A (Very) Public School Murder Page 4

  ‘A place of truth,’ she said simply in answer to the question. Ferdinand choked a little. ‘My wish for Stormhaven Towers is that it’s always a place of truth.’

  There was a short pause for silent admiration and grunts of ‘hear, hear’ and ‘quite, quite’. Though all were thinking the same thing: Who among the adults gathered here would have proposed such a wish for the school? A place of truth? The innocence – and ignorance – of youth! Geoff Ogilvie – soon to be demoted from his position as Director of Boys – went further: he hated Holly in that moment. And what in particular did he hate about the head girl? So many things. He hated her brilliance, her confidence, her youthfulness, her glamour, her assurance. It made him feel old, disappointed . . . and disappointing. And he hated the head as well; he hated him for being all over her, just like the weasel chaplain Ferdinand. Geoff had always wondered about those two, the chaplain and the head girl. But then he was now wondering about a lot of things as he surveyed the ruins of his life.

  Bart Betters, Director of Wellbeing, was impressed by Holly’s words. He liked idealism, he liked things staying positive; it made him feel better. And he’d been about to say, ‘Out of the mouth of babes!’ But he held himself back for Holly did not look like a babe, or not that sort anyway – and then peroxide Penny Rylands, Director of Girls, took control: ‘I think we all wish for that, Holly . . . “A place of truth” – absolutely.’

  ‘I’m not sure you do, Myra,’ said Jamie to himself.

  ‘As for me,’ continued Penny, ‘my vision for Stormhaven Towers is simply “Making Lives Better” – pupils, parents, staff; past, present and future. The Towers should be “making lives better”.’

  There were some nods in the circle because disagreement was difficult with something quite so obvious and bland. The alternative was ‘making lives worse’ which, while a truer assessment of the school in some eyes, was not an inspiring vision.

  ‘Christ-centred education,’ declared Ferdinand, almost talking over Penny, so keen was he to be heard. He wished his voice to be the decisive one in this meandering meeting. Where is God in all this? he wondered. ‘That’s my vision for the school: Christ-centred education!’

  ‘Very good,’ said Jamie, to fill the awkward pause.

  ‘But what does that actually mean?’ asked Geoff, frustrated.

  ‘I would have thought it was fairly obvious,’ said Ferdinand.

  ‘Not really. I mean, I hear it said – but what does it actually mean? Do we really have any idea what curriculum Jesus would want for a twenty-first-century school in the West? Does he have a particular view on the International Baccalaureate or strong feelings about how many hockey teams we should put out? Or whether we should make the fees thirty-five thousand rather than thirty thousand?’ He paused. ‘Or whether change is always best?’

  Jamie intervened: ‘I think this is a time for sharing our visions, Geoff, not debating them. You’re sounding a little miserable, to be honest!’

  ‘It’s being miserable that keeps me going, Headmaster.’

  ‘Mindful of now,’ said Bart Betters, with the quiet determination of ancient England behind him. He had no wish for more misery from Geoff, who was a rather negative soul at the best of times.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Jamie.

  ‘My vision for Stormhaven Towers: “Mindful of now” – because what else is there?’ asked Bart. ‘Mindful of the nowness of the woodlands, the nowness of ourselves, the nowness of others – the nowness of this moment.’ He paused for effect – and then glanced at Ferdinand who looked away.

  ‘The nowness of Italy,’ said Penny playfully and there were some smiles. Bart was always going on about Italy – it was a running joke in the common room when they had a moment to laugh, during the term-time madness.

  Bart replied: ‘I’m being serious, Myra – I mean, Penny.’

  Ooh, that was awkward . . . very awkward. So awkward it almost made Jamie laugh. Bart blushed as did Penny . . . only she blushed with rage. Her fury was like an acid inside.

  ‘Geoff, we haven’t heard from you,’ said the headmaster, wishing to move on. He hadn’t heard the word ‘nowness’ before . . . was Bart quite mad? ‘What’s your wish for Stormhaven Towers?’

