Ribblestrop (33 page)

“What?”

“Send. Sam. I'm serious! It's a brilliant idea. He looks harmless. Send him in with a bottle of booze. Get her drunk. Get him to ask a load of questions. We'll talk later, my voice is hurting!”

They stepped back out of the fumes in time to see Anjoli lean down from the crane's hook. Smaller boys were passing him a canvas sling on bamboos, which he attached and pushed on to Henry, who supported the first roof truss. Knots were tied and Anjoli put his thumbs up. Asilah radioed Professor Worthington and suddenly the gigantic triangle was floating upward, rising to the mansion walls.

To see the great beam bridging what had been, for so long, an open, burnt-out space was an emotional moment for all. The timber peak soared upward like a spire and traced the line the roof would take. The headmaster found his eyes were blurred with tears. He saw Anjoli run up to the top, like a barechested angel. He received the bracing rod, tied it off quickly with a black-and-
gold tie, and saluted again. Israel lit good-luck crackers and there was a volley of triumphant explosions.

So the trusses rose; timbers braced and connected them and before lunchtime all eighteen were in position. The carpentry team started work on windows. The masonry squad, under the personal supervision of Captain Routon, were sealing the beams in place. Four hip rafters were slotted in, fitting perfectly, and there was the rib cage of the roof ready for batons and slates. The cathedral was rising.

What was Miss Hazlitt doing?

She was sitting at her desk staring at her hands. Her briefcase had not reappeared and that was making her sweat. The incessant hammering was making her head ache and she was starting to twitch. She had closed the window on the headmaster and now she looked hard at the telephone, getting her thoughts and her plans in careful order. She hadn't slept for three nights. It was Ruskin and Sanchez who'd been out in the grounds—she'd watched the surveillance footage. There had been a third figure too, moving in the darkness, and that had to be Millie. She'd called Selfridges and described the fur coat. They had positively identified it, priced it, and the price coincided with one of her credit card bills. It was evidence and it proved what she'd known all along. Now, when she thought about what was at stake, the pressure felt physical. The eradication of Millie was urgent.

It was midmorning when she took the inspector's call.

“We've got problems,” he said.

“I know we've got problems. I've been trying to reach you.”

“Did you find your briefcase?”

“No. There were three children out last night. I have been trying to discuss it with our headmaster and I'm getting nowhere. I don't know where they went, it may have been a drunken—”

“Wait a moment, listen.”

“What?”

The inspector paused. “Are you ready for this? We found a tie. First thing this morning when we were tidying up. A school tie, black and gold.”

“
Where
did you find it?”

“Traces of blood, chewed at the end. It was holding up the cover to an extractor fan, out in the tunnel. It wasn't there yesterday.”

Miss Hazlitt said nothing, but her heartbeat increased. “Have you looked at the tie? You should find that every school tie has a name tag.”

“Well, I'm ahead of you there, sir. My training as a police officer stood me in good stead, because that was just what I looked for first.”

“And? Millie Roads?”

“Our investigator-cum-thief. She took the rabbit, and I think she took your briefcase. Sanchez and Ruskin were probably the watchmen. We looked at the venting system and there're nuts and bolts strewn all over the place. It's a confident entry: second visit, no doubt about it. What do you want to do?”

Miss Hazlitt thought hard. “Right now,” she said, “I'm not sure I want to do anything. She's outside, working, and she's not going anywhere. She's not trying to make telephone calls and I doubt if she knows what to do herself.”

“She must have told someone by now. We can't turn a blind eye to two mistakes, can we? We're going to have to do something, specially if the boy's ready. What was in the briefcase, dare I ask?”

“I'll deal with her. I'll sort it out.”

“How? What was in the briefcase, was it important?”

Miss Hazlitt dropped her voice to a whisper. “The boy's medical records—all his scans and an outline of phase two. If she's the intelligence to understand it, and if she's had time to read it, then—”

“She's a bright girl. She'll get there.”

