Dying on Principle (19 page)

She greeted me in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I've got a young man of yours here! He wanted the key to go in and mend something, but that nice Chris – remember what he said—'

‘I don't need a body guard with you here, Aggie,' I said, wishing she were of the generation that hugged routinely. ‘But you're taking an awful risk, inviting him in.'

She smiled. ‘Thought I'd set him a bit of test, me love. Told him about my fridge – asked him to have a look at it. He's in the kitchen now. And Chris is on the way.'

How would he appear? With an armed-response unit? Or merely as a chance visitor?

Aggie opened the kitchen door with a flourish. ‘Here he is,' she declared, standing aside for me to inspect him.

‘Simon!'

He stood up and grinned, waving a pair of mucky hands. Then he looked beyond me to Aggie. ‘Sorry, there's not a lot I can do with this. I reckon you're losing coolant. You could have it topped up, of course, but with CFCs—'

‘Them's the things as is causing this global warming,' she said. ‘Don't want to ruin the world for me grandchildren.'

‘Right.' He patted the fridge. ‘Don't reckon this owes you much anyway.'

‘Ah. Be one of those as Noah threw out when he sailed his boat up the cut,' she said, grinning. ‘Might as well go off into Harborne and get meself a new one – if you're sure he's all right, Sophie.'

‘He's all right,' I said. ‘But I'm glad you didn't let him in. Nothing personal, Simon. But it looks as if this –' I patted my leg – ‘wasn't accidental.'

Back in my house, I offered him tea, but he declined. Aggie had pressed several cups on him and all he wanted was my loo. I tried to call Chris and his rescue party but couldn't get through on his own number, and the Rose Road switchboard was busy too.

When Simon came down again, I was in the kitchen. With a flourish, he laid a small wire framelike construction on the table. ‘There!'

I peered. ‘Half a mousetrap?'

‘Toaster element. I spotted an old toaster at a car-boot sale the other week and bought it on the off chance. Well, sometimes they work. Then I remembered yours had packed up, and thought we could cannibalise one to repair the other. You haven't thrown yours away?'

I dug it out of the cubbyhole.

‘Proper little Aladdin's cave, that,' he said. ‘What's in all those carrier bags?'

‘That one's for the bottle bank, that one's for foil, that's waste paper for the Scouts, and there's the aluminium-can bag. Oh, and the Oxfam sack. I never seem to get there in opening hours.'

‘Sophie, patron saint of recycling.'

‘Saint Simon, more like – spare toasters indeed!' I stuck my tongue out at him.

The doorbell. Chris. He was talking to Aggie from my front step, and as I watched, two patrol cars and a couple of unmarked cars drove off. Perhaps it was a good thing for both of us that we couldn't speak freely, what with Simon in the kitchen and possible bugs anywhere. Chris's voice was only just under control when I introduced him to Simon. Given that their relationship could have been one of arrester and arrestee, they seemed to take to each other remarkably quickly. Simon permitted himself one test slice of toast, and then bowed himself out: the MSO were playing in Lichfield at eight.

If Simon hadn't wanted tea, I did, and I filled the kettle. Chris put out the mugs and sniffed the milk suspiciously. I decided not to notice.

‘Why don't we take this into the garden?' he asked. ‘Is this the key for the patio door?'

I nodded. The possibility of someone listening to us was unbearable. And I didn't want anyone eavesdropping on my phone calls, either. When the phone rang I picked it up as if I might burn myself.

It was Richard Fairfax. I mouthed his name to Chris, who was dawdling over unlocking the door. He drew a question mark in the air and raised his eyebrows.

‘Sophie, my dear, I was wondering if you might be kind enough to do me the most enormous favour.'

That was Fairfax: no messing around with preliminary enquiries about my health.

‘If I can,' I said, cautiously: three possible listeners after all.

‘My damned secretary – can't think what she was playing at: usually a most efficient woman. She forgot to diarise it forward for me or I'd have given you more notice. There's a function at the Botanical Gardens tonight. A reception for a Russian trade delegation. I wondered if it might amuse you. The gardens are worth seeing, after all.'

