Dying for Millions (11 page)

‘What if I forget? And there's no one to ask, like tonight?'

‘OK, Sophie – you'd better know too. 1.1.44. My mother's birthday. I take it Gurjit could phone you up in a crisis?'

I bit back a tart comment about occasionally having a home-life. ‘I'd rather you didn't forget, Gurjit, if it's all the same to you.'

Her work station was screened from the others; already there was a suspiciously thick pile in the in-tray. He sat down and we watched: one over either shoulder.

‘Now,' he said, switching on the computer, ‘this is what happens.' He tapped in another set of figures as he spoke: a little row of asterisks appeared obediently on the screen.

‘Don't I need to know the password too?' she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Security, I'm afraid. Someone will always start up the system for you. We can't expect Sophie to remember another set of numbers.'

Watching over his shoulder, I thought it more tactful not to tell him that that particular set would take no remembering – the series of numbers he'd tapped in was Andy's birthday.

‘The system's very efficient. When a plane logs in with the control tower we know its code. As soon as that's entered, its payload comes up on the screen – if anyone's using it – and is printed out there.'

As if on cue, a printer – a nice new laser – hummed quietly and disgorged a print-out. I went into immediate covet-mode: the minimal peace of our staff room was daily assaulted by a dot-matrix printer chugging out thirteen people's hand-outs. Since photocopy cards were at a premium at this stage of the financial year there was a great temptation to run off sets of notes, so life was dominated by the appalling clatter.

‘What the duty clerk then has to do is check the printout, log it manually, then send out an invoice to the appropriate firms. There you are – this one would go to Parcel Force. And that one. It's not very exciting work, but it's extremely responsible. If the invoices go out late, we lose money; if they go to the wrong people, we lose good will.'

‘Of course. Oh, look – that firm belongs to a friend of my father's!'

‘Better make sure they get the right invoice, then,' Mark said. ‘Ah! It sounds as if the party's starting. Back to my office, please.'

We were rigged out in yellow day-glo waistcoats and ear-protectors; our bags were locked in Mark's safe. I set the security alarm off as we walked through into the passenger area – I'd left my keys in my pocket. I parked them ignominiously on the security counter and tried again – OK, this time. Gurjit watched with what looked suspiciously like a gleam of amusement in her eye, ostentatiously shed her bangles, passed them to Mark, and sailed through silently. His smile as he returned them to her, slipping them over her hand, had an interesting quality.

Although it had stopped raining we stayed under cover while a couple of planes landed, putting on the ear-protectors without being told. I still knew next to nothing about planes, and was amazed to hear Gurjit make some factual observation about the age of the one taxi-ing away from us. So was Mark, to judge from his expression.

‘My father was in the Indian Air Force,' she said. ‘He has a passion for aeroplanes. But those Viscounts must be forty years old.'

‘Due for honourable retirement in some aircraft museum?' I asked.

‘They're safe enough,' Mark said. ‘There probably isn't much that hasn't been replaced since they started flying. In fact, you might wonder if they're really the same plane.'

Gurjit looked at him. ‘But surely, Mr Winfield, all human cells are renewed on a regular basis. Does that mean that Sophie, for instance, isn't the same person as she was forty years ago?'

Forty
? I opened my mouth to protest, and then realised all I would be doing was interrupting someone else's conversation.

Mark looked at her seriously. ‘In terms of human cells, no. Except they all configure to make one person, guided by that individual's DNA. And humans have another characteristic that inanimate objects lack. Any ideas?'

‘Personality? Memory?'

‘Exactly –
hell
!' he shouted.

Simultaneously we donned ear-protectors again. Another big plane – red, with the Parcel Force logo – landed and taxi-ed in. We waited until Mark removed his protectors before doing the same.

‘There – there's a plane over there just about to be unloaded. It's full of what we call igloos – see?'

I didn't see much resemblance myself, but I nodded.

‘Those containers?' asked Gurjit. ‘So the planes aren't full of loose cargo?'

‘Loose-loaded, we call it. Some are – see that one over there, with the conveyor belt? But that system's too labour-intensive to be popular – too expensive.'

