Dying Fall

by Judith Cutler

  ‘– and needed to get into their international network to continue doing so once he was back at college.’

  ‘Why should he be killed for doing that?’

  I dropped another article on the table. ‘It could be something like salami fraud – slicing bits off some organisation’s bank account and salting them away in his own. But killing someone seems a bit excessive for something like that. I’d have thought a call to your Fraud Squad more likely. So what I wondered was could he have found more than just money? Chris? Chris!’

  And he passed out gracefully on my table.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘What you been up to, eh, Sophie? All night partying, eh? You got real big bags under your eyes: I bet you have a good time!’ Philomena cackled gleefully as she opened the Computer Suite for Josiah and me.

  ‘No such luck.’

  ‘What you been doing then?’

  ‘Looking after a friend who wasn’t very well.’

  This was, after all, the truth. Once I’d revived Chris with his own smelling salts, I’d had to sleep, since he was too tall for anywhere except my bed, on the sofa. He still occupied my bed, to the best of my knowledge. Ian and I had decided to leave him there while Ian ran me to college. Chris’s car, the large executive Peugeot, slept on outside my front door. The wheels were still in place and no one had yet removed the aerial. Only my reputation was not intact: I’d noticed the ripples along a whole bank of lace curtains even as I’d got into Ian’s car – a Montego, this particular morning.

  In my driving days I’d preferred to cross the Hagley Road at the Ivy Bush junction, but today Brummie accents on Ian’s radio told of an RTA and he kept on Harborne Road till we reached the Five Ways island. He was in the inner lane since he wanted the second exit. This is the island I always cycle under. Up above, it’s just a matter of time before you become an accident statistic.

  Even Ian.

  There are peak-hour traffic lights to control the mayhem. Normally they give you a few yards to get on to the island. This morning, of course, they were out. Each set. That meant there was a continuous line of traffic on the island, moving faster than could possibly be safe. If you knew the buses’ numbers and routes you knew when you had a chance. The numbers 103 and 10 would pull off in front of the hordes ravening up from Islington Row. A couple of cars from Harborne Road might be able to make it.

  Sometimes there were no buses, of course. So there wasn’t a gap. You had to make one.

  Ian waited patiently.

  Then there was an outburst from someone’s horn. And someone else’s. Then a regular chorus.

  I peered round. Some poor motorcyclist had broken down just behind us. He was rapidly acquiring a massive tailback.

  Ian was now almost at the head of the queue. I could feel him tensing, ready to urge the car forwards. If he urged too much, of course, he’d find the Rover driver in front had had second thoughts and he’d end up embracing the Rover’s boot and losing his no-claims bonus.

  The Rover pulled away smoothly.

  Ian’s turn.

  The Lada alongside him was ready for the same gap. We surged out together.

  So did the motorbike. Heading straight for the passenger door. My door.

  I didn’t have time to cry out.

  The Montego was no longer in the left-hand lane, but in front of the Lada on the inner lane. Inches, incidentally, from the exhaust of a cement mixer, trundling round the island at a more sedate pace. Another foot – I covered my face with my hands.

  ‘No point in that,’ said Ian. ‘If I’d hit him, you’d have lost more than your looks. Lost your head, more like.’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘Literally.’

  He calmly signalled, found a gap, and left the island. There was another tailback opposite the Children’s Hospital – people wanting to turn right for cheap Tesco’s petrol. He dodged that, neatly changing lanes again.

  The last few hundred yards were uneventful. He parked exquisitely.

  ‘Do you think that was – coincidence?’ I asked, releasing my seat belt.

  ‘Lot of mad drivers around,’ he said.

  ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘Worth keeping your eyes open when you’re driving,’ he acknowledged.

  A horn sounded loud and long.

  ‘Who the hell does he think he is?’

  ‘Just the Principal. But you are parked in his space.’

  Philomena enjoyed that bit. But as if to trump me she produced from her overall pocket a creased sheet of paper.

