by Danuta Reah
‘I knew I shouldn’t have tried to bring that lot in all at once,’ Louise conceded, looking at the pile. ‘I just couldn’t face two trips to the car park. It’s my day for the top car park,’ she added.
‘You should have asked one of the caretakers. Come on, let’s get it along to the staff room.’ Debbie balanced one of the bags on top of a box.
‘There was only Les, and I didn’t want to be responsible for the hernia.’ Louise looked over Debbie’s shoulder. ‘Salvation. Rob, you’ll give us a hand with these, won’t you?’
Debbie was unprepared. She turned round and saw him standing in the entrance. He gave her a neutral smile and looked at Louise. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about Les getting a hernia. He makes sure he’s at no risk. Where do you want them?’
‘Staff room for the moment, thanks. Did you have a good Christmas?’ Louise began to sort the stuff into bags and boxes.
‘I’ll go and open up the staff room.’ Debbie grabbed a couple of bags and fled. When her eyes had met Rob’s, briefly, she had had a sudden memory of his eyes looking into hers in the firelight, and had felt herself going red. She was sitting at her desk looking at her post by the time he came through the door with the boxes, followed by Louise who was carrying the bags and her briefcase. He put them down on Louise’s desk.
‘That’s fine, thanks,’ Louise said. ‘I’ll sort them at lunchtime. So, what’s new in City, then?’ She took off her coat and unwound the scarf from round her neck.
‘Same old stuff. I can’t stay, I’ve got a meeting.’ He gave Debbie a quick nod of acknowledgement and was gone. Debbie stared fixedly at her post, waiting for Louise’s comment.
‘Well…’ Louise hung up her coat. ‘So who’s been rattling his cage?’
‘He’s probably just busy,’ Debbie said, staring blankly at the memo in her hand.
‘Probably,’ Louise agreed. ‘By the way, that’s just an out-of-date Happy Christmas wish from our principal.’ Debbie looked at her. ‘You seemed to be riveted by it, that’s all.’ Louise raised an eyebrow at her and turned to her own post.
Debbie finished going through the pile on her desk. There was very little that was important, apart from a memo summoning all the staff to a meeting in the North building lecture theatre that lunchtime. There was another memo from Peter Davis, expressing deep regret about the recent tragedy and taking the opportunity to remind the staff that they were contractually bound not to talk to the press without the principal’s express permission. It also gave the date and time of the funeral. Staff who worked with this student may attend if they have no teaching obligations at this time. A representative from the college will be in attendance. Debbie didn’t care about timetables. She was going anyway. She heard Louise’s snort of derision and looked across. ‘He’s got the soul of a tax accountant,’ Louise said. ‘If they have no teaching obligations, my arse. You want to go, don’t you, Debbie?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Debbie was glad she was going to have Louise’s support.
‘Well, go. Let’s not make an official thing about it if you are teaching then. I’ll sort something out on the QT. Have you got the memo about the full staff meeting at lunchtime?’
Debbie nodded. ‘What do you think it’s about?’ It was unusual for a principal’s meeting to be called at the beginning of the winter term. He usually confined them to the beginning of the academic year, when the staff were assembled for a routine pep talk and what Louise described as an orgy of management self-congratulation.
‘Bad news, I should think.’ Louise frowned. ‘I haven’t heard anything, but I think the union is calling a meeting for later.’
Debbie shelved that problem and pulled out her teaching file, wondering what to do with the A-level group that morning. It didn’t seem right to carry on as usual, but they couldn’t spend two and a half hours talking about Sarah. She decided that they’d go on with ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’. They’d nearly finished the poem, and the sense of peace and resolution that the ending gave would be appropriate. They had their exam all too soon. They needed to work.
In the event, they were subdued, did what Debbie asked them, worked, but were unresponsive, as though the spark of interest that always made this group so lively and unpredictable had gone. Debbie could understand that. She’d said a bit about Sarah at the beginning of the session, but after break she said, ‘Listen, I want to send some flowers from the class, not just from me. Who wants to put their name on the card?’ She’d bought a card at the weekend. She got it out of her bag and circulated it round the group for them to sign their names and write messages. She’d already decided that the class was over for the morning, and when they’d written the card and made contributions for the flowers, she set them some reading and told them they could go.
Leanne hung back briefly. ‘Sarah was looking for you at the end of term. She said there was something she had to tell you.’ She looked a question at Debbie.
‘I didn’t see her.’ Debbie shook her head in confusion. Leanne shrugged her shoulders and followed Rachel and Adam down the corridor. Debbie locked the classroom door and walked down the long corridor, dim in the winter light. For a moment, she had a feeling that someone was behind her, but when she turned round, the corridor was empty.
The lecture theatre filled up with people. The light on the tiers of seating was dim compared with the bright light on the stage with its lecterns and screen. Debbie came in with Louise, and they looked for places to sit among the two hundred or so people who worked at the college in different capacities. Most faces looked apprehensive or gloomy. Debbie saw Tim Godber sitting near the back at the end of a row, where he could make a quick getaway. He waved to her, and gestured urgently that she should go and sit with him. She ignored him. If Tim had something to say to her, he could come over and say it. She and Louise went across to sit behind Trish. ‘What’s going on?’ Louise asked. Trish always knew.
