Dying Fall (13 page)

‘Got to be anabolic steriods, hasn't it? But she's always been up one minute, down the next. Long as I've known her.'

‘Artistic temperament.' I laughed. ‘Tony, love, I don't envy you your job.'

He launched into a list of the week's rows: smoking on coaches, not smoking on coaches; how long is a long dress; what happens if the principal cello forgets his black socks and comes on stage in yellow ones; how do you reconcile Mayou's demands for afternoon rehearsals with the orchestra's long-agreed system of morning sessions; when is an injury wear and tear? ‘Bloody hell, Sophie, I'm a manager, not a bloody nursemaid. Never mind: tell me how your job hunt's going.'

But I couldn't because I'd forgotten I wanted to leave Birmingham.

There is nothing like a migraine for losing a day. Monday vanished as completely as if it had never been there. So here I was at home on Tuesday after my evening class, toiling through piles of marking accumulated on my day off sick, and wishing I wasn't. Even a quiet drink with one of my collegues would have been nice, but Carl's wife had now caught his flu and he was keeping an eye on her. I didn't dare reach for the whiskey, not on top of the stuff I'd been taking for my head.

Chris Groom, then, was a welcome interruption, but he was being singularly obtuse. He'd come to tell me the results of the forensic tests. If he was as busy as I was, I was surprised he didn't simply phone. But he'd brought a bottle of wine and seemed disposed to stay.

‘So what did the lab report say?' I prompted him.

‘That it was mud on the outside of the case, and that there was no sign of anything untoward in the lining. But where does that get us? Apart from your living room, at nine p.m. on Tuesday the …' Chris's voice dwindled to a halt.

Covering my face with my hands and sighing with exasperation were not entirely theatrical gestures. I had, after all, been teaching since nine o'clock that morning with only a fifteen-minute coffee break in which Manjit had wept again, but still refused to talk. I'd lost my lunch hour, too, for a meeting which would have been acrimonious had not Richard sacrificed his Saturday night for me: it's impossible to yell thoroughly at a man who sports cerise paisley pyjamas. And here was Chris, who I suspected was a very intelligent young man, displaying less intellectual acumen than one of my students.

‘Can't you see? No, you can't, can you? Look, Chris, it gets us to the fact that George wasn't, of course, smuggling drugs OK?'

‘You never thought he was. But someone else might have used his case.'

‘His case never left his sight.'

‘Sophie, don't exaggerate. I've had a rough day.'

‘You too? Has one of your students got bruises all over her face and sits there crying and you're sure one of her relatives is sexually abusing her?'

‘And you haven't called us in?'

‘She'd deny it. I have to persuade her to tell me first. Then we'll think about the police and social services. And anyone else I can think of. Then. And I spent my lunchtime listening to my boss explaining why I can't go on an IT course. He says it's not likely to benefit my teaching.'

‘True?'

‘Not entirely. I'm sure it must have its uses in the classroom. And I could certainly produce less amateurish teaching materials. But I suspect they think that if I got computer-literate I'd be off like the clappers.' I overrode his protest. ‘Hell, I've put in ten years' hard labour up there on the fifteenth floor. I've worked my socks off for them. And it'd be great to be able to make my CV look professional.'

‘DTP it.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Desk-top publish it. You need a 486 IBM-compatible PC and a laser printer, for preference – come on, Sophie, you're winding me up!'

‘No. Honestly.'

‘Are they still into quill pens at your place?'

‘Only me. I always seem to have missed out. And now they say there's no money left for staff development.' I set down the wineglass sharply, a full stop to my disappointment. ‘So: over to you. Any news on George's murder?'

‘Can't you get it into your head it was an accident? According to the Health and Safety Executive report. Experts. The inquest verdict.'

‘He took his bassoon case with him.'

‘According to about eighty independent witnesses, your Tony Rossiter among them, his bassoon case was in the Band Room –' He stopped. ‘His bassoon case had mud on it. Mud. Which means, Sophie, that –'

‘– that he took it out, but someone brought it back in. And I'd bet my boots that whoever did that was a musician,' I finished, triumphantly.

