Dead Time (24 page)

‘Sorry.'

‘Do you want to get a coffee?' she suddenly said.

She should spend time with people other than just Joshua. Maybe she shouldn't be so dependent on his company. She looked down at her rucksack and remembered Emma's phone in the front pocket. She patted the flap as though she was afraid it might spring open.

‘We could go to the cafeteria?'

He looked surprised. ‘OK. If you're still speaking to me.'

‘Just about,' she said, her face managing a smile.

‘I've just got to see the Deputy Principal.'

‘And I've got to give my essay in.'

‘Meet you in the cafeteria in twenty minutes?'

‘All right,' she said, heading off for the staff area.

The cafeteria was busy. She bought a peppermint tea and found a table in a quiet corner. She put her rucksack on the chair beside her so that no one else came close. When Henry came in she waved to him. He went up to the counter, got a drink and then sat opposite her. They were alongside one of the windows that showed the High Street outside.

‘Over there? That building next to the carpet shop?' he said, pointing. ‘That's where the Sundown Club is. Every Wednesday, six to eight.'

She stared straight ahead, deciding not to answer him.

‘Interesting tattoo,' he said eventually.

She wasn't sure what he meant by
interesting.

‘It's a Blue Morpho. My favourite butterfly.'

‘Is it symbolic?'

‘Not really. I just like it.'

‘Something beautiful that dies young? Transformation?'

‘No …'

‘People used to capture butterflies and keep them in jars until they died. And of course they were collected and mounted in glass cases. I personally don't like that. Creatures, insects, animals kept in cages.'

‘It's none of that,' she said sharply. ‘It's just that I love the look of them. That's all. It's not symbolic or metaphorical or whatever. It's a great shade of blue.'

‘Yet you wear black and white?'

‘God. You sound like my grandmother now.'

‘Point taken.'

‘It's Emma's memorial tomorrow,' she said, changing the subject.

‘I know. I've been liaising with her family. They're really looking forward to it.'

‘Looking
forward
to it!' she said.

‘These things are important for people who are grieving. It keeps them close to the people they've lost. This and then the funeral. When the funeral is over it's usually a really bad time for the parents or husband or wife, whatever. 'Course, in this case there won't be a funeral for a while because of the investigation.'

‘What exactly is happening?'

‘I can't really talk about it.'

‘You mean nothing.'

‘We're moving slowly forward.'

‘No new suspects, then,' she said.

‘We're doing our best.'

‘I'll bet, if Emma had been a celebrity or the daughter of Prince Charles, then you would have found the murderer.'

‘Prince Charles hasn't got a daughter.'

‘You know what I mean.'

Rose huffed. Skeggsie was right about the police not making an effort.

She looked around. There were empty tables on each side of them. An exclusion zone. It was as though students
knew
that Henry was a policeman. Maybe they did, even out of uniform. The atmosphere was stiff and Rose didn't know whether she could be bothered to make any more conversation.

‘We found the knife,' Henry finally said, lowering his voice.

‘Really?'

‘It was alongside the railway line. Someone had tossed it over from Cuttings Lane.'

‘The person who was running across the bridge at 6.20,' she said, thinking of Bee Bee.

‘Maybe.'

‘Was it Lewis Proctor's knife?'

‘It didn't have his name on it, if that's what you mean.'

‘But were there fingerprints, stuff like that?'

‘Rose, the only thing on the knife was blood.'

Rose felt herself wilting. Emma's blood caked along the blade of a knife that had lain on the gravel by the side of the train tracks. She had been on trains back and forward to school. She had sat at the window and looked out and perhaps passed right over the very spot.

‘It's with forensics so they may be able to lift a print from it. So you see we are getting somewhere.'

Rose looked at the pocket on the front of her rucksack. If she thought they were really taking it seriously she might give them Emma's mobile phone.

‘However, something new
has
opened up in the Ricky Harris case. I mentioned to you that I was here today because of some thefts in the IT suite? Well, it turns out that our friend Ricky may have had a hand in taking laptops from the suite after hours. We think he may have been let in by someone on the inside. One of the technicians has stopped coming into work over the last few days and we're looking into his background.'

‘But Ricky was killed two weeks ago. What has this got to do with that?'

‘It's been going on since the beginning of term. We think he might have been taking them and selling them down at King's Cross. There is some organised crime down there and we think that Ricky might have been trying to earn his stripes so to speak.'

‘He was killed for a laptop?'

‘Ten to twelve laptops. Maybe he was due to give money to someone else and a row happened. Remember I told you that he was killed with his own knife.'

‘So he wasn't killed for love?' she said, thinking of Lewis Proctor.

‘Not ruling it out completely. The Proctor boy still has no alibi but …'

She sat quietly, looking at her empty mug.

‘Well?' he said.

‘What?'

‘You asked me about the cases and I told you even though, strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to talk to anyone about them. You accused us of not making progress and I've told you about two new lines of enquiry that we are pursuing. What have you got to say about that?'

She said nothing. Was he expecting a gold star?

‘Are you this awkward with everyone, Rose?' he said.

She quite liked him in a grudging way. Not as a friend or anything but he was a nice man and she always seemed to be arguing with him. She thought of Joshua, his hand on her shoulder, patting her arm, unaware that she had been a second away from kissing him. Maybe Henry was right in his own way. She did need some other friends. A new scene, even if it was
cool
.

‘Do you still want me to help you in your club?' she said. ‘Whatever it's called.'

‘The Sundown Club. Yes! But I thought you said …'

‘Just to help mind. I'm not one of the teenagers you've got to save. I'd just come to help make the tea or whatever.'

‘It's not an old people's home, Rose. I doubt anyone will be drinking tea!'

