by Alice Castle
He was surprised their parents allowed them to perform such menial labour – and on a school night, too – but the whole of Dulwich was understandably soft about St Christopher’s, as it was a wonderful place that did great things for terminal patients. There but for the grace, and so on. And the idea was that all the waitresses were free by 9.30pm, which was hardly the middle of the night. It was probably a good idea to get some of these privileged kids to see what it felt like, waiting on someone else for a change. York hadn’t seen an awful lot of Dulwich, but he’d bet a fair sum that most of them had at least au pairs and nannies picking up after them, not to mention doting parents.
Somehow, though, this public-spirited evening had ended in tragedy. Simone had never left the place, and had ended up splayed on that tomb like a human sacrifice.
If she’d just been found huddled up in a corner, overdosed, then it could have been dismissed as a self-inflicted accident – albeit completely out of character, according to the girl’s mother. But then, what mother really knew her teenage child? They hid so much. There would still be a question over where on earth she’d got such toxic drugs. But she was living in the middle of south London and, despite her success in getting a leg up in life via the College School, she came from a hardscrabble background. It was certainly not impossible that she knew how to come by the stuff.
As it was, the posing meant that someone else was involved. Plus, the medics’ view was that, not long after taking the drugs, the girl would have been completely out of action, incapable of walking, let alone of arranging herself so artfully.
York gritted his teeth as he thought of her, still between life and death, but not for much longer. Either her organs would give out, the doctors said, or her mother would finally consent to pull the plug. Either way, her hours were numbered.
After having that thought, there was no way York could sleep, he thought crossly, even if his flat hadn’t been a furnace. He crossed to the window, yanked it up still higher in the hope of catching a breeze wafting somewhere down from Catford High Street, snapped on his reading light, and attempted to get comfortable on the lumpy sofa. He picked up his copy of The Crime at Black Dudley, and sighed. A sinister English mansion, a group of armed hoorays, and some desperate foreign baddies who richly deserved killing. Those were the days.
He was half-expecting a bad news call from the hospital, so when his phone rang he answered reluctantly. In a second, he was on his feet. ‘What? Another one? You’re kidding me.’
***
Beth sat at her desk and tried to concentrate. It felt like the first time she’d even switched on her school computer for weeks, but only a handful of days had passed since that horrible morning in the Gallery. Still, there was no doubt that she was now seriously behind with her work. Not for the first time, she blessed the fact that she had so much autonomy. Though she’d been appointed as an assistant, events had conspired to ensure a pretty rapid promotion and she was pretty much her own boss, though technically line-managed by the school’s Bursar. Since they’d had several run-ins just after she started, he was careful to leave her to her own devices as much as possible.
She had too much freedom, Beth realised. She really needed someone to crack the whip, tell her to get on with curating items for the permanent exhibition on slavery, not to mention catch up with a project on the centenary of WWI that her predecessor had signally failed to get off the ground. At this rate, the war anniversaries would be over and done before the school got round to celebrating the sacrifice and achievements of its old boys. And all that was without the day-to-day archive tasks of keeping the files up-to-date, and deciding which materials would be of use to her successors in years to come.
She liked to think of someone, in a century’s time, sitting here or even somewhere grander, sifting through the artefacts she’d chosen to represent the school in this moment. It was quite a responsibility. Not for one second did she doubt that there would be a Wyatt’s in a hundred years’ time. While there was a Dulwich, there’d be a Wyatt’s School.
It was easy enough to start thinking about the legacy she would be leaving, but Beth found it a lot harder to concentrate on the stuff piling up in front of her here and now. She listlessly leafed through her in-tray and replaced everything in exactly the same order – something she remembered doing only a couple of days ago with a similarly pointless outcome. Surely, she thought, it would be better if she gave the matter that was distracting her some proper thought? If she could only make some headway with the conundrum of the girl in the Gallery, then she could get it off her books, as it were, and settle back down to the archives with all the diligence and concentration that even the most demanding of taskmasters could wish for.
