Dying on Principle (36 page)

‘I think Chris is too,' I said, and found myself ready to weep.

I didn't go with Val to her keep-fit class, but sat instead at her kitchen table, staring at yet another sheet of paper. This time I didn't try to make sense of the murders. I simply wrote down some of the things that had happened to me. The Barclaycard fraud; the theft of my money: they could be dismissed as part of one of the more badly stitched corners of life's rich tapestry. The silly jaywalking accident. That had to be a coincidence – no one could have guaranteed my presence at that particular time and place – but it was not so silly if it was the same smiling man who'd attacked Aggie for defending my house. Blake had tried to get the project moved back to William Murdock. There was Sunshine – but I could discount him, of course. There was all that graffiti and the obscene call. And then I rubbed that bit out. It was the obscene call and then the graffiti. Someone had called me at home on the Sunday before the graffiti appeared at college on the Monday. Someone had tried to shut him up. Someone had given something away.

If only I knew what.

Mrs C's horrified response had surely been genuine. Curtis's had, too: why don't you get out of here? Was that all that someone wanted? Me to be out of the action? And surely the fact that I had the phone call on the Sunday evening suggested that the graffiti wasn't the work of a malevolent student. Someone had been busy over the weekend.

The accident could have been more serious. It could equally well have been less serious – it was only my dodgy knee that had made it bad. The graffiti was deeply unpleasant but not physically threatening. The attack on Aggie that Saturday afternoon could have been infinitely worse. That Saturday afternoon – the phrase stuck. The afternoon I'd been safe with Fairfax. The afternoon when he'd had a phone call saying that William had interrupted a job. I'm no crossword expert but even I could now see that William and Old Bill were not so far apart.

So did it all point where I thought? To the Chair of governors who happened to have property interests? Did he want the Muntz land? Enough to persuade them to take on new premises? No: although George Muntz was a corporation, all its property actually belonged to the Further Education Funding Council. All its existing property. What if it bought something else, with monies acquired by savings on the engineers' salaries?

Why had normal decent teachers got entangled with wrong-doing – the pornography, the dubious property deal? Overpromoted, perhaps, yet they were people who'd once been as concerned about their students as I or any other teacher.

On impulse I reached for the phone. Dave was at Rose Road, but he'd welcome a break, he said, and he'd be right over. I found myself burrowing for my make-up and smoothing my hair. Then I did up the top two buttons on my shirt and put away the perfume unopened.

I needn't have worried. He was interested only in the Muntz business.

‘I'll tell you this for nothing,' he said, slumping at the table, ‘I've never seen figures in such a mess. The auditors'll have a field day next April.'

So whoever wanted to commit fraud would have until April to do it?'

‘Yes. But they'd have to have skipped to bloody Patagonia by then. Jesus, sweetheart, they've lost paper records, wiped computer ones. Total shambles.'

‘Anything to do with the fact that Curtis wasn't qualified?'

‘Everything. How did he get the job, for Christ's sake?'

‘Placed there? Muntz doesn't seem to have any qualms about appointing people without advertising and interviewing.'

‘Placed?'

‘By Blake and the Chair of governors? There are some interesting files in his safe.'

‘Let's get at them, sweetheart!'

I shook my head. ‘Fairfax is going to put the code on my answering machine and give me the key. But I shan't get the key until he's dead.'

‘Come on, sweetheart, we can get a warrant, get in there somehow.'

‘A warrant against a dying man? Let it wait till morning, Dave. He's dying. You're knackered. Let it wait.'

He nodded reluctantly. To give him something to do, I said; ‘You know, I'd love to see if any of Luke's messages reached my desk. Fancy running me down to Muntz to have a look? Maybe a pint afterwards?'

He shrugged but agreed.

It was rather nice parking in a management space at Muntz. There was still a police presence, of course, but no one stopped me walking in, though perhaps I had Dave to thank for that. In fact we were halfway up the stairs when someone called him back. I told him my room number and pressed on. His knees would move more briskly than mine.