“Who's going to believe her, Cuthbertson? She's known to be a liar and an attention seeker, what on earth is she likely to say? If she phones the police, she'll end up talking to you.”

“If she's got the medical records, she's got evidence.”

“I realize that—”

“If we postpone again, they'll drop you. You could see how twitchy some of them were—where the hell did you leave the damn thing?”

“I was getting changed—”

“We promised Sir Peter total—
total
—security, that was what we guaranteed. I am so on the line on this one.”

“Shut up, Cuthbertson! You're very rich on this one, as well, and likely to get richer. We won't need to postpone and we
are
secure. I'll sort the girl and I'll find the wretched briefcase. You've got the boy to think about.”

“Listen,” said the inspector. He spoke in an even lower voice. “If the kids are building a roof, why don't you organize a little accident? If she had a fall—”

“I've thought of that! I am not a fool, and the last thing I need—”

“If she had a fall, we could bring another prosecution. For negligence, and . . . listen—that would tie in with everything you've been documenting. The man's on borrowed time already; a fatal accident would destroy him, and Routon would be out on his ear as well.”

Miss Hazlitt thought hard, gritting her teeth. The line remained silent as the two adults breathed at each other. Then Miss Hazlitt said: “I've got a better idea. She's a smoker and she sleeps in a shed. I think we wait until lights-out. I think she might have a little fire.”

“I warned her about fires . . .”

“She does like lighting them. How awful if the door to the shed was jammed shut. If she just couldn't get out in time.”

“We can still bring the prosecution. It's still criminal negligence, so he's out; you're in. You'll also call the police, which gives me a very nice excuse to be on the premises just when I need to be. What
time
for the boy, is that double-checked?”

“Half past eight, Routon doesn't change his schedules.”

“Kitchens, yes? He'll be alone?”

“I just told you. I've put his name in the rota—they don't miss their turns, it's a point of honor for them.”

“I don't know their names, what if there's two?”

“Relax, man, there won't be! He's got long hair and he'll be on his own. It takes about thirty minutes and his name's Anjoli—he'll be just where I showed you. One sniff, all right?”

“All right!”

“That's all he'll need, he's tiny. I need him conscious, you understand that?”

Miss Hazlitt put down the receiver, breathing hard. She stood and walked to the window. There was Millie, tieless in her overalls. She was talking earnestly with the little bald boy, Sam—innocent after all. She could see the precious Anjoli too, up on a roof truss, wearing only his shorts. His tool belt looked heavier than he did and his hair was fluttering like a flag. The headmaster had a hammer and was bashing away at something; Routon and Worthington were stretching a chalk line between them, inching up the trusses. Everyone distracted, everyone at work . . . how easy it would be, if the team kept its nerve.

Timing was important—she ought to double-check that. They'd eat at about eight, and she knew it was a pizza night. Anjoli would be clearing up from, what? Eight forty . . . nine o'clock at the latest? So having worked for eighteen hours they'd be asleep by ten. She had a spare can of gas in her Land Cruiser, and nobody would be surprised if there turned out to be a bottle in the girl's shed. Once the fire was going, it would spill—the place would go like a bomb. The crucial thing was to wedge the door shut and get good burnable rubbish, with an airflow, underneath—she could do that now. Then if
she
raised the alarm, it would make the headmaster seem even more incompetent. There'd be fire crews, ambulances, the rush to casualty . . . Little Anjoli might not even be missed. Allowing for new scans, and recalculations, she would need six hours in the chair. The injections took twenty minutes each, but you had to leave time for the skull to cool. She could have him
back in his bed by seven in the morning, if there were no complications.

The first boy, reconfigured. A loathsome child, reborn.

There he was, saluting again! Millie's little helper. She was longing to see that smile removed from his face.

How steady were her hands? She stretched out her fingers and noted they were absolutely still.

