Staying Power (24 page)

‘We have to be flexible in our response to consumer demand: we obtain staff of the highest calibre through an agency.'

Kate couldn't see where Bill was heading, so she asked, ‘And the fees would be, Mr Muirhead? I don't think you answered my colleague's question.'

‘Just over two thousand pounds per year per subject. Plus examination and administration fees.'

‘And Nigel's taking – two? three? – A levels?'

‘Three.'

‘I take it Nigel hasn't been at this school—'

‘College.'

‘—college long, Sir?'

‘It's not a college where students do stay for long periods. Essentially we take students who have as yet failed to realise their true potential and assist them in their development. If you take your examinations here, officer, you are almost guaranteed a place at university.' The words might have come well from a be-gowned middle-aged pedagogue. From this young man, who might have been selling cars – top-of-the-range cars, but nonetheless cars – they sounded pretentious.

‘So you get kids who've failed their A levels and give them a little polish?' Bill said, joining in again. Kate let him take over.

Muirhead nodded. And looked wary.

‘Nigel, now, what A levels grades did he come with? He had taken his A levels, had he?'

‘No. Not quite.'

‘Not quite? Surely he had or he hadn't.'

‘He'd finished his course at his previous school. But he did not – I understand – take the examinations there.'

‘So you took him on when he was sacked.' Bill wrote without waiting for a reply. ‘Why was he sacked?'

‘You'd have to ask his previous school that.'

‘Come now, you must have asked. If everyone else has A levels and he hasn't—'

‘He had exceptionally good GCSEs, of course. Exceptionally good.'

‘Which were?' Kate asked.

Muirhead jumped. He flipped a thin brown file. ‘According to our records, he had As in Drama, Art, Technology. Bs in English and French. Oh, Art was a starred A. C in Maths.'

‘Which school did he come from?' Bill shot in swiftly. ‘A local comp or one of the Headmasters' Conference ones?'

Kate nodded his question home, trying not to show she had no idea what a Headmasters' Conference school might be.

After a moment, Muirhead mentioned a name even Kate had heard of. ‘Not terribly good results, then,' she said. ‘OK from an inner-city comp, but not at a place like that.' It fitted in, didn't it, with what Graham had said:
they had some trouble with him, I gather. The wrong crowd. Father had to come the heavy
.

‘I'm sure he'll benefit from our supportive pastoral system and small classes.'

‘How many students in each class?' she asked.

‘We have very small groups,' he said.

‘How many?'

‘Five or six.'

Bill leaned across, his finger pointing to the statistics page of the prospectus. ‘But you only had two or three students at most sitting any of these exams.' Suddenly Bill looked mean. ‘Are you telling me, Sir, that you don't let all your students take the exam? You take seven thousand pounds a year fees off their parents and don't let them take the exam!'

‘You will see in our regulations we do not permit students with inadequate attendance or inadequate application to enter for the examinations.'

‘So you tweak the statistics and rake in the money. Nice one, Mr Muirhead. Nice little earner. Now, you're the head – the
Chief Master
– of Queen Matilda's. Who owns the college?'

Muirhead looked blank

‘Someone must own the place, Sir. Some person or trust?'

‘I don't see the relevance of that.'

‘Just answer the question, Mr Muirhead,' Kate said, who did. ‘If you're a charity, like a lot of schools, Eton, for instance, then your headed notepaper will say so. And shouldn't it also tell us – if you're a limited company – the number your company's registered under?'

The sheet of headed notepaper he pushed across to her was, apart from a florid coat-of-arms, pretty reticent.

‘OK, Mr Muirhead. You've made your point. Let me put this a different way: I assume your monthly money doesn't come in a small brown envelope stuffed with greasy fivers? Who pays your salary?'

‘Thank God for computers,' Kate said, clipping her seat-belt. ‘Or we'd spend all our time checking these companies. Not that I'd be taking any bets on this, would you?'

‘You think our friend Sanderson
père
has his fingers in educational pies, too? It's certainly odd that a school should break its own admission rules to pick up someone who doesn't look a very good bet.'