  ‘Loyalty and honour,’ replied Geoff, slightly tight in the throat. He was too angry for calm. ‘What’s a school worth without loyalty and honour? It’s not worth a scrap.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Jamie.

  ‘A good head,’ said Jennifer, looking up from her note-taking. She was the head’s PA and he liked to hear her views. He was always asking what she thought when they were alone in his office.

  ‘But I’m not a teacher,’ she’d say.

  ‘Nor are half of them,’ Jamie would reply naughtily . . . and they’d laugh.

  And here she was now, offering her thoughts again, a handsome woman in her late forties, executive wardrobe, never a fibre out of place . . . glasses on a delicate chain round her neck. Mind you, not everyone thought she should be a member of the review team. It seemed a bit odd, but it was Jamie’s call . . .

  ‘That’s my wish for Stormhaven Towers,’ continued Jennifer. ‘That the school always has a good head.’ Some called her cold – others, merely efficient. You didn’t like Jennifer; it would be hard to like her. But everyone knew you kept on the right side of her; she could damage your career, with a voice so close to the throne.

  ‘She has the ear of the king,’ observed Terence to a friend at church. ‘Which gives her a power way beyond her pay grade.’

  And the truth was, she’d damaged many down the years with her interventions – and some quite badly. ‘Access denied’ was not her nickname for nothing; and she’d become increasingly proprietorial of Jamie these past few months, as if he was hers to control. But she was happy to speak now and say more than she’d ever said in public: ‘What I see from my position as PA to Jamie is this: everything emanates from the head. He’s the start of everything. It’s not that the rest of you aren’t important’ – nervous laughter from the circle – ‘it’s just that if a school has a good head, then everything else flows from that.’

  And with that said, she returned to her note-taking.

  ‘Right! Well, the cheque’s in the post, Jennifer,’ said Jamie, slightly embarrassed but also pleased. ‘And let’s hope I’m one of the good heads you’re referring to.’

  Jennifer smiled, without looking up.

  ‘Crispin? Do you have anything for us?’

  Jamie hoped for nothing too stupid from the head boy – but he wasn’t holding his breath. Crispin was clearly uncomfortable in the spotlight; he wasn’t a bright boy and was obviously struggling in this exalted company. And because he didn’t know what to say, Crispin just picked up on Jennifer’s wish for a good head.

  ‘Jennifer wants a good head, which kind of makes sense,’ he said. His skin retained the legacy of acne beneath mousy brown hair.

  ‘That’s your wish too, Crispin?’

  He blushed a little at the attention.

  ‘In a way it is. I just suppose it depends on what you mean by “good”. Is a good head a good husband, for instance? Or is that different?’

  He offered a half-smile to defuse any sense of offence.

  Suddenly everyone was listening.

  ‘What do you know of Stormhaven Towers?’

  she asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Could you just answer the question.’

  ‘If you tell me why you ask it.’

  ‘Why do you need to know why I ask it?’

  ‘Because you know exactly why – but you’re hiding the reason from me. I’m simply levelling the playing field.’

  Abbot Peter’s broken doorbell had rung falteringly. Standing on the doorstep was Tamsin, or DI Shah, in uniform.

  ‘We have a situation there.’

  ‘Has a parent choked on the fees?’

  ‘The headmaster is dead.’

  ‘That’s a problem.’

  ‘Ap
parent suicide.’

  Peter sighed.

  ‘Well, it’s allowed. I mean, not encouraged – but allowed. If you have to go, you have to go.’

  ‘He died five hundred yards from where we stand,’ said Tamsin, looking to make some impact. Peter managed a sage nod of the head.

  ‘He should have dropped by, on the way,’ said Peter. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t be offering a bed for the night. But we could have talked, shared our despair over a cup of tea.’

  ‘That’s really pushing the boat out, Abbot.’

  ‘It could have included a biscuit. I’m not saying it would have saved him—’

  ‘He jumped from Stormhaven Head.’

  ‘Well, he would have, wouldn’t he?’

