Dying for Millions (16 page)

The car was still wearing a thick layer of snow on its roof, but little rivulets were beginning to trickle pathetically down the windscreen and rearscreen. I got in, dodging drips, and sat down. Seven o'clock: what useful thing could I possibly do at seven? There was no point in going home, because with even the small amount of snow still left rush-hour would be truly vile this morning. I'd no idea what time Tesco opened, or college: not for a while, at any rate. The best thing to do was head for college and park. With a bit of luck I could be at Tesco for eight, stock up, and be in class for nine: a little miracle of organisation. To celebrate such inspiration, and to fill the silence, I reached in the glove box for a tape.

I was greeted by a wodge of brown spaghetti.

Breathing carefully, I picked it all out, checking each cassette as I did so. Beethoven Piano Sonatas – OK. Brahms Piano Concertos – OK. The Bee Gees – OK. Yuri Bashmet – OK. Andy Rivers's ‘Raging' album – gutted. Completely gutted. That was the source of the spaghetti.

I gathered the whole lot in my hands and pressed it to my eyes. I knew now where I'd better go: back to Harborne, to Rose Road Police Station. Andy might have a cavalier attitude to the police but just for once I was going to prove to Ian and Diane Stephenson and everyone else that I was on the side of the angels. Evidence that someone wanted Andy destroyed? Here it was, in my own hands.

‘Are you seriously expecting me to believe that not only have you no idea
when
this was done, but that you have no idea
where
it was done?'

Perhaps Stephenson wasn't a woman for mornings. Perhaps I wasn't. One thing was for sure: between us we were making a pig's ear of communicating a simple fact. Ian worried a hang-nail; the silence in her office deepened.

‘Look, Diane, would I joke about this? I'd give my back teeth to be able tell you when my car was broken into. And my front teeth. Apart from anything else, I feel
violated
. Someone's been in my territory, fingering my property.'

‘Would you like me to refer you to Victim Support, Ms Rivers?'

I would dearly have liked to ram her neatly poised ballpoint down her long and elegant throat. What the hell was the matter with the woman?

‘All I ask is that you believe me,' I said, very calmly. On my lap, my knuckles cracked. ‘At no point have I ever suspected that my car has been interfered with. I've had no reason to. I always leave it locked, with one of those mechanical immobilisers on it. You can check for yourself that no one's smashed their way in. And I usually listen to the car radio if I want entertainment. I leave the car in the car park at work, or out on the road at home.'

‘You have a perfectly good garage.'

‘It's full of plants over-wintering at the moment.' I looked at Ian for confirmation, which came in the form of a cautious nod.

‘OK, I suppose we shall have to accept that.' She leaned back in her chair, twiddling that bloody ballpoint.

‘D'you want to fingerprint it?'

‘Anyone professional enough to break into a car as unobtrusively as you allege would scarcely leave prints behind. But I'll get it done as soon as I can.'

‘I'll ask one of the lads to drop it off at college for you, shall I?' Ian asked kindly, earning a cold glance from his boss.

I smiled back at Ian; when I spoke I found I hadn't managed to infuse the chill I'd intended into my voice. ‘I might as well get off to work, then.' Gathering up my bag, I remembered a question I ought to have asked in the beginning. ‘Is there any news of Karen Harris yet? And any response to those love potions from the forensic scientists?'

Ian shook his head. ‘Give us a chance, love.'

‘And Andy himself? What are you doing about him?'

‘Bit of a law unto himself, isn't he?' said Ian. ‘Bit cavalier, like.'

‘A lot cavalier,' I agreed, my voice as dour as Ian's. ‘And stupid with it. Travelling second-class, on a public train!'

‘Nice and public, Sophie. More people around. Anyway, I've contacted the transport police, and he'll be met by more than Ruth at Newcastle. Besides which, I'd have thought one of Griff's mates would be somewhere around. He might be full of bravado—'

‘– shit—' Stephenson amended.

‘– but he's no fool. He's probably got a minder tucked away somewhere out of sight. Wouldn't be surprsied if he's put a tail on you to make sure you're safe.'