But achieving anything with the mysterious Gallery business was much easier said than done. Every time she thought about it, she got precisely nowhere.
Well, maybe it was time to go right back to basics. What did she know about what had happened, and what could she piece together from what York and others had told her?
Start right at the beginning, she thought. That would be the drinks reception in the Gallery, the night before her macabre discovery. There had been a gaggle of teenage girls there, acting as waitresses, handing round drinks and snacks to a group of invite-only guests. The guests, surely, were above suspicion? But no, it was probably a mistake to assume that. Just because they were the do-gooding type who’d turn out to an event in aid of St Christopher’s Hospice did not mean that one among them didn’t have murder – or mayhem – on their mind. York must have a list of everyone who’d been there that night, adult and teenager alike. Nothing can have jumped out at him from that. But maybe Beth should glance over the list? Something, or somebody, could ring a bell for her.
Beth stopped short for a moment. She was always implying to York that she knew absolutely everything that went on in Dulwich. This was partly because she did know an awful lot, and partly so that she’d become an indispensable part of his investigations, and he’d stop giving her that terribly dull lecture on why civilians had to keep their noses out and how he couldn’t divulge anything interesting to her. She sighed. She hated that.
She looked up, seeing the caretaker wandering across the path with a hoe, bent on eradicating a weed that had the temerity to raise its head in the sanctified flowerbeds that were one of the eight wonders of Dulwich. It was the job of Jeff, the head gardener, to cosset the bejewelled beds flanked by the emerald perfection of the lawn. But it was understood that if anyone else saw an obvious weed while Jeff was held up elsewhere, then they could act independently. They had to be competent, however. Beth had heard tell of a junior secretary who’d ripped out a prized aruncula, and of course had not been at the school for much longer.
The caretaker straightened up, saw Beth through the window, and waved the weed victoriously at her. She mimed a round of applause and they exchanged a conspiratorial smile. It was well known that Jeff was a bit bats, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t all in the weed war together.
The truth was that Beth did understand the funny little ways of Dulwich, and if there was something outside her own ken, she knew someone who could fill in the blanks. She should stop feeling that she didn’t quite merit her involvement in this whole business, and instead decide that York was jolly lucky to have her around. Belinda MacKenzie wouldn’t have any doubts. But then, thought Beth, York would probably have some niggling doubts about Belinda MacKenzie. Well, he certainly should. But maybe, like most men, he wouldn’t see much beyond the very attractively filled-out, regulation-issue, white Dulwich jeans.
Beth snorted a little and realised that all her daydreaming was just, for some reason, making her very cross. Where had she been before her mind had taken a day trip? Oh yes, the hospice drinks – somewhere among either the guests or the waiting staff was someone with evil on their mind. Beth suddenly wondered if Maria, by any chance, knew about the event. Had Maria been present as a guest? Had Chiara been working there, alo
ng with her classmates? That might be too much to ask, but she might well know who else, among her circle of new friends, had been involved. She picked up the phone to Katie.
‘Hmm, I’ve no idea whether Chiara was there, but I know a way you can find out,’ said Katie, an impish note in her voice.
Beth was instantly wary. ‘Yeeees?’
‘I said I’d have Matteo after school today, so that Maria’s got a chance to have things out a bit with Chiara. But, well, Michael’s got tickets for that Benedict Cumberbatch play at the Barbican… one of his colleagues has passed them on because his wife’s got acute IBS.’
‘Yuck!’ said Beth.
‘Well, yes, IBS would be TMI if it were true, but Michael says the guy is just desperate to do him a favour, wants him to reconsider dropping one of his midlist authors…’
‘Wouldn’t he just come out and say that, then?’
‘Noooo, that would be much too transparent. Because they’re dealing with all these novelists’ fiendishly complicated plots all the time, these people can’t do anything in a straightforward way. It would drive me crackers, but Michael loves it. Says half the time you can legitimately pretend you had no idea what people were up to because it’s all so full of twists. Anyway, this guy is hoping Michael will remember he owes him, while Michael is doing his best to forget. Meanwhile, I get to watch Benedict Cumberbatch! Win-win, I say.’