‘And rather too vulnerable,' Gurjit said.

‘Vulnerable?' Mark repeated.

‘To theft, of course. Unless you have strict security?'

I hugged myself. Gurjit had been an inspired choice for this placement. Her face was more animated than I'd ever seen it; her voice warm with enthusiasm. And it looked as if she and Mark would get on well together. Perhaps too well for my liking.

‘It is pretty strict, but you're right. Some firms seem to ask to have stuff stolen. Look at that lot over there.'

We looked at a heap of packages in transit towards what looked like a warehouse. They were all brightly taped with the firm's name.

‘So if you want to steal computer equipment you know which to go for,' Gurjit said. ‘Have you remonstrated with the firm?'

Mark caught my eye briefly. ‘We have.'

‘But they remain unconvinced?'

‘Clearly!' I said.

A sudden spatter of rain made us turn with one accord for the warehouse, which turned out to be a huge postal sorting office, noisy from the metal cages holding the parcels and from the shouted conversations of the men and women working there. From there we went to an area full of large lorries playing dodgems. To get back through a hefty gate to the apron we had to be searched – a body search for Mark, despite the fact that his must be a well-known face, or perhaps because of it. They merely ran a sort of electronic baton over us women.

‘Planes take off from here for all sorts of sensitive places,' Mark said.

‘So, in addition to stopping people stealing from the planes, you want to stop them putting anything extra on.'

Gurjit won another smile from Mark. ‘Exactly.'

Back in his office, with packets of fruit juice he'd bought from the canteen, we sat down, suddenly constrained. I was silent because all I wanted was my bed: but Mark and Gurjit sat staring at each other, he young and personable with an intriguing limp, she suddenly looking as if the black she habitually wore was a fashion decision to enhance a glowing olive skin. Except I'd never seen her skin glow before. Oh, dear …

‘When can you start?'

‘When can I start?'

They spoke simultaneously. They replied simultaneously. ‘Tomorrow?'

‘Good.' I said, putting down my fruit juice and peeling off the waistcoat. ‘That's settled then.'

I seemed to have taught for an eternity, though my watch insisted it was only ten-thirty. Break! I got back to the office to find Ian Dale sitting at my desk, drinking a cup of tea and inspecting a pile of photographs. Shahida was at her desk, which was next to mine, actually sitting down – a most unusual posture for her, since she was usually on her feet running wherever it was she was heading. They looked up and beamed when they saw me. I gestured to Ian to stay where he was, made a mug of tea for myself and joined them, admiring the latest snaps of what was my sort-of-god-daughter. Since Shahida and her husband were Muslim, and I was a distinctly lapsed Baptist, the spiritual side of the baby's development wasn't going to figure high on my agenda, but I was keen on most other activities, especially bath-time and feeding ducks.

‘There you are again, Sophie – I've never seen so many pictures of you,' Ian said.

‘No, they're photos of the baby with me in them,' I said. ‘I'm just the supporting cast. Hey, isn't that the bear I gave her?'

‘One of them,' Shahida said.

‘Like that, is she? Doting?'

‘I don't dote!'

‘Not much she doesn't! This is one of two identical bears, Ian, so that when one gets sicked on it can go in the wash, but Maria doesn't miss him because she can cuddle his twin brother.' Maria is a Muslim name, too – the stress goes on the first syllable.

Ian gave one of his rare smiles of approval. ‘Neat, that. I remember my favourite teddy had to be thrown away. Never found another like him. Still,' he sighed heavily, ‘I suppose that's life.'

Did I dare? Did I dare buy Ian a teddy bear for his birthday next month? Chris would say I couldn't possibly, that the whole idea was absurd and outrageous – but then I probably wouldn't consult him.

We nattered through the rest of the photos, my colleagues and students washing in and around us as if we were a sandcastle defying the tide. At last Shahida gathered the photos together, and set off to her next class.

Ian raised an eyebrow. ‘Anywhere we can talk?'

I snorted. ‘You know as well as I do there isn't! We'd better try and find a classroom – it's the best I can do unless you can requisition somewhere better.'

