Child's Play (31 page)
On
Friday night, sheer nervous exhaustion had kept Alice in the grip of sleep throughout the rumpus on the sixth-form corridor. She missed Daisy’s exit from the dormitory, but for some unfathomable reason, was roused briefly by her stealthy return. Within minutes of sliding into bed, Daisy had begun snoring gently, and despite sporadic noises and raised voices from the top floor Alice too went back to sleep.
When
she woke again, clawing her way out of a nightmare with her heart thumping wildly, the sky was blue and freshly washed. The outside security lights had already switched themselves off. She scrambled into a sitting position and looked across at Daisy, whose hair was a tumble of curls on the pillow, framing a face innocent of all expression. Alice despaired. Try as she might to disbelieve Daisy’s terrible accusation about Torrance, the poison had done its work. Was Daisy simply a wicked liar, or was Torrance truly a monster? She knew Daisy, knew how deeply she felt her parents’ neglect, saw the hurt behind that ever ready smile, the brutal disappointment when neither of them showed for Sports Day or Open Day, but what did she
really
know about Torrance? Everyone wore a false face at times. Alice had shown hers to her mother when, instead of hugging her as she so desperately wanted to do, she had wounded her with one barbed comment after another.
Why
did some people say Torrance was devious? Did she beguile with her kindness? Alice asked herself wretchedly. Had her detractors seen a face Torrance only exposed to the secret, perhaps passionate transactions that took place in those dingy sixth-form bedrooms under the roof? The girls in the dormitories below heard everything but saw nothing, and so constructed their own context around the laughter, arguments, slamming doors, running footsteps, creaking bed springs, the thump of Imogen’s false leg and the mystery of nocturnal meetings, when voices were suddenly quenched, when whispers drifted through an open window to hang tantalisingly in the still air of a summer night, or someone sobbed with such deeply felt heartache that the eavesdroppers wanted to weep themselves.
Some
time after five o’clock, Alice crept to the bathroom. Turning the cold tap full on, she held her wrists under the gushing water, then doused her face. With a towel to her chin, she stared into the mirror, searching for the outward signs of her inner turmoil, bemused by the familiar, ordinary reflection that returned her gaze. Daisy looked her usual self, too. She had scoured her friend’s face for the tell-tale marks of dishonesty and dishonour and found nothing. Would to God Daisy had her mother’s transparency, she thought bitterly.
She
traipsed back towards the dormitory and, knowing madness borne of uncertainty lay behind the closed door and in Daisy’s bed, she stopped dead, changed direction and slunk up the top staircase. Dirty handprints smeared the walls and there were chips in the woodwork, like the marks of beavers’ teeth and claws she had seen outside Canadian houses. Expecting to see policemen on guard, she peered round the corner, but the corridor was empty, so she scuttled to the sixth-form common room holding her breath and letting it go only when the door was safely shut behind her.
The
room smelt revoltingly stale. She pulled up the blinds and opened both casements. Then her eyes lit on the kettle. Squinting at the water level indicator, wishing she had not left her new spectacles in her locker, she flicked the switch, spooned coffee granules into the only clean mug she could find, made her drink and draped herself on the window ledge, staring at a less familiar aspect of the suffocating treescape and a sky now criss-crossed with the vapour trails of high-flying jets. A car drew up on the forecourt and two of the kitchen staff emerged, stopping on their way into the building to chat to the policeman at the doors. Alice jumped off the window ledge, afraid of being seen if they glanced upwards, and sat instead in a chair in front of the silent television. Putting the coffee mug on the floor, she leaned forwards to push the switch and stark images of the human conflict hit her in the face. She looked at pictures of charred remains, shredded limbs stuck in filthy boots, dead heads with strategic bullet holes and fly-blown corpses, then the dead disappeared and a procession of the living shambled across the screen, looking somehow familiar, as if all refugees wore the same dismal rags and faces. Two teenage girls, arm in arm and smiling, suddenly appeared, clad in ill-fitting, out of date hand-me-downs. Feeling a painful, sorrowful kinship, she turned up the sound, to hear talk of the unknown number of adolescents who had been raped and mutilated and murdered in the wars that raged relentlessly across the world.
Sickened,
she was about to switch off the television when a tranquil picture of the Hermitage, where life was also cheap, unrolled before her.