He grabbed his anorak. ‘What are you waiting for? Come on!'

‘Where?'

‘To the Music Centre, of course: I presume you want to come with me?'

No Cavalier today, but a new – brand-new – Peugeot. I'd noticed it, of course, when I'd opened the door for him, but I'd omitted to say anything. Pure malice, if that isn't an oxymoron. And a lurking embarrassment. Surely Chris couldn't be indulging in some weird competition with Tony? I'd thought more highly of him than that. But he was certainly showing off now, fiddling with the hi-fi and taking us on a route that certainly avoided the Hagley Road traffic – if there was any at nearly ten – and also clearly demonstrated his new toy's cornering capacity. How fortunate I'd had the foresight to use the loo before we set out.

The MSO were playing in Bristol so a London orchestra had been trying out the Music Centre's acoustics. Their coaches were just pulling away as Chris swung into the restricted parking area. If he wasn't even pretending to be a member of the public, I'd no idea how he could justify my presence. He signed us in, as before, and got us hard hats, as before. No one asked any questions. And almost at once we found what we were looking for: two properly labelled doors. One was an exit to the canal towpath and a short cut to the Duke of Clarence. The other was the one I'd used the night I'd laid my flowers in the mud where George had died. Been murdered. It was official. Chris had used the word.

The notice read:
HARD HAT AREA
.
AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY
. The adhesive plastic covered completely anything that might once have been there. But the other notice was a simple
EXIT
. It could not conceal that other words had been there instead. Ghostly outlines, like those we'd found on the doors upstairs, were still just visible.

‘So who would go to the trouble of changing notices?' I asked, rhetorically.

‘Someone, perhaps, who wanted your poor George to wander out here on a nasty, stormy night with loose scaffolding flying around?'

‘Did it fall or was it pushed?'

He grinned. ‘You heard the verdict – accidental death. But in view of this –' he nodded at the door ‘– we'll get the inquest reopened. You see, the pathologist would be looking to see if the blow was obviously struck by an assailant. It wasn't. Damn it, scaffolding poles are a bit heavy to wallop someone with. It's logical to suppose that a pole just fell. I don't suppose the best medic in the world could tell if it fell or if it was really dropped. But I think the evidence of the doors suggests the latter, don't you?'

‘What about the ones upstairs? Were they changed to lure someone to his – or her – death? Or was it just to fog the issue?'

‘Could be either. Only the killer would know.'

‘Killer?'

‘Killer. Murderer. I'm sure now you were right all along.'

I was so pleased I could have kissed him. But on the whole I thought I wouldn't.

There wasn't any point in my hanging around after that. Chris had to set in motion the efficient machine that would cordon off the area and set investigations belatedly in train. I would only get in the way if I stayed. He was embarrassed enough as it was: he clearly wanted to get on with his job, but was adamant that I shouldn't travel home on the bus. A taxi seemed a sensible compromise. But as he saw me into it, he seemed to be hunting for something to say. And when I simply smiled and thanked him it seemed the wrong thing.

I was glad when the driver put the taxi into gear and trundled me off home.

I'd set the alarm clock for the unimaginable hour of six o'clock, and cycled in to college along blessedly deserted roads. Winston was alone in the foyer, without the backup of the green guards: no doubt it had been decided that the college's security would be threatened by people turning up during normal working hours only. He greeted me with disbelief and a cheery grin, rapidly transformed into a yawn.

So here I was, outside the Computer Suite, ready to teach myself about IT. If the college wouldn't fund a proper course for me, like the Little Red Hen, I'd do it myself. Or die in the process.

The first problem was to get into the Suite. Naively I'd supposed the staff key would open it. It did not. It seemed I'd have to approach Richard for a special one, and although he was conscientious to the point of mania about his timekeeping, I couldn't expect him to be in college for another hour yet. I was about to retreat to the staff room to finish the marking Chris had interrupted last night when Philomena, Winston's mother, rounded the corner.

‘Good grief, Sophie, what you doing at this hour?'

‘I'm going to master computing,' I said grimly.