  It was a popular seafront walk. You strolled past the Martello tower and the tea hut, along by the beach huts and then up the sharp incline of the white cliffs, the beginning of the Seven Sisters, rising majestically out of the sea. When you reached the top – and no one managed it without some sense of exhaustion – you’d arrived at Stormhaven Head. Around you were the finest of views – views across the Downs, across the town or out to the sea . . . and with a long drop to the rocks below. An actor from a TV soap was the last sad soul to make the leap; it made some of the papers, a few column inches . . . financial troubles had done for him, apparently, though no one really jumped for money.

  ‘But we’re not sure,’ added Tamsin.

  ‘Not sure about what?’

  ‘There may be more to it than suicide. Forensics think so.’

  ‘And I’m very happy for forensics,’ said Peter, still filling the door space, and still barring the way inside. ‘Give them my love, or whatever’s appropriate in the circumstances – but what has this to do with me?’

  He could guess . . . but would not make it easy.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she said. ‘It’s a traditional courtesy to relatives.’

  ‘They’re not usually dressed in police uniform . . . or is this a fancy dress party I know nothing about?’

  ‘I just knew you’d come as a monk.’

  Peter smiled, relented and stood back to allow her into the small front room. Peter’s two-up, two-down – with a study extension at the back – was in a small row of houses fifty yards from the shingle and the cold green sea. His doorstep was a windy place to stand and Tamsin was glad to be inside . . . not an outdoors girl, never had been.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’ asked Peter, moving towards the kitchen. He preferred coffee alone, a private pleasure. But his guests could still enjoy one; he’d sip a glass of squash in solidarity. His neighbour – who had a car, bless her – went to the Lidl in Newhaven and kept him well supplied with most things. People said Lidl lacked variety; they had clearly never lived in a monastery.

  ‘Coffee,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Decaff.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Decaff.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was clearly a problem.

  ‘Normal will do.’

  ‘Good. I’m not sure Lidl do decaff.’

  ‘Everyone does decaff.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word on that one.’

  ‘This isn’t the desert, you know.’

  Though for Tamsin, that described Stormhaven perfectly . . . a cultural desert at least. She’d never buy a house in the town time forgot.

  ‘But what’s the point of decaff?’ asked Peter. ‘I mean you either want coffee or you don’t.’

  No answer came as he found a mug and put a rounded spoon of caffeine granules in it. The abbot preferred two spoons himself. The tea had tended to be weak in the desert but the coffee, thick and black. No sleeping on the psalms at his monastery! And presumably, in time, his niece would get around to saying what had brought her here . . .

  ‘I was wondering if you were up for a small investigation,’ she asked on cue. Tamsin spoke over the boiling kettle, a noisy affair.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Slightly louder. ‘I said, I was wondering if you were up for a small investigation?’

  Peter returned to the front room and placed her drink and digestives on the small crate which passed for a coffee table.

  ‘Why the change of heart?’ he asked.

  Only a few days ago, at their Tide Mills picnic, Tamsin had turned him down, pushed him away. Humorous police comments about monks at the Lewes HQ seemed to have put her off the idea of another partnership. She’d been cold to his pleading. So which tectonic plates had shifted – and why?

  ‘A yes or no would suffice,’ she said. ‘Not that you’re begging, I understand that.’

  ‘I’m not begging, no.’

  There was a silence between them. Tamsin sat in the one comfortable chair, Peter on a large wooden crate formerly used in the packing of herring. He’d found it on the shore and given it a wash, a polish and a home. The smell of fish was less striking now and it had proved a solid piece of furniture. But mainly, it was free – for Peter needed to be thrifty. He hadn’t returned from the desert with money, because you don’t make money there . . . you pray. And he’d found it hard to earn any in Stormhaven, other than presiding at the odd funeral, when a vicar was unavailable. He was a rarity in that regard: someone never sad to take a call from the undertaker.

  ‘The school, it’s eerie,’ said Tamsin, letting down her guard a little. ‘There’s this huge chapel which emerges from the rocks – have you seen it? It’s like some Gothic misogynist monster.’