‘Lucky you. Yep, no problem, I’ll pick up Charlie and Matteo this afternoon, then drop Charlie at school tomorrow morning. Will Matteo need to stay, do you think?’ Beth didn’t want to sound unwelcoming, but space was at a premium in Ben’s bijou little room, and she wasn’t sure if she could fit in another mattress. There was a small truckle bed under Ben’s own that she wheeled out when Charlie stayed, and they were both used to that drill. Anything else would be like playing sardines.
‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s not like Maria is going to be out as far as I know, but I’ll ping over her number to you, so you can check. Thanks a mill for having Charlie. I know he’ll have a ball.’
‘Are you ok about no piano practice?’ Beth said it seriously, but Katie could probably sense that there was the teensiest bit of leg-pulling going on. Luckily, she was so flexible from all that yoga that it didn’t cause a twinge.
‘I think he’ll survive. Obviously, he’ll miss it,’ Katie joked back, though Beth was pretty sure she really believed Charlie actually did enjoy his piano.
Beth snorted gently. ‘Course he will. Ok, I’ll talk to Maria. Enjoy Benedict.’
‘Oh, I will.’
Two seconds later, there was the ping of a text arriving, and Beth scrolled down to look at the contact details for Maria Luyten.
Beth somehow made it through a whole day of work, though for her that meant finishing at the not-desperately-arduous hour of 3.30pm. Much of her time had been spent making a string of personal calls, which she convinced herself had been strictly necessary. First, she’d rung Maria to set up the revised playdate, and found out that Chiara had, indeed, been one of the drinks party waitresses. Keen for Chiara to make friends, Maria had suggested the group gather at her house before setting off to the Gallery. She had been working in her study all evening, but had assumed they’d all had fun as she’d heard plenty of shrieks of laughter.
Then Beth got through to her brother’s answering machine. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him in ages, and Ben missed his uncle, so she’d wanted to chat. Lastly, she’d called her mother, to give a brief and heavily edited outline of her doings in the week since they’d last had a proper catch-up, and find out where her brother was. Josh was still as free as a bird, even though he was now more than halfway through his third decade and had dodged, by her count, six or seven women trying to get him to settle down and acquire trappings of grown-up life, like children, a mortgage, and a lovely wife.
It turned out he was off in the Greek islands. For anyone else, this would be a holiday, but Beth knew Josh better. Her mother confirmed it. He was documenting the human tide of refugees from Syria washing up – or heartbreakingly attempting to do so – on the shores of tiny islands which had not seen so much tragedy and controversy since the heyday of the Gods.
By the time Beth slipped her handbag off the back of her chair, grabbed her light cotton cardi, locked the office door and sauntered out of the school – waving at the porter as she went – she was definitely feeling the virtuous fatigue of the worker who’s done a good day in the salt mines.
As soon as she stepped outside and saw the first of many signposts pointing in the direction of the Gallery, recent events flooded back, and she wondered for the millionth time how that poor girl, Simone, was getting on. One more call to be made, she decided, liberating her phone from the tangled recesses of her bag and pressing the number for York. This time it wasn’t exactly personal, though it wasn’t business either. Nor could she call it a hobby. An obsession, maybe? She was saved from thinking too deeply about the ramifications of it all when the connection clicked, and she heard York’s terse ‘yes?’
‘Just wondering where we, erm, you, are on everything? Any news from the hospital?’
From the sound of heavy plodding and the traffic noise, she could tell that York was marching along meaner streets than those in leafy Dulwich. To her, it sounded like the dull roar of one of the snaggier bits of the dreaded South Circular, but it could have been downtown Peckham or even Catford.
She thanked her lucky stars she was strolling through the village, which was looking particularly pretty today in the still-warm sun. Cotton wool balls of cloud bobbed in skies like those in the Gallery’s Aelbert Cuyp landscapes, and the shops along the high street were putting their best foot forward for the approaching summer. The pricey boutique was already showcasing gauzy wisps of holiday outfits that would soon make the bankers, hunched over their terminals in the City, blench when they received their monthly credit card statements.
