Dying on Principle (37 page)

‘My God!'

‘He's still alive, Sophie, if you want to come and say goodbye.'

‘His family …'

‘No. He doesn't want family. Just you.'

I had to go. I stayed there all night, a counsellor ready to help me when I needed it. I think he died at five thirty-seven, but I waited on a while. At last, I spoke to him: ‘I don't know why you did all this. I think you killed – or had killed – at least two people, one of whom was a sick young woman. I wonder why you spared me?' There was much more to ask, of course. But my voice sounded too loud.

I laid his hands together, closed his eyes and wandered into the dawn-cold garden. A young man joined me. I don't know who he was. None of the staff wore white coats of uniforms. He steered me back into an office for tea, and waited for me to talk. When I didn't, he reached into a filing-cabinet drawer and passed me an A4 envelope. Keys to the safe, and a set with a BMW fob. A set of papers, some witnessed at the bottom. There was a note that Mr Fairfax must have dictated for the writing did not match his signature, still strong, almost fierce. It was a codicil to his will. I found I was responsible for Pilot, but only until I could find him a good home. He'd been overhasty in his treatment of Alan – would I ensure his solicitor made amends? He wasn't going to leave me his house; what he ought to have done was burn mine down so I'd have to cut free. What I was to have was his car. The insurance certificate and deed of gift were attached. And the sago pudding was more successful than the rice, which for my future information needed more salt.

I took a taxi home, wrote down the number he'd left on the answering machine, and set the alarm for nine. Justice could wait a few more hours.

Chris could hardly exclude me from the unlocking of Ali Baba's cave. I was there in Fairfax's snug with Dave, Ian and a number of people from the team. I set the number and turned the key. Inside were the files: ‘Management Centre, Provence', ‘College without Walls', ‘Newtown Site' and a number of others with different logos. I distributed them as if they were exercises for homework, and then stood staring at the empty safe until moved quietly aside by a young woman in glasses, who peered at the lock mechanism and a couple of bits of gubbins inside and announced it was fortunate we'd not tried to force the safe because the whole lot would have gone up in flames if we had.

‘Here we are!' Ian yelled. ‘They were only setting up a bloody holiday home down near Nîmes.'

‘What about this business of the College without Walls, Ian? Did Worrall say anything yesterday afternoon?' Chris asked, grinning.

‘A lot. But that might be franchising,' he said. ‘Seems they might be franchising courses. You work out how much it would cost you to do it in your college, and then license someone else on other premises to do it cheaper. Only you get the profit, see.'

‘Especially,' I said, ‘if you get nonunion labour to do it on the cheap. Does it say how much they were proposing to pay the lecturers?'

‘Does £5 sound right?'

‘It sounds bloody awful.' I couldn't stick it any longer. I fed and fussed Pilot, and found my way into the cast-iron conservatory. It was so humid I needed air, and figured it wouldn't come amiss for poor Pilot to relieve himself. He dashed out with vigour, lolloping and somersaulting like a pup. Then he froze, his face ugly with purpose, and hurtled for the orchard at the far end. There was a scream. I remembered who was supposed to be in charge. ‘Pilot! Pilot! Heel! Heel!'

He slithered to a shuddering halt, snarling.

‘Stay! Stay! And you there,' I yelled at a figure trying to keep Pilot at bay with a garden fork, ‘stay exactly where you are or I shall let him go. Chris! Dave! Come here!'

Pilot didn't like them any more than he liked the man in the orchard, but so long as I held him with one hand and patted him with the other, he consented to stay with me. I recognised the man when they brought him back to the house, even though he wasn't smiling. Gardener and odd-job man, he said he was. Some very odd jobs indeed.

‘He'll squeal,' Ian said. ‘Give us other names.'

There was a lot of booze still to be drunk in the incident room, and they'd be glad to see the back of me so they could rib Chris about going down on his knees to shake paws with a dog. There might be other things they could rib him about, such as sharing his girlfriend with an old man who turned out to be Mr Big. It wasn't the existing Muntz land he'd wanted, but the derelict Newtown site, to get access to the land at the back. There were plans in his safe for a hypermarket. Whether he had further plans for the Harborne site wasn't clear, but it certainly seemed to be he who was steering Muntz into bankruptcy. Clearly he had Curtis by the throat.

‘Has Curtis said much yet, Ian?' I asked, gathering my bag.

‘Enough. Incriminating his solicitor as much as anyone. You mix with an interesting class of person, young Sophie.'

‘But they're all respectable businessmen!' I said, wide-eyed with innocence.

‘Less of your cheek, my girl. You're sure you won't have a drink? I've got some Tio Pepe here.'

‘Quite sure.'