As soon as I opened my door, I knew something was wrong. I tried to back out fast and slam the door behind me. Not a chance. Whoever it was behind that door was too slow to get a proper grip, but he kicked at me, and grabbed my hair as I went down. I managed one good scream before he clamped his hand over my mouth. One of the heavies or Curtis? I assumed it was the latter. And made sure he couldn't shift his grip on my hair by throwing myself one way, then another. He got behind me and started to drag me backwards.

‘Sophie, what the hell?' That was Dave. Better late than never, I suppose.

But now of course it didn't matter whether I screamed or not, so, his one hand still in my hair, my attacker could move the other. Next thing I felt was something cold and sharp on my neck.

I could see the whites of Dave's eyes. Maybe he could see mine.

‘Hang on there,' he said, inadequately.

‘I want a helicopter. Money. Now. Tell him, Sophie.' Yes: it was Curtis.

‘Seems like a good idea, Dave. Please.' I tried not to scream as the point jabbed a little.

‘Do it. And stay here while you do it.'

‘Please, please, Dave. Use your radio so he knows for sure.' I was finding it hard to be brave.

Dave spoke hurriedly, incoherently. I couldn't catch the reply.

‘Now turn round and walk down those stairs. Get!'

Dave tried to walk backwards, watching me till the last, perhaps.

‘I said, turn round and walk. Do it!'

‘Dave, tell Chris—' I yelled. But it was a good job Curtis jerked me into silence because I didn't know what message Dave should give.

And now we started to move, backwards. Along a corridor. Round a couple of bends. Difficult to say where I was. Then up some stairs. Stairs? The roof. That's where he was taking me. Melina had slipped off her shoes to leave a clue. Should I take mine off too? No, I might need to kick. And I didn't want sore feet – though that might be the least of my troubles. Perhaps there'd be time to do something when he stopped to unlock the door to the roof.

But someone must have left it open, for suddenly we were breathing fresh air.

He was panting. Was it from the effort? No, I'd co-operated. His hand was shaking too: the knife jagged against my skin. Must be fear. Perhaps if I could talk, it would keep him in one place, keep him still. Give them time …

‘Why – why are you doing this?' I began. I ought to call him by name, make him realise I was human. But I couldn't call him Curtis. And I couldn't remember another name. ‘Please?'

‘I said they should have got rid of you. But no, not them. Keep her quiet, they said. Get her out of the place. That's all!'

If he was telling me all this, it wasn't transport he wanted. At least not till he'd disposed of me.

Better try again. ‘Did you – was it you who …' The words wouldn't come. ‘Was it you who killed Melina?'

‘Who? Oh, that technician.'

I took that as a negative. It fitted in with what Mrs C had said.

‘But it must have been you that dealt with Blake? The electronics? How did you do it?'

He laughed. For a moment I thought I might be winning. Then I decided I didn't like the tone after all. ‘Neat, wasn't it? A lot of thought, mind, then just a dab of a zapper.'

I thought of the squashed squirrel.

‘How did you do it?'

‘It'd take too long to tell you. Get moving!' We started a sideways progress.

‘Why kill Blake? Why did you want to kill Blake? Because they told you?' Dared I risk it? ‘Did Fairfax tell you to?'

We must be quite close to the parapet by now. Why were there no sirens? Why weren't they coming? Chris, please!

‘Chris says it was a brilliant piece of work,' I said. ‘You ought to be working for
NASA
or something. I mean, all your qualifications—'

That was a mistake. The knife jabbed. I could feel a trickle of blood, nothing much. Not yet.

‘Curtis?'

We both jumped. Loud-hailers have that effect.

‘Des? This is Dave Clarke.'

Dave! But he was about as subtle as a bulldozer. I didn't want him negotiating for my life.

‘Des?' Was that Curtis's first name? ‘We're over here.'

‘Here' wasn't on the roof. Nowhere I could see, anyway. He dragged me backwards again, yards this time. Then he heaved me upright.

‘On the parapet. Right on top. Now,' he said, pushing me.

People lose control, don't they, when they're afraid. They pee or mess themselves. I started to retch. Val's beautiful lamp chops. And I had long enough to know I was going to drown in my own vomit because he wouldn't let me tip my head forward.