  MEMO

  To: All Personnel

  From: James Worrall, Principal

  Re: Enhanced Security

  Following the recent lapse in security, staff are reminded that all rooms must be locked at all times unless under the active supervision of an authorised member of staff.

  ‘So how do I get authorised, I wonder?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I only Philly the cleaning lady. Philly don’t know nothing. She jus’ know she love to get she hands on Mr Carpenter’s memos and correct them first. “Re”, indeed!’

  I battled on for another half-hour or so, deciding that I might in fact authorise myself. Then a tough BTEC class, in which I digressed from the syllabus to give a few subtle hints on the delights of the apostrophe, and a quick interview with Richard, who chose to see my attempts to make myself computer-literate as an attack on him for not letting me get trained properly. At last I talked him round, and became the proud possessor of a shiny new Computer Suite key.

  Ten minutes till the next class. Somehow I had to fit in a coffee.

  I ran up to the staff room. Hang the fact I hadn’t washed my mug, and the only milk was plastic, it would be a life-saver.

  Maybe literally.

  I’d just switched on the kettle when Winston knocked on the door. It was open and anyone else would have sailed in – the seven or eight students in the room had – but Winston stood on the threshold until he caught my eye.

  ‘Hey, Sophie. My mum says to bring this straight up. She says to tell you it must be from your young man. You know my mum.’

  ‘This’ was a Jiffy-bag with what looked like a book inside.

  He was obviously under orders from Phil to see what I’d been sent, hovering, as much as thirteen stone of muscle can be said to hover, by my desk.

  MS SOPHIE RIVERS

  COMPUTER SUITE

  WILLIAM MURDOCK COLLEGE

  BIRMINGHAM

  At least there was no postcode this time. One of my colleagues yelled I was wanted on his phone; while I spoke – it was Chris thanking me for my bed – I wondered who could have sent me a present. I rang off and looked at the package again. The label was typed or word-processed. The postmark was indecipherable.

  I’ve never had a cold sweat before.

  The fifteenth floor. Eight students in the room. Six staff. A young man who could become either a fine doctor or a test cricketer. A full classroom on the other side of the flimsy wall.

  ‘Winston,’ I asked, very quietly, ‘have you been told what to do if there’s a bomb scare?’

  ‘Clear-the-area-without-causing-panic-and-call-the-emergency-services,’ he intoned. ‘Then run like buggery.’

  ‘How do we do it, then?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Clear the area. I know how to run like buggery.’ And I pointed to my unwanted gift.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Chris, his voice heavy with irony, ‘it wouldn’t have done that much damage. Not enough to justify all this.’ He looked at fire appliances. Two were just pulling away. Officers were scrambling into the third.

  Students were milling around the car park, waiting to be called back in. Manjit was walking away from a group. Aftab happened to be walking towards it.

  ‘Letter bombs rarely do,’ he continued. ‘And officially, remember, this was a hoax. Ian’s dinned that into the Principal. I’ve told him I want him to moan about irresponsible people smashing fire alarms.�
�

  I nodded, wondering if I might rub my arm yet. I would have the marks of his fingers just above the elbow for days. It would take longer to forget the anger in his eyes even though it hadn’t been directed at me.

  The Principal fiddled with his loud-hailer. All the senior staff were grouped around him, like guests at a posh wedding awaiting the photographer. A fire drill’s about the only time you see so many good suits around here – mostly male, but one or two women in shoulder pads and grey stripes, too.

  ‘So what would it have done?’

  He looked away from me. ‘Ripped off most of your hands and forearms, probably. Blinded you, possibly. That’s your average device. We’ll learn more about yours when – what the devil?’

  There was a piercing electronic whistle, followed by high-pitched gobbledygook. The students roared derisively. Even one or two of the senior staff permitted themselves a smile.

  The Principal was trying to make the loud-hailer work.

  The Vice-Principal’s secretary brought us coffee and withdrew, not quite shutting the door.

  Ian raised his eyebrows as he walked across to close it. ‘Who’s she keeping obbo for?’