Rubbing
sleep from his eyes, Jack blinked at the portable television on the kitchen counter. A half-consumed mug of coffee stood on the table before him, while at the cooker his wife Emma, equally sleepy, was preparing a mushroom omelette for his breakfast.
‘
I fully intend to go back to bed,’ she told him. ‘At least until ten.’
‘
Lucky you,’ he grumbled. ‘Some of us have murders to solve.’
‘
One murder, one attempted and one unconnected attempted suicide,’ she corrected.
‘
How d’you know Imogen’s suicide isn’t connected?’
‘
It’s obvious. That letter she left for Michael says it all.’ She turned the toast under the grill. ‘Poor kid! Fancy losing your leg then being made to lie about your closest friend.’
‘
Maybe she wasn’t made to lie. She could just hate her parents.’
‘
Or she could be off her head, but I doubt it.’ She tipped the omelette on to a warm plate and placed it on the table.
‘
If she’s not around to back up her allegations,’ he began, picking up knife and fork, ‘her parents look safe from prosecution. They’re hardly going to confess.’
Emma
piled the toast into a rack, topped up Jack’s coffee, poured her own and, stifling a yawn, seated herself. Covertly, he watched her tumbled dark-brown hair shining in the early morning sun, her glowing skin, her firm yet voluptuous body under the thin cotton nightshirt, and wished he could return to bed with her, instead of spending another day in the foetid atmosphere of the Hermitage.
The
television screen flickered with hideous images that fascinated and repulsed in equal measure. The newscaster droned quietly, before the talking political heads took over, justifying the unjustifiable in every camp. He stopped listening and the picture of the Hermitage, taken by some enterprising photographer making an incursion into the grounds, was gone before it registered. The next shot was of Freya Scott, in a taxi, waiting in the flashbulb glare for the gates to be opened, while the voice-over catalogued the disasters that had recently befallen this exclusive enclave for the daughters of the rich. As she was replaced by another talking head, he returned to his breakfast.
‘
Listen!’ Emma said urgently.
Sitting
at Freya’s desk, wearing a grim expression, the chairman of the school’s governors stated that the headmistress was completely devastated by events and had requested a period of extended leave. While she considered her future, the deputy head would assume control. The matron, who had given sterling service for many years, had also signalled her intention of retiring immediately. ‘Once the police have completed their inquiries into Suzanne Melville’s tragic death,’ he continued, ‘I am confident the Hermitage will be able to return to normal.’ The American girl, thrown from a horse the day before, was ‘well on the road to recovery’, but he refused to be drawn on the identity or condition of the girl rushed to hospital late last night, except to remark that it was regrettable how these three unconnected incidents, following hard on each other’s heels, had given rise to such sinister and misleading conjecture.
‘
Lies,’ Freya muttered to herself, cradling a glass of water. ‘Lies, lies and more damned lies!’ She drained the glass and hurled it at the television. Neither glass nor screen shattered. The glass ricocheted off, fell to the floor and rolled into a corner, and the man on the screen continued telling lies.
She
had stayed at the hospital until long past midnight. When she returned to the school, the ground was cut from under her before she crossed the threshold. She found the man purveying these bland untruths seated in
her
chair behind
her
desk in
her
study, from where he had already made the pronouncements being broadcast. Rage at his dissembling she might, but he was merely oiling the facts to make them easier to swallow, as she had done without a second thought on countless occasions, for hard-edged truths stuck in the craw and inflamed emotion, as Matron, in outer darkness after being bettered by her own, could well testify. Freya had governed her school by controlling people’s feelings, by contemptuously dismissing each and every criticism; today she faced the ugly consequences of that arrogance, and the destruction of all she had striven and connived to achieve.
Nicholls
had been brutal. Gone was the face she had known, for it was a mask, like one of the many she herself assumed, and she was confronted by the ruthlessness that had made him rich enough and powerful enough to be her champion in the first instance. Now her accomplishments and triumphs were as nothing; only her failures mattered. Staring at the glass, from which a few drops of water had dripped on the polished floor, she began to calculate her losses: power, prestige, respect, money, loyalty, devotion and hope. McKenna had represented her last chance of escaping unscathed from the mess, but he too had deserted her. When Vivienne told her he had been and gone, she hurried out to the hospital car park, and in the banks of lights that turned night almost to day, picked out his car immediately. She raised her hand, took a tentative step forward and realised he was looking through her without a flicker of recognition, as if she were an importunate stranger.