‘Oh, and which system do you propose to master first? We got all sorts, Sophie. There's the Amstrads and the IBMs, posh people only need apply, and there's those Elonexes, and I do believe we got a little collection of dear old BBCs, them steam-driven ones, tucked away. And then you've got to decide which word-processing package – WordPerfect, WordStar, Word for –'

I held up my hands in surrender.

‘And of course you need your own floppy, dear. All them kids ask me where they keep the floppies, as if Old Philomena knew anything about it. All she know is the pile of paper they all waste.' She settled on her mop, to all intents and purposes the archetypal cleaning lady. She winked at me as a student appeared. ‘Hello, Jagdish, lovie, come your ways in. Old Philomena got a key.'

I grinned. Then kicked myself for not thinking of something earlier.

‘Tell me, Phil, did that kid who died spend much time in here? Young Wajid?'

‘More hours than he put on that time sheet they're supposed to sign,' she said, at last abandoning patois for received pronunciation. She was at least as highly qualified as most of the staff, a theatre sister in a specialised neurological unit which had been absorbed into a bigger hospital. ‘You know, Sophie, that kid really changed. To start with he was a real sweet little lad. Then he gets the idea he runs the place – “Philomena, do this, Philomena, do that.” He says he's head of the house now his father's dead. And then he starts to use the phones, Sophie. I know he can't dial long distance now they've put that block on the switchboard, but goodness knows what he did to poor old William Murdock's phone bill. I mentioned it a couple of times to poor Greg, before his breakdown, but I suppose he was too ill to do anything about it. Any idea when he'll be back? I know the computer people are sharing out his work, but there has to be one person to take responsibility for a big enterprise like this, with members of the public using it and all. Lordy, lordy, look at that old clock. Philly, she spend all her time gossiping, she get nothing done.' She winked at me ironically as the caretaker, newly rechristened ‘Estate Manager', limped into view. Gathering her dusters and the vacuum cleaner, she strode off. Then she remembered, and resumed her bottom-rolling shuffle.

Jagdish, the student, was too busy on a project to do more than switch on the machine for me. As Phil had prophesied, I was quickly stumped. As I packed up, I spoke to him again, asking about Wajid, but clearly my street cred was too low for him to give me any serious answers.

There was no way I could find the open sesame to the magic cave of computers without some help, it seemed. Then I remembered Samuel Smiles's dictum of self-help. The library – there'd be some computer manuals there. But it wouldn't open till nine, and in any case I'd have to return some books before I was allowed any more. Nothing for it but to get on with my working day.

My living-room floor was almost covered in photocopies of information about computers and computing when the doorbell rang. Chris. He stepped in blithely, a man sure of his welcome, and moved aside a couple of computer manuals so he could sit on the sofa.

‘It's no good,' he said. ‘You can read about computers until the cows come home, but you need hands-on experience to understand. It's like music: no point in reading about it, you need to listen to it. Or love –'

‘I'll bet I find something useful,' I said, stubbornly. ‘I spent more than ten pounds copying it all, so I better had! What can I do for you, anyway? Or have you come to bring me news?' Suddenly the world seemed a brighter place.

But he shook his head. ‘No news about nothing. That's one reason I came round. Just to go over things we've talked about before. See if anything new occurs to you. Or me. We could start with that attack on you last Saturday. Let's see – you were just coming back from Jools's?'

I nodded. I didn't want to talk too much about Jools herself, not till I'd had a chance to talk to her again. Her behaviour had been so weird recently, I wondered if there might not be another problem apart from her body building. And I didn't want to speculate, even about the David Cox, not if my musings might be taken down and used as hearsay.

‘I've spoken to Jean Hathersage,' he was saying. ‘And we agree that the oddest point, probably the most important point, is this assertion of yours that your assailant was in disguise. Are you positive?'

I went over it all again, wondering aloud why I hadn't noted the car number and cursing myself for running. He was easy to talk to – he didn't try to interrupt, and his posture was that of a concerned friend rather than an interested professional. But I couldn't come up with anything new for him. Except, at last, a question I'd been trying to suppress: ‘Why me, Chris? Why me, and why then?'