‘Only want to give you some news, Sophie. No need for you to be so touchy.'

‘Sorry. Had a late night last night,' I explained as we walked along the corridor, and told him about the airport visit. I didn't tell him that I hadn't got a sentence out of Gurjit since that didn't begin, ‘Do you think Mark would …?' Neither did I tell him that Mark had been on the phone to me at well before nine to thank me for arranging everything so well and asking if I had Gurjit's home number so he could ‘arrange a few details' with her. Since I couldn't oblige, he'd entreated me to dig her out of class as soon as she got in to ask her to phone him. Her class had proved to be on the third floor. I was so knackered I might have permitted myself to use the lifts today – except that handwritten notices were stuck on three of them announcing that they were out of order. You can imagine the crush to get into the fourth.

‘No wonder you're looking peaky,' he said. ‘After all the business at the weekend – ah! Is that room empty?'

Until we went in, it did indeed appear to be. Only the steady, rhythmic rocking of a bank of filing cabinets which concealed the corner hidden from the corridor suggested otherwise. Groans of what sounded like pleasure reinforced the suspicion.

‘Shouldn't you do something? Report them, or something?' Ian demanded as I locked the door behind us.

‘Let me see … We'd have to go and identify whoever it is, cough to announce our presence, witness their embarrassment – not to mention ours – wait while they got dressed, report them formally, go to a disciplinary hearing as witnesses …'

‘OK, OK. All the same—'

‘All right.' I fished a Post-It out of the depths of my bag and wrote:
Please do not use this room for this purpose again or there could be serious consequences
. Then I unlocked the door again – just, by the sound of it, at the crucial moment – stuck the note where it could not escape notice, and locked up once more. ‘There. Nicely ambiguous, don't you think?'

‘Humph,' said Ian, peering through another door; this room was occupied by a History teacher and a pile of marking.

At last we found the Geography room empty. Ian prowled round, apparently looking for something: since we'd spent five minutes looking for a room and I was due to teach in a further five, this time on the fourth floor, I found the delay irritating, but it never did to hurry Ian – not if you wanted the fully-rounded version of whatever he was prepared to impart.

‘Brent Knoll,' he said at last, prodding a relief map. ‘Contour maps of Brent Knoll – that's what we did in Geography. Some rubbish at the end of a glacier. And now it's a service station with a fancy name. Sedgemoor. Why not Brent Knoll? In memory of all of us who did Geography all those years ago. It's probably not even called Geography any more. Environmental Studies, or something.'

I waited.

‘Well, they found something in that young man's body. Helleborin, that's what they think it is. Affects the eyes. And other things. Heard of it?'

I shook my head. ‘In what way affects the eyes?'

He flicked open his pad. ‘Photophobia and visual disturbances. Also causes vertigo and tinnitus.'

‘Just the thing you want to take if you're Andy and performing at a pop concert.' Then I started to feel sick. ‘Were there any traces in Andy's flask, by any chance?'

‘Still testing at the forensic science lab. But they'll be shifting on that, now we have the pathologist's report. If it was Chris in charge, we wouldn't still be waiting.'

I made an effort to concentrate. ‘You did say Stephenson's in a difficult position.'

‘Not in the pub, she isn't. One of those women who has to be tougher than the toughest man. The amount of whisky she sinks! Rough stuff, too. She's prepared to drink any bloke under the table. And her language! I thought you were bad enough, but she'd out-cuss you any day.'

That was the ultimate condemnation. I glanced at my watch. ‘Look, I've got a class. Anything more you can tell me while we walk down the stairs? Like, where you found Andy's flask? I didn't get a chance to ask on Saturday.'

‘Behind that drum kit. Absolute tip back there. You'd never have known –' he paused, while I locked up – ‘that those fellows had only been there a few hours. All sorts of muck. Disgusting. Half-eaten sarnies, cups half-full of cold coffee … Worse than your staff room, and that's saying something.'

‘It is indeed. So what's going to happen now? How did he get hold of helleborin, whatever it is? Is it some sort of magic mushroom?'