sorry, Jo,’ I heard my mouth say. ‘He’s not my type. Why all that business with the phone when he’d already told me all his little gizmos would operate and could be adjusted remotely? I still need that mythical ballroom dancer of yours to sweep me off my feet.’
I needed sleep even more. It almost hurt my head to talk. I didn’t want even Jo’s solicitude. I wanted sleep. I wanted Nosey and Lavender to hand. I wanted the day to end.
It wouldn’t. Silly bits of conversation. The sweating horse. Some idiot trying to tell me about first aid. Another one trying to flirt. Flirt, for God’s sake! When a woman had—
I reached for a sleeping pill …
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘It’s fucking clothing, isn’t it? Just clothes! You don’t wear a fucking uniform! The teachers don’t wear a fucking uniform! Why should my little princess? I ask you – pretty little things like her wearing grey and bottle-green. Trousers, too. And saying the boys can wear skirts. That’s not right.’
Starting the Wray Episcopi school week with a huge row was actually very therapeutic. This doesn’t imply that I swung off the rafters and yelled. Indeed, the louder my opponent, the quieter and more polite my responses. So when I got this huge guy leaning over my desk and haranguing me about his daughter’s uniform choices (she favoured baby-pink in everything including sparkly slip-on shoes she was somehow supposed to run in) his face so close I got his spittle in my eyes, I was very quiet indeed. Very still. Not obviously watchful, but not taking my eyes f
rom his face.
Don’t think I didn’t want to get up and yell back. The uniform colours had been the same since the Second World War, according to the records, white replacing yellow after a particularly bad attack of thunderbugs, which last summer had settled like black snow on t-shirts and blouses and made outdoor play impossible. Trousers – as long as kids sat cross-legged on the floor, there was much to be said for them, a fact that spread almost by osmosis as the girls grew older. Skirts for boys? Only as far as National Book Day and the dressing-up box were concerned, but I sensed increasing enthusiasm, which I didn’t happen to share, for having a free-for-all about what was worn below the waist.
I could, therefore, have engaged in a logical argument, but that was to assume he’d be responsive to logic. And it felt perilously like going on the defensive. For the same reason I wouldn’t reach for the panic button under the desk – thanks to Elaine’s urgent intervention, both schools now had these, in the head teacher’s room and in the reception area.
By now he’d got on to human rights and the length of our holidays and how we needed to do a proper day’s work for our excessive wages.
I let him get on with it.
At last, like an Atlantic gale, he blew himself out. He might even have been looking a bit sheepish. Still silent I tapped the keyboard, printing off four documents:
Uniform policy – boys, girls, transgender
Dressing-up days policy – ditto
Bullying policy
Visitors to the school – code of practice
‘If you want to arrange another meeting, Mr Crouch, I suggest you read those first. All four. And now I understand that for on another matter entirely the police will be here any moment: if you want to stay here and repeat what you’ve just said to me, that might be interesting. But I’d rather we had a quiet, constructive talk another day. Donna will arrange a time for you.’ I got to my feet. ‘Florence’s reading is coming on very well, isn’t it?’ I added, as I held the door for him. ‘It’s lovely when hard work pays off.’ I didn’t specify whose.
Head Wound Page 14