Alice
’s exit from the sixth-form common room led her virtually into the arms of a policeman. When he demanded to know what she was doing there, the lie sprang almost gaily to her lips. ‘I was tidying up,’ she assured him. ‘It’s one of our jobs.’
He
frowned at her, scratching his chin. ‘Bit of an early bird, aren’t you? It’s barely half six.’
The
next lie was even easier. ‘Saves doing it later.’ She ran off before he could respond, savouring her precious knowledge.
Creeping
into the dormitory where the others were still asleep, she realised she was one of only a tiny elite as yet aware of the momentous fate that had befallen Dr Scott and Matron. She sat on her bed, wondering whether to wake Daisy but, distracted by voices from outside, went to look out of the window. Miss Attwill, dressed for riding, was walking across the forecourt with the remaining horse owners in tow, Justine an elegant addition to the depleted group.
Watching
them disappear into the trees, Alice imagined the sight that would greet them when they reached the stables. Hungering to be there, she suddenly found there was nothing to stop her for Dr Scott, with her stultifying controls and demeaning diktats, was history, if only for a few blessed hours. She threw off her pyjamas, dragged on knickers, jeans, trainers and T-shirt, snatched her glasses from the locker and made for the door.
Jack
left home not long after six, after offering his wife a kiss brimming with promises. As he waited at the school gates for admission, in the rear-view mirror, he saw reporters and cameramen spill across the road, so eager to accost him that not one of them bothered to check for oncoming traffic. Not far behind him, Dewi, gangsterish in black sunglasses and the raked-back black convertible, had to brake sharply to avoid ploughing into them.
Looking
wearied and dishevelled, Randall trudged out of his little billet. His dog wriggled through the gates and faced the media, hackles up and fangs on show. They began to retreat, shouting.
‘
Bastards!’ Randall leaned a hand on Jack’s car door. ‘They were climbing over the walls during the night. I had to get your lot to shift them.’
‘
They’re a bit like vampires,’ Jack said. ‘They don’t sleep at nights.’
‘
Well, there’s the scent of blood around and no mistake,’ Randall commented. ‘How’s that lass they took away?’
‘
So-so.’
‘
What a mess, eh? The place is coming apart at the seams.’
‘
What time did the chairman of governors arrive?’
‘
About eleven, I think. There was so much coming and going, I lost all track of the time.’ Randall paused and, leaning into the car, lowered his voice. ‘Did you see the morning news on TV? Well,’ he went on, when Jack nodded, ‘it was a pack of lies. He’s sacked both of them.’
‘
How d’you know?’
Randall
tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m not saying. Wouldn’t want to get someone else into trouble, would I? But you see if I’m not right.’ With a lift of the hand he moved away. He waited until Jack had moved on and Dewi was through, shut the gates forcefully on the crowd outside, then returned to his house, the dog at his heels.
Almost
bumper to bumper, Jack and Dewi made their way along the crazy drive. Once they reached the forecourt, Dewi locked his car, lovingly patted the wing and slid into the passenger seat beside Jack, sunglasses still in place.
Jack
yawned. ‘What’s the point of locking a convertible if you leave the hood down?’
‘
It’s got an immobiliser.’
‘
I’m still surprised no one’s tried to pinch it. Especially where you live.’
‘
Apart from the fact that everyone knows it belongs to me, it’s too conspicuous.’
‘
There’s logic in that, I suppose,’ Jack said. ‘Martha Rathbone’s adopted the same philosophy, but reversed it,’ he added. ‘She told me yesterday she’d realised years ago that fancy limousines get the wrong sort of notice, so she only ever uses ordinary motors.’
‘
Sensible lady.’
‘
She’s a nice lady, too; very down to earth, for all her millions. Pity her daughter’s turning into a snotty little rich bitch. She’s giving her mother a really hard time.’ Jack sighed. ‘Still, I suppose the tension’s got to come out somehow. I wonder how they’ll all react to the latest crisis.’
‘
What crisis?’ asked Dewi.