The Botanical Gardens were worth seeing at any time; that was why I'd taken out membership.

‘Can you give me a few minutes? I have visitors and I don't know their plans. I'll call you back.'

He couldn't disguise the surprise in his voice: presumably most people agreed to his proposals. But he gave me his number.

Chris stolled down to the compost heap. I joined him and reported.

I suppose I expected a derisory comment about going out with a man old enough to be my father and my favoured makes of car. But he gazed into the humus as if considering a much more impersonal proposition. I waited.

‘I don't think you'll enjoy seeing Gavin and his colleague searching your home. And as far as Fairfax is concerned – well, you might have an interesting evening.'

I stared. He smiled back, blandly.

‘Have you got something on Fairfax?'

‘Whatever gave you that idea? Surely he must be a most moral and upright citizen to be chair of your board of governors?'

‘Board – oh, you mean a trustee.'

‘I mean the governors of your college. Well, your temporary habitat. Didn't you know? Surely you should know all your governors by sight and name. In the interests of self-preservation at least!' He broke off a young shoot of rhubarb, sliced the leaf and root on to the compost heap and started to chew; from the expression on his face it was less sweet than he'd expected.

‘In that case, I don't think I want to spend an evening with him. It seems he's not been entirely honest, to say the least.'

‘I'll bet he thought you were just too tactful to mention it. Go on, let your hair down. That silk thing'll be just the ticket. You know, the one you wore at the Mondiale. But leave your credit card at home. Dave Clarke was asking after you this afternoon, by the way.'

‘Hmph,' I said. ‘OK. I'll tell Fairfax I'll go. And maybe it'd be better if you moved your car in front of Aggie's and arranged for Gavin to come after I've left.'

‘D'you think he'd be embarrassed by the reception committee? Or would you be?'

I shook my head slowly. ‘I don't know. I'd just prefer him not to know.'

‘And you'd rather we weren't here, should you invite him back for a nightcap.'

It was either bite or not bite. It would irritate him more if I didn't, so I simply remarked, as I headed back to the house: ‘If I've got bugs infesting the place, I'm hardly likely to have my nightcap here. No, it'd be champagne in the Jacuzzi
chez lui
. I do hope he's got satin sheets.'

A walking stick is definitely a conversational asset, though I'd not recommend one if you are supposed to be juggling a bag, a glass of wine and a fork buffet. Fairfax seemed to have brought me along as a silent, decorative appendage to match the silent, decorative appendages of the other middle-aged men. As such I failed miserably, of course, but my temerity in joing in conversations seemed to raise other women's spirits too, and I found that I was really enjoying myself. We sank liverish quantities of champagne, were treated by the peacock to a display on the terrace and were roundly abused by the mynah birds.

In fact we were so busy gossiping that we missed the function-suite exit and made our way instead through the hothouses. A shoal of fish rose to the surface of the big round pond, as if expecting to be fed. And then, silent and almost colourless, with opaque eyes and a blind, rapacious mouth, another figure joined them. Perhaps it was its sheer size – it must have been two feet long – that made it so repulsive. Or perhaps it was a reminder of another, more sinister world better forgotten.

The carp mouthed us silently out of sight.

Chris had left a brief note on the stairs. There was some good news to start with: his colleagues had found a tarpaulin after a hunt through rubbish tips, and yes, there were appropriate bloodstains, so he could push forward his inquiries. The second paragraph tersely invited me for a lunchtime pint the following day, which I couldn't help feeling sounded fairly ominous. We would meet at my house first, twelvish. Apart from this there was no evidence that he and Gavin might have spent the evening tearing my house apart.

I'd said good night to Richard Fairfax on my front doorstep. The question of coffee or more had simply not arisen. After a token sip of champagne, he'd been silent for the latter part of the evening, and I'd seen him slide a couple of tablets into his mouth two or three times. It didn't need the arrival of the monstrous carp to make him go pale. During the short drive back from the Botanical Gardens we'd talked in an uncritical way of some of our fellow guests and of his desire to grow better azaleas.