‘He might have made it worth their while. Or he may have a more powerful lever. We'll find out Monday, anyway.'

‘Do you want me to go back in and check now?' Bill's tone was so neutral she almost laughed.

‘Didn't you say your wife was a teacher?'

‘Yes.'

‘Just had an Ofsted? Then I tell you what, Bill. You stop off on the way home and get her a bunch of flowers and something for tea. She'll be dead on her feet. And, come to think of it, I've got a home to go to, as well.'

It was late enough by the time she left the city centre for the traffic jams to be dissolving. But there were still red lights and clogged islands, and all she wanted to do was get to her house. At last, Kings Heath! But the traffic was solid along the High Street. OK. She'd use the middle-class back route, protected by speed-bumps. And if one took out her sump, she'd bloody sue.

By some miracle she was able to shuffle her car into a space right in front of her house – something to celebrate in itself. But she wouldn't go in yet: she'd high-tail it to Sainsbury's – if she could find a half-bottle of champagne, that would be brilliant. And if she could only find full-size, well, some of it might have to retire to the fridge overnight.

Clutching her booty, she turned her Yale key in her front door. It moved, but the door didn't. Tensing, she tried again. Had some bastard bolted the door from the inside? Was he still busy doing over her house?

She parked the bottle carefully and breathed deeply. Tears wouldn't help. And – on the off-chance – tried the Chubb lock. The door swung open and the alarm began its opening chorus. What the hell?

As she retrieved the champagne and shut the door, she found a scribbled note.

And it did. As he'd done upstairs with the first batch of carpets, he'd moved the furniture – what little decent stuff of Cassie's she'd kept – roughly where he thought it should be. Tomorrow she might move it. Tonight – she would celebrate. She had a home. The carpets and Tony said so. Flinging off her jacket, she gauged a line in the living room and – could she still do it? – turned a cartwheel. And back. And then – for the sheer pleasure of it under her skin – walked on her hands to the kitchen.

And found magic. Tony had put all the electrical appliances back in place, and swept up. Back on her feet, she pirouetted from one end to the other. She returned the same way, pausing long enough only to grab a glass. To hell with the fact it was a Woolie's water-tumbler.

She put it back. Could she trust herself to drink enough and no more? She'd come close to danger point in the autumn. She didn't want to spend the winter going through a repeat of her drying out. Colin? But all she got was his answerphone. She didn't mention the house in case he felt under pressure. Instead she spoke about a shopping expedition. ‘Lizzie suggested she and I did it, but I'd much prefer your company. And you can tell me all about the chemists' break-ins while we shop till we drop.'

No, she couldn't be about to cry. Not again. She pulled herself straight. OK,
faute de mieux
, what about Pat the Path? They both had something to celebrate, didn't they?

‘I can't wait for you to see it, Kate,' Patrick said, gazing intently into her eyes. ‘Or to see you on it. Tell me, have you ever ridden a bike?'

‘Student days. Pillion on an inadequate Honda.'

They were in a pleasant Indian restaurant near Sainsbury's, outside most of the champagne as an aperitif and a meal rather larger than was wise. Now – having congratulated themselves on drinking only water with the food – they were considering the possibility of something else.

‘We did say, of course, that we should have coffee at your place tonight, didn't we?'

Kate nodded. Was it a euphemism? Did she want it to be a euphemism? Would the loos have a condom dispensing machine?

No. She didn't want sex with him. Not yet. It certainly wouldn't be making love. And she didn't want the first sexual encounter after Robin to be simply recreational. Did she?

‘I've got some malt,' she said neutrally.

‘I don't drink when I'm on my bike,' he said. His leathers hung in her hall. ‘The lot we sank earlier should be metabolised by now. Actually, do you have decaffeinated?'

‘Decaffeinated espresso,' she said with conviction and with more amusement than she hoped showed.

But he was decidedly more amorous in tone, if not in proposition, as he regaled her with tales of his cycles.