‘And you're sure you'll be all right on your own tonight?' Ian pressed. He looked at me kindly.

‘Alone? With that fucking great hound in the house! Best chastity belt I've ever seen, sweetheart,' Dave said, emerging from nowhere and putting an ostentatious arm round my shoulders.

‘D'you think he was running all that porn? Fairfax, I mean,' I asked, ignoring him.

‘A bit of private enterprise from Curtis, that. He had a college with facilities, a lot of money he could spend on specialist software and hardware, and some staff who'd do anything they were told to stay in a job,' Dave said. ‘That's all he's talking about – the porn. Oh, and Blake getting his come-uppance.'

‘Sorry?'

‘For overreaching himself? He'd certainly done something to annoy Fairfax – protested about his treatment of Trevelyan, for one thing.'

I found a chair. ‘OK, why did Fairfax want Trevelyan treated badly? Spell it out.'

Dave grabbed a chair too, but he straddled his. ‘That little scam of hers was an irritant, and it drew unwelcome attention to the college, reduced the time available before people started inspecting the books. Blake couldn't do much about it, of course, because
she
knew about
his
merry pastime. Fairfax decided the easiest thing was to shut them both up. Now, Curtis may have taken this a little too literally. “Shutting them up” can mean bribing just as much as it can mean killing.'

‘Curtis likes running over squirrels,' I said.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘I think he'd have preferred the nastier alternative.'

‘You wouldn't be biased?' Chris asked quietly, drifting over with what I was sure was a deceptively casual air.

Equally casually, Ian drifted away, more or less dragging Dave.

‘Even if he claims he was acting under orders, that would scarcely exonerate him,' I said.

‘Messy bloody business all round,' Chris said. ‘Trevelyan runs a silly little scam. Melina finds out and confronts her; Tevelyan kills her and goes mad – or feigns madness: we shall never know. And then she too is killed. What people do for money!' He looked hard at me, but then asked; ‘Any idea what'll happen to Muntz now?'

‘I should have thought the FEFC would do something. There are a lot of jobs involved, and they own the Harborne site, too. They'll probably send in some inspectors to run the place, get someone to prepare a report, and hope it can be revived. Either that or merged with another college. It'd be nice if William Murdock would take it over – I could carry on walking to work!'

Chris laughed politely.

I got up to leave, and then found I couldn't avoid it any longer. ‘Do you think the whole of Fairfax's empire is built on blood?' I asked, looking him straight in the eye.

‘Absolutely. And Sophie – no, tomorrow will do.'

I hated it when he looked sorry for me, hated it. ‘What else? Come on, spit it out.'

‘I phoned to tell young Simon he was right about the microwave, about the magnetron, that is. The pathologist ran some tests using Simon's figures and they worked out hunky-dory.'

‘I won't ask what they tested his theory on.'

‘No. Don't. Anyway, he said he'd had a call from someone here. Not me. About some CDs you bought. Simon suspected they might be dodgy, so he contacted us and passed on the cir's registration number. Remember? I'm afraid you bought a whole lot of stolen property, Sophie. It'll have to go back to the owners.'

I shrugged. ‘Win some, lose some. Look, you need to get pissed and I'd better go and feed Pilot. See you, one and all!'

It didn't take me long to drive back home.

I looked at my watch. Nearly lunchtime. I had to get back for my afternoon class, not that I'd expect too many students this close to the exams – especially not after all the trauma of the last few days.

I leaned against the only wall in the bus shelter with any glass left and let my eyelids droop. I'd already had a long day, after all. I'd been up at four, picked up the M5 at Junction 3 and been down in Devon with my cousin Andy in time for breakfast. Pilot had romped in the meadow of the home farm, and then had resumed his place in the back of the BMW. I'd left him at the kennels Andy always used, with instructions to let no one have him till I'd met them and checked their home. Then I'd driven home again, coming off at Junction 2 this time, and picking up the A4123. Auden wrote a poem about it once. I spent perhaps half an hour at Rydale's. They didn't want to do it at first, but I was adamant: they were to service the car, bring it to perfection, and sell it for the highest price they could get – at auction, if necessary. I gave them Aberlene's number, thinking they and the MSO Friendly Society Fund could get some mutually useful publicity. The money might even save that little boy's life, though for the life of me this morning I couldn't remember his name. A saleswoman tried to interest me in a Three Series, but so soon after the Seven Series anything would have seemed puny. Maybe, however, one day I would take Chris up on the offer he'd made weeks ago to squire me round all the local garages for test-drives. Or perhaps I should get a new bike. I patted the blood-red car one last time, tossei them the keys and crossed the road.

The 126 bus seemed to take for ever to come.