Beth strained her ears to hear York’s mumbles, but it was hard against the sirens, muffled shouts, and the constant drone of cars. ‘…not good. And nor is the other.’
‘Other? Other what?’ said Beth, knowing she was doing that annoying thing of shouting into the phone, disturbing the mothers who were drifting into position to pick up their offspring from the various schools. She stopped dead, sticking her other hand over one ear and craning into the phone, hoping it would make a difference to the reception if she really concentrated. ‘…mother is devastated, of course.’
‘Mother? Which mother? Simone’s mother?’ Beth was desperate to hear now. Had the final hour come for the Osbornes? She hoped and prayed not.
‘the same drugs… two of them…’ Then, with a triumphant crackle, south London’s killer combination of rubbish phone reception and constant heavy traffic overwhelmed Beth’s ancient handset and the connection cut out.
Beth stood stock still. Two of them? Did that mean… another victim? Though she knew she should be at the school gates already, and she really didn’t want to be late to pick up three boys – it was bad enough when she kept poor Ben waiting – Beth still stabbed the redial button. She had to know. But, after a few seconds when she hoped against hope the connection would take, the phone went to voicemail. Either York couldn’t talk – or he knew he’d already said too much.
She said a bad word under her breath, causing a nearby mummy of a toddler to shy away skittishly lest her child’s ears be sullied, then stuffed her phone crossly into her bag and sprinted for the Village Primary. She’d just have to ring him back later, when she got a quiet moment. As she entered the school, and saw her three charges engaged in an exuberant, high-speed tag battle, she wondered when, exactly, that was going to be.
Chapter Eleven
It was many hours later, and not until Maria had come by to pick up Matteo, that Beth finally got a second to herself. Instead of immediately turning to her phone, she switched on the kettle, threw a peppermint teabag into a mug, and then sat, gazing into space, while the brew co
oled in front of her. She really wanted to get up and swap it for a large glass of red, but she didn’t have the energy.
She was going to have a hell of a job reinstating the party line on rules about midweek playdates next time Ben asked. But he had been exhausted by having not one but two chums over for the evening, and had thankfully seen himself and Charlie off to bed for once with hardly any prompting from her. She couldn’t hear a peep out of them, which suggested they’d tumbled headlong into sleep – in itself pretty unprecedented, but it had been an odd evening. She’d look in on them when she got her own thoughts in order. Though that might be a while.
Beth had long mastered the art of being present in body if not in spirit when Ben and Charlie played together. It was partly that their games held very little interest for an adult woman, and partly that – much though she adored her son – she did cherish time to herself, which was in very short supply when you were a single parent. This evening, she had tried to zone out as usual and leave them in their highly complex imaginary world of knights, defenders, battles, whatever was the favourite of the moment. But she had soon been brought up short, much though she wanted to disappear into prolonged contemplation of the mess currently besetting Dulwich. For something was off-kilter tonight.
At first, she had just thought it was the dreaded number. Two was company, three was none, went the adage; and so it had proved all evening long. But was it the fact that there was another boy in the mix – or was it the boy himself?
As she was called upon, time after time, to sort squabbles and right wrongs, Beth decided this was one of the most tiring evenings she’d had for ages. Worse even than when Belinda MacKenzie had unaccountably invited her to dinner, only for Beth to discover that she was a very last ditch blind date for a racist banker chum of Belinda’s husband, who’d just got to the other side of an all-guns-blazing divorce. Beth would have thought it was kind of Belinda, who was the sort of woman who thought it was preferable to be married to anyone – no matter how bigoted – than be a single mum. But statuesque blonde Belinda had made so many jokes, all evening long, about how Beth was the only singleton in the Village, that she managed to make her seem like a plague carrier instead of a widow, and scuppered any chance she might have had with the awful man, if Beth had actually cared.