‘But why have you never ridden one? You'd look so good in the gear for a start. The leathers. Very sexy.'

Did he mean sexy as in desirable or simply as in a fashionable good thing? Could have been either. Especially as she'd seen no reason not to have a gentle finger of Glenfiddich, and she was suddenly tired. Tired in her own home. It had walls and carpets and it would soon be – No, it was home now.

‘… apart from the designs, which are so flattering. All those lovely colour combinations. I'd see you in – yes, scarlet and black. And imagine, the feel of it – soft, supple, under your fingers. Like silk next to your skin. Smooth as silk.'

The phone interrupted. Not an emergency, though. Only Colin saying he was on for the next morning, after football of course, provided they could look at shirts, too. But by the time she'd got back from the kitchen, where she'd taken the call, Patrick was standing up peering at one of the mirrors Cassie had left. At, rather than into. And he was ready to go home.

‘Just like that?' Colin asked, as they headed down the M5. They'd come straight from the school football pitch where the BB had been playing. Considering how late it was in the year, the day was surprisingly mild, though they'd been promised heavy rain as punishment later. ‘Not so much as a glance at your stairs and an amorous sigh?'

‘Nope.'

‘Perhaps he's a man that needs to be seduced?'

‘Can I be bothered? God knows where I stand with him.'

‘Must be funny having a relationship with someone who knows exactly what's in your body.'

‘Not as bad as a gynaecologist.'

‘Not as good. I should think one of them would know how to give a girl a good time.'

‘Tell you what, you find out!'

‘I'd rather have an evening with the gorgeous Cary Grant. How did your evening with him go?'

‘I didn't know you knew about that! Oh, the sodding grapevine, I suppose. We had a good evening, but neither of us suggested doing it again.'

‘He's a nice kid.'

‘Sure. And we had a pleasant drink and talked shop, and a pleasant Chinese and talked shop.'

‘But you didn't have a pleasant fuck and talk shop?'

‘DC Roper: this is not a suitable time or place for this sort of conversation. We are proceeding in a southerly direction hoping to inspect Fivers in Worcester. And we shouldn't be doing eighty-five, either.'

‘No, Ma'am. A good win, your team had. A couple of good players.'

They thought of someone who wouldn't ever stand on the sidelines again, and were silent.

‘How did you get on at the doctor's the other day?' Colin asked eventually, as they peeled off at the junction for Worcester North.

‘Doctor's? Bloody hell, Colin, I only went and forgot, didn't I?'

‘So you must be feeling better.'

‘No excuse for missing an appointment. I'll have to go and blandish the receptionist with a tale of being on the tracks of a serial killer. And talking of being ill, what did you want to tell me about the drug thefts?'

‘I'll give you the print-outs if you pop in to us before you go on to Lloyd House on Monday. See if you can see anything odd for yourself.'

‘Meanwhile, what do you see?'

‘There's a lot of stuff you'd expect. Tranks and stuff. But apart from that, there's only one thing that sticks out. Vitamin tablets. And I checked, before you ask. They're not the Smarties sort. They're little diddy things, like homeopathic tablets. Maybe a little bigger.'

‘The ones they're trying to put a health warning on – too many are supposed to be bad for you, or something?'

‘Nope. Vitamin B1, these. Not B6. Jesus. Is this where the tail-back for Worcester starts?'

‘What are you doing?'

‘What does it look as if I'm doing? U-turning. We're going somewhere else!'

So there they were in Redditch, having penetrated a traffic system that would have had her abandoning the car on a double yellow and walking. Preferably home. But they were here to do a job. Even if Colin's shirts were on the agenda.

Plastic Christmas trees, real Christmas trees, plastic wreaths, real wreaths. Plenty of those. But nothing in the leather line, and no shirts Colin would even pick up and inspect.

‘Come on: a bite to eat and we'll head north. I know we're nearer to Warwick, but – hell, I suppose we really ought to do Warwick.'

‘Where would you prefer, Colin?'