‘That's exactly what's wrong with adults! You have a certain image of teenagers! We're not all eating McDonald's and swilling Coke. I like tea. No sugar, a touch of milk.'

‘OK, OK. Come tomorrow. Six to eight.'

‘I'll be here at Emma's memorial. I could do a bit of work in the library and come afterwards. Thing is, though, I wouldn't want to come on my own. Can I meet you?'

‘Sure. I get there early, about 5.30. To set up.'

‘Call me, when you get there. Here, take my mobile,' she said, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. ‘Put your number into it. Let me have yours and I'll give you my number.'

Henry handed his mobile over to her.

‘God! You need a new one of these. How old is it?'

‘Point taken.'

‘Why do you
always
say that?'

‘Don't know. You make me nervous.'

She took her mobile back from him, ‘Ring me tomorrow and I'll come across to your Sun Club.'

‘Sundown Club.'

‘Who thought of the name, by the way?'

‘I did.'

‘I thought so.'

Rose was late for the memorial. Her last class had run over and afterwards the teacher wanted to speak to her about her work. With one eye on the classroom clock she listened to complaints about her last essay, which wasn't long enough or detailed enough. She hurriedly agreed with the teacher's comments, promising to do better in the future. By the time she got away the corridors were packed with students milling around after the end of classes. She had to weave her way through and then walk across the site to the George Bernard Shaw Studio. When she got there the memorial was about to start so the main entrance was closed. She stood in one spot, perplexed. It had not been a good day. A teacher came by and directed her up the stairs to the rear doors. When she got in she was surprised to see the auditorium virtually full. She sat on an aisle seat on the last but one row.

She felt hot and shrugged her jacket off. She dumped her rucksack on the next seat and looked at the front
pouch. Emma's mobile phone was still where she'd put it a couple of nights before and she didn't know what to do about it.

The tiered seats meant that she could see everyone, at least the backs of their heads. It was five or six times the number of people who had come to Ricky Harris's memorial. She looked along the rows and saw Sara and Maggie. Sara turned at that minute and gave her a wave. On the edge of a row about halfway down was Bee Bee Marshall, and Lewis Proctor was a few seats away from her.

Along the very front row was Emma's family. A number of adults and a small girl. Among them was Sherry Baxter, one side of her red hair pulled back with a black comb. They were talking to each other and a couple were looking round, waving to people they knew who were behind them. Sherry stared ahead, though, her back solid, her head very still. Rose remembered her weeping a few nights before in the rose garden. The sound had been heartfelt.

Rose didn't recall any of Ricky Harris's family being at his memorial. He had a mother and an older brother, Emma had told her, but he hadn't got on with either of them.

The principal entered then. She stood centre stage as classical music started to play. It went on for some time and the hall quietened. Rose listened to the sound of the orchestra, the strings giving the piece a melancholy feel.

She was reminded of the lessons she had given up, of the violin that sat in its case in her room. She'd started learning to play when she was eight and carried on all the way through her time at Mary Linton. Now she didn't do it any more. Everything in her life seemed like that at the moment. Things she'd started and not finished. The essay was no good. Her relationship with Joshua was muddled. She'd given up the violin. She'd got involved in Emma's murder and had half-heartedly tried to find the knife that killed her; instead she'd found her mobile phone. The hunt for her mum and Brendan had stalled.

Nothing was going right.

The music played on while the principal stood with her head bowed as if in deep thought. When it stopped she looked up at the audience, her eyes sweeping across those seated, allowing a moment's complete silence before she started to talk.

‘May I remind students to have their mobile phones on
silent
during this service.'

There was a shuffling of movement as students reached into bags to check that their phones were off. Rose didn't need to check hers. She'd been looking at it on and off all morning to see if she had a text from Joshua. There hadn't been any. Neither had there been any emails. He'd said he was busy but still she thought he might contact her. It made her feel anxious. Had he perhaps sensed something on Tuesday afternoon? Was he avoiding her? No, that was
ridiculous. She was imagining a slight where there was none.

On top of it all she had agreed to go and help Henry Thompson in the Sundown Club. She sighed.

The principal started to speak.

‘It is the fear of all heads and principals of educational establishments that during their career they may have to convene an event like this. A service to mark the death of a student. In the last week I have had the unenviable role of presiding over two such events. It's a very sad time for the school and its students. Today we are meeting to remember and honour Emma Jane Burke, a student of this school, a daughter, sister and a friend to many people here. It is with great regret that I must …'

Rose listened for a while but felt her thoughts pull her away.

When she saw Henry Thompson again she would give him Emma's mobile. It would be difficult to explain because she could not tell him about the CCTV photographs. She would have to say that she had gone into the cemetery that very morning and had found the mobile by chance. It was a tall story but if she stuck to it, who could say whether it was true or not? The police would most probably be so pleased to have it along with the murder weapon that they wouldn't worry how they got it.

Or
she could post it to them anonymously.

She sighed again. Why had she kept the phone at all? She'd intended to try and find out who had made the call. But that, like everything else in her life at the moment, hadn't been done.

What was wrong with her?

Someone from Emma's family had got up to speak. It was a woman of about thirty dressed in dark trousers and a denim jacket. She had flat hair that hung in strings down the side of her face. She was Emma's aunt, she said, and went on to read a statement from the family. Rose watched her. It was a painful sight. The woman was in tears and her voice kept breaking with every sentence. She was holding up the notepaper in front of her and her arms were trembling. Rose found herself tensing her breath, willing the woman to get through her statement and go back and sit down. Eventually she did and the person next to her put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

Two female students got up and had statements to read. The music changed and a familiar song came on. It had been one of Emma's favourite's, one of the girls said, and everyone sat and listened while the girls waited for it to finish before reading their pieces.