I swear that when I arrived at George Muntz I had no intention of doing anything of which Chris would not approve. But by absolute coincidence my college photocopying card ran out. We have a plastic-pass system to enable us to take up to two hundred and fifty copies; then we have to get another from Personnel. It was no longer a simple matter of tapping on their door and being let in. I had to battle with the sort of security system I'd always associated with blocks of flats. Although I was swiftly admitted, the service when I got in was nowhere near as prompt. Someone had just brought in her new baby: no doubt she'd started her leave before I arrived. There was, of course, a great deal of cooing and chucking under chins, which the baby bore with fortitude despite the fact that all the department must have been round it – probably fifteen or sixteen women. I looked round the office and, seeing nothing more interesting to do, plonked down on the nearest vacant chair to wait. Quite by chance I found one by a computer, the monitor of which was still full of data.

Down the left hand side was a row of names. Adams, S.; Ashcroft, R. B.; Atkins, P. J.; Barratt, S. R.; Blake, D. M.; and so through the alphabet down to Forster, who to my regret was E. N., not E. M. Between the names and the figures was a column of abbreviations: L, .5, MS 5; MS 10; Ch. Exec. It did not take much effort to work out that I was looking at a list of staff, with their rank and, by the look of it, their annual salary. Blake, D. M., Ch. Exec., £85,750.

Blessing the introduction of beautifully silent laser printers into the college's administrative system, I decided to print from the screen. I had a fair idea of what I might do when I got my new photocopy card.

The evidence was inescapable. The little grey plastic box sat accusingly on my kitchen table. None of us said anything. Finally Gavin picked it up and carried it back into the living room. I watched him stick it back under the shelf on which my phone sits. We exchanged glances.

‘Pub, I think,' I said at last. ‘For that drink you mentioned, Chris.'

The two men escorted me in virtual silence, not straight to the pub, however, but to a bench in Queen's Park.

‘I'm really sorry,' Gavin said at last, as if it was his fault.

Chris nodded. He was slumped forward, elbows on thighs, hands drooping loosely between his knees.

‘Have you had any deliveries recently?' asked Gavin.

I shook my head.

‘Had your gas fire or central heating serviced?' he pursued.

I shook my head again.

‘What about those flowers?' Chris asked.

‘Aggie took them in and put them in the sink. In any case, the only bug they'd conceal would be the six-legged variety.'

‘Are you sure about that? That it was she who put them in the sink? Not someone purporting to come from a florist?' asked Gavin.

‘Ask her yourself. But I'd bet my holiday that she did it herself. She guards my place like her own, bless her. You've seen her, Chris!' I said, trying to sound positive when the only conclusion I or any of us could draw was that someone I knew socially, a friend, perhaps, had planted it.

‘You cold?' Gavin asked.

I regarded my shaking hands with distaste. ‘Probably. Yes, time to go in for that pint, I'd say.'

Chris shook his head. ‘I think you should consider a few possibilities, Sophie. And they're much the same as those you considered when we found the device in your office. If we remove it, whoever planted it will know.'

‘There's always a possibility that there are other, smaller ones around too,' said Gavin.

‘Shit. Didn't you check? Or are you
telling
me there are others? Don't pussyfoot around. I have a right to know the worst. I live there, after all.'

‘Let's just say, don't talk in your sleep.'

‘Jesus!' I said bitterly. I found I was ready to cry. So I braced my back, and said jauntily, ‘Any ideas, gentlemen?'

Lunch was relatively silent; I was too preoccupied to talk. My half of mild seemed lukewarm, and the sandwich couldn't tempt me. On the other hand, Chris and Gavin ate and drank with every appearance of enjoyment. After ten minutes I could bear it no longer. ‘What you really want me to do is live with the bugs. And have some of yours for good measure.'

Neither tried to deny it.

‘I ought to abide by your judgement. You're the professionals.'

‘True,' said Gavin. ‘But it's your life they're interested in.'

George Muntz was a-buzz when I got back after lunch. Everyone was clutching an A4 sheet of paper. Peggy gestured me over.

‘You'll find one of these in your pigeonhole, dear. But you'll have to fight your way through everyone else to get to it. So have a little read of mine.' She passed me a familiar photocopy of rows of figures.