  ‘Just her boss,’ I said, trying to stop my hand shaking as it reached for a chocolate biscuit. He was a redundant Latin teacher forced by circumstances rather than ability to scrabble up the promotional ladder, and he had, not surprisingly, developed paranoia into a high art. He’d been detailed to go and baby-sit my class of secretarial trainees. I wondered if he would emerge virgo intacta.

  Winston sat beside me, overlarge in his armchair. Ian and I chose hard chairs, and Chris was almost absorbed by the executive chair so far leading the field in the hierarchy’s battle for status furniture. He struggled out of it sufficiently to reach his coffee. His colour had almost returned, but in repose his face was so drawn as to be haggard.

  ‘Just once more,’ he said. ‘Exactly what happened, young man?’

  ‘My mum was just signing off, sir, in the caretaker’s office to the left of the reception area just as you come in. This motorcyclist came in – Mum and I thought he must be a courier. We get special deliveries from time to time, sir, especially now the public can use the Computer Suite, Sir.’

  I glanced at Winston swiftly – all these ‘sirs’ meant someone had angered him.

  ‘The public? You mean firms or just anyone? I could walk in off the street and say I wanted to use a computer?’

  ‘Provided, sir, you registered as a user and paid a fee.’

  ‘Hmm. I suppose you wouldn’t know if they check … check –’

  ‘– their bona fides, sir? You’d have to ask the Computer Suite Manager that, Sir. I believe they keep a register. We get to know regular users of the building but unfortunately, since the influx of private security guards, our rotas have been altered and it’s hard for us to keep tabs on people.’

  Chris opened his eyes a fraction. He was changing his mind about Winston, who’d obviously chosen not to end his charade. He looked swiftly at me. I smiled blandly.

  ‘I’m sorry – I interrupted you. You were talking about the motorcyclist who might have been a courier.’ This time the courtesy seemed unforced.

  I relaxed a little. I didn’t want Winston to get himself into trouble by overacting.

  ‘He dropped the package on my desk, but when I looked for my biro – we have to sign for things, sir – it had fallen to the floor. When I’d picked it up, he’d gone. Then my mother my mum came over, she say not to stand there looking gormless but to take it straight up to Miss Sophie.’ Surely he’d overdone it this time! And it got worse: ‘D’you know something, sir? I reckon that ol’ courier must have pushed it, sir.’

  Chris nodded. ‘I reckon you’re about right, Winston – well done.’

  Fifteen all?

  Winston got up and almost bobbed a bow. Then he stopped. ‘This courier, sir. I think I’ve seen him before.’

  The timing was perfect, of course. He winked with the eye further from Chris. So he had been saving it up. In a second, however, his downcast eyes and hunched shoulders epitomised guilt. ‘The Tuesday Sophie found Wajid, sir – I should have told you this before. I told your colleagues I hadn’t left the building. And I hadn’t. Except for a moment. A man came in and asked if I’d help push his mate’s car – he’d parked with his lights on and flattened his battery.’

  I could feel Chris willing him to get to the point. I could also feel Winston playing the moment for all it was worth.

  ‘It was parked at the far end of the car park. When I got there the engine was running OK, and the guy said he’d borrowed someone’s jump leads. Gave me a fiver for my trouble.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Chris, trying to sound not at all furious, ‘you’d get the sack if your employer heard?’

  Winston nodded, humble and lying.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Chris gently, ‘and tell us every single thing you can tell me about the two men, the car and the motorbike.’

  ‘The man who came in that evening was just a man, sir. Got his anorak hood up. About your height. Big shoulders. That was all. And he spoke very politely – a very odd accent.’

  My ears pricked at the word ‘politely’: I thought of my anonymous note. That was polite.

  ‘Accent?’ Ian repeated.

  ‘Almost as if he were playing a German in an old war movie. But not –’

  ‘Authentic?’ I prompted.

  ‘The other guy, the one who said he’d borrowed the leads, was shorter. Wore a leather jacket, jeans. Voice a bit raspy as if he’d got a bad throat. But the odd thing was his buttocks. Hips, really. More pronounced than you’d expect on a man. Today of course you couldn’t really tell. He wore leathers. And a helmet with a dark visor. Never lifted it properly. I never saw his bike.’