Jack
turned to look at him. ‘Don’t you watch morning telly in your house? Following last night’s drama, the chairman of governors was on the box first thing saying Scott’s “considering her future” and that Matron’s retired forthwith. However, according to Randall, they’ve both been turfed out on their ear and not before time, in my opinion.’
‘
What
drama?’ Dewi demanded.
‘
You’d gone before it happened, hadn’t you?’ Jack remembered. ‘Imogen Oliver overdosed on painkillers; bleak prospects and a bad conscience apparently got the better of her. She was found about nine thirty, along with a letter addressed to Mr McKenna, in which she claims
she
was at the wheel when the car turned over and she then entered into a conspiracy with her parents so the insurance company wouldn’t give them a clobbering.’
‘
Hell!’ Dewi exclaimed. ‘The bodies are mounting up.’
‘
She’s not a body. She’s another near miss, like Torrance. I rang the hospital first thing and they said she’s fairly stable, although not by any means out of the woods yet.’ Glancing across at the school as Miss Attwill and her entourage emerged, he added, ‘Forensics reported on Sukie’s head wound. She was whacked with a piece of rotting beech and that suggests the killing was opportunistic rather than premeditated. It also widens the field of suspects again.’ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Talking of which, did you find Sean O’Connor last night?’
‘
Eventually,’ Dewi replied. ‘I called at the house first, but his mum said he’d gone pubbing. I ran him to earth in the White Lion.’
‘
And?’ Jack asked. Still looking at the riders, he thought how smart Justine was in her breeches and boots.
‘
He asked me about the car registration he’d given you, so I said you’d got it in hand,’ Dewi replied. ‘Then he wanted to know if he was actually under suspicion. I hedged — couldn’t do much else, really — and changed the subject. I pointed out that he must know a lot more about the school than he realises, then stood him a few rounds to loosen his tongue.’ He stopped speaking and followed Jack’s gaze. ‘I hope Justine isn’t planning to ride Purdey,’ he said next. ‘It smacks of tempting fate after yesterday.’
‘
It wasn’t Purdey’s fault Torrance came off,’ Jack reminded him. ‘And you probably got more of a shock than she did. She must be used to hitting the deck.’ Glancing at Dewi’s worried face he added, ‘If you really believe bad luck’s bundled up in threes, we’re up to speed with Imogen.’
‘
I suppose,’ Dewi conceded.
‘B
ut you can still keep your fingers crossed,’ Jack said. Now, what about Sean?’
‘
I came to the conclusion he’s already told us everything, although he did say Randall isn’t a closet paedophile, just in case we were thinking he might be. He also said Matron argues with Scott quite often over the way things are done, but always loses the argument and suffers for opening her mouth. He’s seen her in tears on more than one occasion and he’s heard Scott slagging her off to various people, but he warned us not to feel sorry for her, because when she falls foul of Scott, she takes it out on the girls.’
‘
Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Jack remarked bitingly. Presently he said, ‘It might be worthwhile having another chat with Sean’s adoring mum, because in the main, most of what I learned yesterday came from her, no doubt because women are infinitely more observant.’ A flock of starlings erupted shrieking from the treetops as Alice burst on to the forecourt. ‘What’s
she
up to?’ He jumped out of the car, shouting to her, ‘Alice! Where are you going?’
Her
head jerked and he was sure she had heard, but she refused to heed. Glasses halfway down her nose, she loped away and soon disappeared round a turn in the path.
‘
I’ll go after her,’ Dewi said. ‘She’s probably making for the stables.’
As
he headed off, to be engulfed in turn by the trees, Jack strolled into the shadowy foyer. Other than police officers, there was no one about; either the girls were allowed to sleep in at the weekends or the whole school was taking advantage of the headmistress’s unforeseen absence. He sensed a difference in the atmosphere already, as if inner night had rolled away.
With
her glasses now hooked into the waistband of her jeans, a bridle hanging over her shoulder and a saddle clutched to her chest, Alice approached Purdey, put on the borrowed tack, stroked her neck, whispered in her perky ears, lashed the reins to the fence and returned to the stable. Admiring her quiet efficiency, Dewi watched her emerge with another saddle and bridle which she slung over the fence beside Tonto who, snapping his hooves, rolling his eyes and snorting, was yanking at his tether.
Alice
noticed him when she turned round. Her face went bright red, but defiance glittered in the eyes. Ignoring her, he sauntered across to Justine.