Stephenson slapped a file down hard on her desk. ‘It'd do my heart good to think we could charge him with wasting police time.' Clearly she needed another dose of his charm.

‘You never answered my question about Karen.'

‘Ms Rivers, we have contacted all her college, school and other friends. All personnel are looking for her. She phoned her mother again, by the way, about half an hour ago.'

So where was she? ‘I suppose the call couldn't be traced? No? She'd dialled whatever it is first?'

‘141, yes.'

‘Any identifiable background noises?' Silence. Wrong question. ‘OK – I'd better be on my way.'

Neither thought it necessary to delay me. Thanks to the 103 I was scarcely late for work.

How I was supposed to combine teaching an Access group all morning and a GCSE group in the afternoon with the interrogation of the A-Level students which Ian had hinted at, I simply didn't know. All the lifts still being out, I made it to the eighth floor to pick up the register which I had to complete for my class – fifteenth floor – and would then have to return, collecting another for the afternoon's class – second floor. Richard was just unlocking his office as I staggered past to the administrator's room. The walk up had done him more harm than me – he was grey and gasping.

‘Here, let me,' I said, grabbing the key and opening the door. ‘Look, Richard,' I added, ‘you've only got less than two months before you go. For God's sake make sure you live long enough to enjoy your retirement!'

I picked up his briefcase, and was ready to take his arm if necessary, but he waved me aside. ‘Just out of condition,' he gasped. ‘Haven't got your asthma spray, have you?'

Asthma
? It looked more serious than that to me, but I wiped the mouthpiece of my salbutamol spray and passed it without a word. While his colour slowly came back, I found I was digging my nails into my hands. He had to be all right –
had
to be. It wouldn't be fair for him to—

But he was upright again, and smiling. ‘Sorry about that. Tell you what, though – I could do with a cup of tea. If you could ask Florence?'

I made it myself.

Richard's suggestion was that I should give the Access group some written work for the second half of the morning, when he himself would be free to sit with them, enabling me to question Karen's friends. I baulked at the thought of him tackling even more stairs, but he anticipated my objections: he had a meeting on the thirteenth floor at lunch-time – we both had, hadn't we? – so he'd have to make it up there anyway.

‘You could reconvene the meeting down here in your room,' I said.

‘What? And inconvenience all those people?'

Each of the girls gathered – at Richard's suggestion – in the Conference Room was adamant: Karen had spoken of coriander.

To anyone else, coriander was just another herb or spice, a slightly exotic parsley or mint; but coriander was my
special
herb, the obsession I'd shared with my dead friend George. When he remembered, Andy would bring a pot for my window sill, and I would crush a leaf from time to time to bring out that lovely spring-green smell. Sometimes it made me cry. More often these days I'd smile at a memory of George, and be comforted.

‘Why coriander, for goodness' sake?' I asked. Despite myself, I couldn't keep the asperity out of my voice. Any other herb she was welcome to …

‘Because of this article. Out of her mind, if you ask me. That's why—'

‘Why what, Farhana?

Farhana looked at her feet. I looked round the rest of the circle. ‘Come on – what's up?'

Becky caught my eye briefly. ‘She swore us to secrecy. So when the fuzz came sniffing – well, you see …'

‘Rather than betray a confidence you kept your mouths shut. No problem. Except now she's been missing some thirty-six, forty hours.'

There was a tiny but distinct frisson: they all knew more than they were letting on. But something told me a frontal attack wouldn't work, at least not yet.

‘Have any of you ever been to her home? Farhana?'

She flushed. ‘It's my dad, Sophie. Won't let me – you see, she's not Muslim.' She touched her head-covering, as if to remind herself of something.

‘Becky?' She'd be C of E if she was anything.

‘Only the once. To pick her up.' She squirmed. ‘It's her dad, see. Creepy.'

‘
Creepy
?' The choice of word surprised me.

‘That voice of his. And he smells. Like – like my gran's kitchen.' She dropped her voice and mouthed, ‘Mice.'

Predictable giggling.

‘Mind you,' Becky added, ‘I don't reckon he's any worse than her mum. She's really flaky. Says she's psychic. And she says she can will parking spaces to appear – and she can, I've seen her do it.'