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘Beat-up old Datsun.’

  Chris didn’t say anything. Ian got to his feet. ‘Could be a red herring, gaffer, but I reckon I’ll just check out the Computer Suite – you never know.’

  Chris nodded. He looked thoughtfully at Winston. ‘You’ll have to make a proper statement back at Rose Road, Winston. At the end of your shift, if that’s OK? Did I hear something on the grapevine about your playing for Northants? May I wish you good luck?’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s like this. I don’t reckon I shall be going to Northants. You see, I got another offer. Middlesex. Lord’s, sir, the headquarters of cricket. Just think, walking down the Long Room –’

  It was time to join in. ‘Pity you won’t be signing for either, isn’t it? Winston got straight As in his A levels last year, Chris, and an A in his GCSE English. He’s got an unconditional place at St Mary’s to read medicine.’

  At this point Ian returned. ‘You’ll never guess.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ said Chris and I simultaneously. ‘They’ve lost the bloody register,’ I finished.

  ‘That’s right. But they say they’ve just introduced a more sophisticated, indeed foolproof system.’

  ‘Computerised?’ I suggested.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘That’ll be just fine,’ said Winston, ‘until the computers crash.’

  We all laughed; but he was right, of course.

  ‘Nice young man,’ Ian remarked as the door closed behind him.

  ‘Bright, too,’ said Chris, staring hard at me.

  ‘Very bright,’ I agreed blithely.

  ‘D’you think he’ll keep his trap shut?’

  I nodded. ‘The only person he’ll tell, and it’ll be as safe as houses with her, is –’

  And Phil erupted into the room. For a moment she was so upset she forgot her patois.

  ‘Sophie, love, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. Are you sure you’re all right, love?’

  Ian had moved swiftly to shut the door. Phil and I hugged each other hard. I found myself sobbing. Then Chris pressed a firm hand on my shoulder, and pushed his smelling salts under my nose.

  Phil su
bsided on to the chair her son had used and resumed her cleaning-lady mode, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her overall.

  ‘Why did you say it was your fault, er, Philomena?’ asked Chris.

  ‘My fault I send Winston up. I never dream it might hurt Sophie. I think it from her young man.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Ian softly.

  I didn’t look at Chris in case he was blushing too. Instead I asked, ‘D’you remember, Phil, yesterday morning? We were larking around in the Computer Suite and someone phoned and you put on your Moira Stuart voice –’

  ‘“Ms Rivers’s secretary here.”’

  ‘Right. D’you remember who he asked for?’

  As if responding to the urgency in my voice, she dropped her patois. Again I chose not to look at Chris. ‘It was a she, Sophie. Not a he. And she wanted the Computer Suite Manager. But I think I’ve heard the voice before. Asking for Wajid.’

  ‘What sort of voice?’

  ‘Very deep, a real chesty contralto. And a mid-Atlantic accent like a bad DJ.’

  ‘Why do you want to know, Sophie?’ asked Chris.

  ‘Because of the way the letter bomb was addressed,’ Phil replied for me. ‘Anyone who knew Sophie would know better than to think she had anything to do with the Computer Suite!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  It would be foolish to say I thought no more of the incident, but there didn’t seem to be any point in dwelling on it. I taught my afternoon and evening classes as usual, even if my heart and mind weren’t fully engaged. No one was any trouble, no one stayed behind, no one shed any tears. Ian drove me home. I ate chilli con carne, and found I’d been over generous with the chilli.

  On Wednesday things were less straightforward. Tina drove me in, to the accompaniment of Radio One, and I found several notes on my desk. The first was from the union rep. She wanted to see me urgently. So did Richard. And so did the Chief. Since the Chief’s idea of urgent was midday, and Richard generally offered a good cup of coffee at this time, I chose Richard first.

  He greeted me affably enough, but I detected a note of unease. We talked generally about my classes and then about the pressures I must be under. And the pressures my colleagues must be under, having me around.