Sam had not welcomed his mission. He had wanted to join the carpentry team that, after lunch, had fanned out over the roof like an army. The hammering was like machine-gun fire. Sam longed to be involved, but with a bandaged leg, concussion, and double vision, his balance was less than perfect. He had been forced to agree with Millie that so far, he had done very little to make a name for himself at Ribblestrop Towers. Two goals in the soccer game, but his team had lost. He'd lent his toothbrush, but he couldn't claim any glory for that as he hadn't known it was being borrowed. Ruskin had acted as watchman while Sam slept, and seemed to be staying mute under interrogation. Sam's life at the school so far had really been one long list of injuries sustained. Surely, said Millie, it was time he took the initiative and did something brave.

“I'll try,” he said. “But I bet I don't get through the door—she won't even talk to me!”

“You take her some rum. You smile.”

“I haven't got a bottle of rum!”

“Oh, Sam, don't be wet! You know where we get them.”

“I know where we get them, but it's stealing, Millie. I want to do my bit, but I've been in enough trouble over that toothbrush, which you said you'd give back . . .”

“You are
borrowing
a bottle, not stealing. It's for a very important reason. Now straighten your tie . . .”

“I need a cap.”

“You don't need a cap. You look geeky enough if you tuck your shirt in; come here . . .”

Millie spat on a piece of rag and wiped Sam's face. A tuft of hair was growing back, so she flattened it over his scalp. She buttoned up his blazer and Sam stood up straight, hands behind his back.

“Are you scared?” said Millie.

“Yes.”

“You can do it, Sam. Think of this as a mission. We want to know everything you can find out about the basement.”

“I'll do my best.”

*

Captain Routon's rum store was under the flight of stairs that led to the headmaster's office. Sam pushed a bottle into his pocket and moved quickly down the corridor to the south tower. One hundred and fifty-two steps later, he was putting on his nicest smile and knocking.

“What do you want?” snarled Caspar, yanking the door open.

“Hello, Caspar. I was hoping to see your granny. Is it a bad time?”

“She's been hoping never to see any of you lot ever again, especially you. She's watching you lot work, hoping someone's going to break their neck. What do you want to see her about?”

“Actually, Caspar,” said Sam, “I wanted to see you as well, because none of us see as much of you as we'd like anymore, and we wondered if everything was okay.” Sam realized he was improvising. He felt a little spurt of confidence. “Yes, I was hoping to see you both, and I bought a present for your gran to say sorry for all the noise and disturbance. A few of us clubbed together and bought
this
. Can I come in and give it to her in person?”

“Caspar! Who's at the door? There's a freezing cold draught!”

“It's a boy, Granny. He's brought you some booze.”

Sam hadn't seen Lady Vyner for some time and her spectral form appearing in the hallway made him nearly drop the bottle. Her nightgown was a soft green with little pink roses sewn
around the collar. Her cardigan was blue. The gentle colors made her blotched face all the more horrible.

“Who sent you?” she said, bending down and pushing her nose through the crack in the door. The cigarette smoke nearly made him cough.

“Nobody sent me, but a group of us . . . some of the orphans . . . we thought you might be a bit fed up with the banging, so we—”

“
Fed up with the banging?
What are you talking about? Fed up with all of you, that's what I am!”

“My name's Sam. You saw me play soccer.”

“A bottle of booze. Poisoned, is it? Filled it with something foul, I bet—oh no, I stand corrected. The top appears to be sealed.” Skinny hands reached out and took it from him. Sam could think only of a praying mantis from an old biology book. “Soccer, eh? Oh . . . you're the little
goal scorer
! I won a bet because of you.”

“Shall I push him down the stairs, Granny?”

“Leave him alone, Caspar—”

“I could try out the crossbow! You wait, Sam—you won't believe what I've got! Can I show him, Gran?”

“Darling, let him be. You can practice on the foreigners.”

Sam saw that he had the advantage. “Actually,” he said, “I do need to talk to you, Lady Vyner, I really do need to talk to you.”

“Talk about what?”