‘Des, let her go, she's ill. Can't you see she's ill?'

Then there was so much noise I couldn't hear anything else they said. They must have alerted all the emergency vehicles in Birmingham. I couldn't hear Curtis's response either.

I could hear another voice, though, close at hand. Another person who didn't know how to address Curtis. A mild little voice with a Brummie accent.

‘I mean, this is a bit much. Come on, a bit of fair play, mate.'

‘Just fuck off out of here!'

But Phil's intervention had diverted him enough to let him slacken his grip on my hair, and I slumped forward, choking so fiercely I lost sense of what was going on. The lamb chops went over the parapet. I was still on the safe side of it. I retched again.

‘Look, chum, you got to face it – you been caught out good and proper. That Trevelyan lady, she's left enough on her hard disk to—'

‘You talk – over she goes. Right?'

I was halfway over. My feet! I still had shoes. I kicked back, up, as hard as I could. I made contact, but the effort drove me further forwards, my arms flailing over nothing but that drop. I was going over.

Suddenly I was on my knees, wondering why I was still alive. And then I didn't bother wondering any more, because I passed out.

I came to, still on the roof, surrounded by very tall people in black overalls and woolly hats. No smelling salts, so no Chris. But Dave was there, kneeling beside me, looking as green as I felt. I'd been sick again. I touched my neck, and my fingers came back dry. A siren retreated into the distance – several sirens.

‘Is that your lot taking Curtis somewhere?' I asked.

‘Yes. And a few of us making sure he stays in the car.'

I nodded. I found I could sit up and take interest. ‘How did you get up here?'

‘Fire escape. While he was looking the other way.'

‘You were very quiet.'

‘Trained to be.'

‘Phil? Isn't that Phil?' I could make him out the far side of some very white shirtsleeves.

‘The bugger damn nearly blew it for us,' said Dave.

I felt a bit more enthusiastic. ‘Hell, he stopped him—'

‘If he'd told us what he was on to a bit earlier—'

‘What was he on to? Hell, this is ridiculous. Phil?'

He sidled over, looking sheepish.

‘Thanks, Phil,' I said. ‘I owe you.'

‘Like he was saying, perhaps I should have let on earlier.'

‘Bloody right,' Dave muttered.

Phil ignored him. ‘But you never know. And like they say, there's more than one way of skinning a cat. Now, you know Dr T didn't want us to know who we were getting our stuff from. Right? Well, I reckoned there might be other stuff on her hard disk, too. Even stuff she'd wiped. Now, I've got this mate who knows about hard disks. Bit of a whizz, you might say. And so I asked him to get back the material she'd denied me access to. I just put another hard disk in her computer. Didn't think it'd matter since no one knew there was anything on it.'

Dave opened his mouth, presumably to boast about police computer expertise, and shut it as I clipped his shin.

‘Any road, she must have got hold of his accounts –' he jerked his head in the direction they'd taken Curtis – ‘and copied them on to her machine. And I'll bet he thought he'd wiped them. But my guess is she was bright enough to do what my mate did: retrieve them, then wipe them. And then transfer the files to her disks. And “lose” them again. Clever woman, though, like I say, it didn't do her much good.'

The conversation dwindled. The various men and women started to go their various ways. Someone slung some sand on the remains of my supper. I felt cold and alone and sick. Perkiness was my usual response to situations like that, so I'd better try perkiness.

‘I suppose it's a bit late for that drink, Dave, but I've got some whiskey that might settle my stomach. Tell you what, could you all look the other way while I take these disgusting laddered tights off?'

‘I think you ought to make a statement—' Dave began.

‘You and your bloody statements, Dave. Not until I've had at least a finger of Jameson's! And got some different clothes on. OK?'

In the end, it was Dave who took me to the hospice. I'd phoned on impulse at about eleven thirty, and spoken to a kind-voiced woman who said she'd just been going to call me.

‘Can it be as quick as that?' I whispered.

‘Yes, if you've saved a supply of tablets and left a note propped against your water jug forbidding resuscitation.'