  Abbot Peter smiled. He’d noted the chapel from a distance on his coastal runs. Quite a landmark.

  ‘You want me to hold your hand amid the ghosts and ghouls?’

  ‘Religion is your world, not mine.’

  ‘It’s not really my world, Tamsin – the landscape of life is too large for religion to comprehend. But it’s not a world that scares me, if that’s what you mean. That particular emperor has no clothes from where I stand.’

  Peter was thinking about money. He was aware he’d need cash to repaint his green front door, which suffered terribly in the salty wind. He was aware also that he’d enjoy getting under the skin of Stormhaven Towers. They had never invited him to preach since his arrival from the desert. He’d met the chaplain once – Ferdinand someone – an intense figure, given to the manicured speech of the control freak. He’d once said to Peter: ‘We must get you over, have you in our pulpit, and sooner rather than later, Abbot.’ But he hadn’t . . . he hadn’t got Peter over . . . hadn’t offered him the pulpit and it was much later now.

  ‘So?’ said Tamsin.

  ‘You want an answer?’

  ‘Most questions do.’

  ‘Normal rates of pay?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tamsin, smirking at the outbreak of greed. Special witnesses were given a decent allowance. ‘As long as you don’t fail me.’

  ‘When did I ever fail you?’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  Abbot Peter was reminded that in previous cases, Tamsin had given him more grief than the actual murderers. The murderers usually turned out to be rather pleasant people – something which could not be said of his niece.

  ‘I’m in.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘Why not? I need some paint.’

  ‘Good! Yes, very good!’ she said. There was a moment of connection between the two, shared excitement at what lay ahead. Tamsin was up from her seat, and Peter rose too, though they didn’t quite hug; they had never quite hugged. And then she was gathering her things, muttering about how she must be on her way, and that she’d be in touch later that day when she’d spoken with the chief inspector.

  ‘Just don’t fail me,’ she said as she left, her coffee barely touched – which even at Lidl prices was a waste.

  There had been unpleasantness

  before they broke for some free time on Sunday afternoon. Bart had wanted to raise the matter of the negativity of the Senior Management Team. He wanted to say how some people – mainly himself, to b
e fair – found it oppressive.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Jamie.

  ‘It’s just that some people feel that senior management—’

  ‘Do you mean me?’

  Bart did mean him.

  ‘I mean, the message is that we’re failing all the time – and it’s just not helpful.’

  Jamie wasn’t taking this, and certainly not from Bart.

  ‘Well, you are, Bart. It’s a fact. You’re failing all the time.’ Bart was affronted. ‘There’s nothing personal in any of this. But since you ask, what sort of a job do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I mean, I don’t know your objectives, Bart. What are they? Deeper breathing? More tree dances? And I certainly don’t see any outcomes.’

  ‘I meant the school generally, Headmaster.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You say we should be like Westminster, or we should be like someone else . . . when, well, we can really only be ourselves.’

  ‘Is this making sense to anyone?’ asked Jamie, theatrically. ‘Because I’m struggling.’

  ‘I suppose what I hear Bart saying,’ said Penny, stepping into the ring, ‘is that it would be good to hear of the things we do well, sometimes.’ Jamie looked surprised. ‘I mean, we all want to do things better, of course we do, Headmaster.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘And if it’s Russian or Chinese money helping us to do that – then, so be it. But, well – our Learning Support Team, for instance – they’re doing brilliantly, Jamie. Parents pick Stormhaven Towers for our learning support provision.’

  ‘And do you know what, Penny?’ said Jamie, attacking her with a stare. ‘I’m not that thrilled.’ Penny was taken aback. ‘I mean, great work and all that, sure. But I’ll let you into a secret: the Russians and the Chinese won’t be coming here for our learning support provision. They really won’t. So I don’t want the school to be famous for its special needs provision. I want it to be famous for its academic achievement, for its A level grades, its Oxbridge entrance record, its drama and music facilities, for its sporting achievements – national school football champions, why not? Other schools can do the special needs ones. That’s not our market.’