Clearly a useful skill.

‘Crystal balls? Tarot?' I must have sounded too flippant. ‘Have any of you ever seen the rest of the house? Her bedroom?'

Half a dozen heads – blonde, Afro and covered – shook solemnly.

‘What about Karen? Does she believe in any of this? I'd have thought she was a bit too streetwise.'

‘Nobody's streetwise when it comes to men,' said Becky.

‘So what about blokes? Was she going out with anyone? Did she fancy anyone?'

Predictable giggles.

‘I reckon she fancied this bloke she met at the Music Centre.' I shot at random, but by the surreptitious exchange of glances I reckoned I'd hit something. ‘Did she tell you about him?'

Farhana shook her head. ‘Muslims don't talk about such things in Ramadan.'

Not officially, maybe, but I was sure she was in on Karen's plans.

‘
I
do! All the time!' Becky was starting to giggle. ‘He fancied
her
, at least. She said he fell in love with her soon as he saw her.'

‘You wouldn't have a name for this guy, would you?'

Damn! I'd gone too far.

‘Don't want to get her into no trouble.' That was Soos, shaking her hair-extensions till the beads in them rattled. ‘She goes, if her folks find out they'll go spare.'

‘Set the mice on her,' Farhana said, and stopped, covering her mouth.

Some time I'd have to tell her it was all right to laugh. Even in Ramadan.

I was just locking the room when Soos came back. ‘That coriander, Sophie.' She glanced around quickly – no, there was no one to overhear. ‘It's to make him fancy her. It's an afro – afro-something—'

‘Aphrodisiac?' I prompted, keeping my voice neutral, as if this were just an English vocabulary test.

She nodded. The beads rattled like bones.

If I listened very carefully I'd be able to hear someone saying it. Think about the voice. Not Brummie … Australian, that was it! Sam the chef, talking about the kid with the beautiful bum. He and Karen had something in common since they both … since they
both
came from Acocks Green. Where had my brain been?

The staff room was seething with students, and all the phones were in use, even the one on my desk. I dumped my bag on the heap of paper in what I hoped was an authoritative manner and looked ostentatiously from the phone to my watch and back again. Eventually the message penetrated my colleague's skull, and with ill grace she passed it across to me. Since she'd been talking to her mother in Scotland, possibly at William Murdock's expense, I didn't apologise for harrying her.

It took ten years to get through to Ian's extension – and then he wasn't there. Inspector Stephenson? Needs must, I supposed.

She greeted my theory without enthusiasm.

‘Look, you have that list of roadies and other hangers-on. Wouldn't it be worth at least checking on that lad from Acocks Green? His address would be there, surely.'

‘When I've got someone free.' Her voice dripped uninterest. Perhaps it was time to wake her up a bit.

‘There is one other thing. Karen's friends think she might have put something in Andy's drink.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

Damn it! Couldn't she show decent excitement, like a normal person?

‘Apparently she spoke of coriander. I suppose the contents of the flask didn't include coriander?'

‘Ms Rivers, you must realise I can't possibly give you that kind of information.'

‘OK.' And I put the phone down. She wouldn't expect a courteous valediction and I was incapable of giving one.

The papers I needed for the lunch-time meeting were in my filing tray. By now I was five minutes late, a churlish response to Richard's generosity. I grabbed everything in the tray, realised I'd had no time to buy a sandwich, and scarpered.

We were deep into quality control systems, and I was shuffling through the papers which summarised a student survey about which Mags was supposed to be pontificating. She always liked intelligent questions, so I'd better invent one. Fast.

I know I said it aloud. ‘My God! How stupid can I get?'

I expect everyone looked at me. They certainly did when I got to my feet, and rushed to the door. Richard's voice was frigid with anger: ‘Sophie?'

‘I'm sorry. I really am. But these are Karen's letters!'

The police would have to have them. But not until I'd read them.

I locked myself into a staff loo – at least no one would interrupt me there – and slipped the first from the envelope. It was a letter to someone else, of course, and I found unfolding the pages hard. Did I have the right to break Karen's confidence?