There
were the dark shadows of a sleepless night under her eyes. ‘How is Imogen?’ she asked, with undisguised anxiety. ‘Have you heard?’
‘
She’s still with us.’
‘
Thank God for small mercies.’ She removed Tonto’s head collar, put on the bridle and, once the chin strap was buckled, turned her attention to the saddle. Alice lurked a few feet away.
‘
Are you planning to ride that animal?’ Dewi asked.
‘
Yes.’ She bent down to reach for the girth. ‘He has to be exercised.’
‘
Then make sure you double check everything
before
you get aboard,’ Dewi warned.
‘
Everything
has
been double checked!’ Alice gave him a withering look. ‘We’re not stupid!’
Cuttingly
he said, ‘No, but
you’re
out of bounds. Dr Scott told you to stay away from here.’
Alice
raised her chin. ‘She’s not in charge any longer, so what she said doesn’t count.’
Justine
stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘
How d’you know?’ Dewi asked Alice.
Justine
caught her arm. ‘What are you
talking
about?’
In
the narrow confines of the stable yard their exchange was easily overheard; heads began to turn and activities were suspended.
Miss
Attwill hurried over. ‘
I
said Alice could stay,’ she told Dewi, her eyes skittering fearfully back and forth. ‘We need all the help we can get. Dr Scott doesn’t
really
need to know,’ she finished pleadingly.
‘
Dr Scott’s been suspended.’ As Alice spoke, she felt her heart lift. ‘Well, she’s actually on extended leave, but I expect it’s the same thing.’ She looked at the dazed faces around her. ‘It was on television this morning. Matron’s gone, too.’
*
Every room along the administration corridor was empty, so Jack went to the kitchens. Some of the domestic staff sat around a table, drinking tea and gossiping, others were cooking breakfast or preparing vegetables for lunch. Fat Sally lumbered out of the huge walk-in refrigerator, a sheep’s carcass hanging over her shoulder, her white overalls dark with blood.
‘
In case you haven’t heard yet,’ Jack began, ‘I thought I’d better tell you that Dr Scott has gone on extended leave.’
‘
We know,’ one of the cleaners said. ‘It was on telly.’
‘
Well, then,’ he went on, ‘you’ll also know about Matron.’ There was a loud thump behind him as Fat Sally dropped the carcass on the butcher’s block.
‘
Yes, we do,’ the cleaner said. She looked around. ‘And good riddance, too!’
Voices
murmured agreement and one woman, elbow deep in a mound of potatoes by the sinks, said she blamed Matron for Imogen’s overdose. Fat Sally simply took up a cleaver and began butchering the carcass with clean, deadly strokes. He glanced at her as he made for the door and was shocked to see tears coursing down her pendulous cheeks.
‘
Hey!’ the cleaner shouted. He stopped in his tracks and turned. ‘Tell that boss of yours to pull his finger out before somebody else gets hurt!’
Janet
was pursued up the drive by a massive, chauffeur-driven Bentley Continental in British racing green. The ultimate convertible, she thought, as it parked disdainfully beside Dewi’s prized car and made it look like a cheap tin toy. The chauffeur leapt out, whisked open the near-side rear door and saluted the tall, sleek man with silver hair and hand-tailored clothes who emerged.
He
stared at her, appraising her from head to foot, then moved forward, hand outstretched. ‘Good morning,’ he said, with a flash of teeth. ‘I’m Nicholls, the chairman of governors.’
‘
Yes, I know,’ Janet said, offering her own hand. ‘I saw you on television. I’m Detective Constable Evans.’
His
flesh was warm, his grasp firm. When his thumb began to caress the back of her hand, she pulled free. A spasm of anger crossed his face. ‘Superintendent McKenna doesn’t seem to have arrived yet,’ she told him, ‘but Inspector Tuttle is here.’
‘
I don’t think I need to bother either of them.’ His eyes were steelier than his hair.
Despite
telling herself that people who fooled with wolves were bound to get savaged, she felt a passing sympathy for Freya Scott. ‘I think you should let Superintendent McKenna be the judge of that,’ she advised. ‘It’s unfortunate that we had to find out about Dr Scott and Matron from a television news bulletin.’
‘
What
I
decide to do at my school is my business!’