Louise had been right. It was bad news. Funding was down, costs were up and it looked as though redundancies were inevitable.
Debbie found it hard to concentrate on what the principal was saying. She didn’t want to think about the implications for her own life of losing her job. She listened enough to find out that there was an anticipated month of restructuring before decisions would be made, redundancy notices issued and appeals heard. She’d better start applying for jobs. There was very little chance of work in South Yorkshire. She’d have to move. What about her house? At least houses like hers were still selling. How long would it take to get a job? Most jobs were for a September start. What could she do in the meantime?
The people around her began to move, and she realized that the meeting was over. There was a babble of voices as people began to discuss the implications of what was happening. Someone touched her arm and she jumped. She looked behind her. Tim Godber was signalling to her to wait outside the theatre for him. Maybe it was important. Maybe it was something about Sarah. He’d seen her in the last week, when Debbie hadn’t.
He caught up with her in the North canteen. ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’ He looked a bit apologetic, a bit uncertain. Debbie’s inconvenient soft-heartedness was aroused.
‘I’m not sure. What did you want to see me about?’
‘Do I need a reason?’ He smiled tentatively. ‘I want to apologize.’
That did sound like bullshit, but Debbie couldn’t bring herself to snub him when he was making the effort, and agreed to a coffee. ‘I’ve only got about fifteen minutes, though.’
They sat down at one of the tables. The room was large with a tiled floor and tended to echo. Conversation was difficult unless you sat close to the person you were talking to. Debbie opted for shouting, and pushed her chair back a bit as Tim moved his forward. She was reflecting on the potential for farce if she and Tim ended up in a chase and retreat round the table, but he acknowledged her unspoken wish and instead leant forward across the table towards her. ‘I really am sorry, Debbie,’ he said. ‘I
just saw a story and went for it. I wanted to apologize at the time, but I didn’t know how.’
‘Sorry usually does it quite well.’ Debbie wasn’t letting him get away with that.
‘Yes, OK. Don’t be hard, Debbie, it doesn’t suit you. You sound like your gorgon-lady colleague.’
Debbie was torn between being offended on Louise’s behalf and reflecting that Louise would be pleased to know that Tim thought she was a gorgon. ‘OK, you’ve apologized. I accept your apology. Is that all?’
She could tell that she’d annoyed him, but he kept his temper. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I am about your student, Sarah. I didn’t really know her – but I used to teach her. She was in my media group last year. For a while.’
‘Louise said she was talking to you at the end of last term,’ Debbie said. She was surprised when Tim looked taken aback. It seemed a strange reaction. Maybe Louise had got it wrong – or maybe it was just that he didn’t like Louise. ‘She didn’t come to class, you see, and I wondered if she was looking for me.’
Tim was staring into his cup, frowning. He looked up. ‘No, no, it was nothing really. Well, she was looking for you to tell you why she’d missed her class. She was worried you’d be angry with her, so I just said some soothing words about what a nice person you were.’
That last bit was bullshit. Debbie was surprised that Sarah had been worried enough to come into college. She’d missed classes before. All the students did from time to time. Debbie rarely got heavy with them about it – she understood the pressure they were under. ‘Is that all she wanted?’
‘All she told me about,’ Tim said lightly. ‘I’m not saying there wasn’t something else, but if there was, she didn’t tell me.’
That would fit. If there had been something worrying Sarah, she would have to talk to someone she trusted. It had taken Debbie the best part of two years to win Sarah’s trust – she wouldn’t be likely to confide in Tim. Debbie shook her head. It was a mystery and one she’d like to solve – she felt that she had somehow let Sarah down. Perhaps she’d talked to the other students. She looked across at Tim. ‘Did she seem upset, worried?’
‘No, not really. She just wanted to let you know about the class.’
That didn’t seem right. Tim had said that Sarah was worried. A strand of Debbie’s hair had escaped from its mooring, and she twisted it round her fingers. There was nothing she could do for now. She changed the subject. ‘What about the meeting? What do you make of it?’
‘Oh, it’s the usual. Give them the option of getting it wrong or getting it right, and they’ll go for getting it wrong every time. It’s no skin off my nose. My work’s expanding here. If they try to make me redundant, they’ll be in trouble. I’ve got plans, anyway.’
‘I’ve got to go.’ Debbie had had enough of Tim. She picked up her bag and stood up. He jumped to his feet.
‘I’ll come across with you,’ he said. Debbie couldn’t think of any way to refuse. His staff room was in the same building as hers. As they waited to cross the road, Debbie saw Rob crossing from the other side. He saw her and gave her that same rather closed smile. Debbie glanced at Tim and caught him looking at her speculatively. She felt her face going red again. Shit. As they were going up the steps into the Broome building, Tim said, ‘Fancy a drink sometime?’
‘No.’ Debbie was certain about that. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about it, and she didn’t want to be emollient about it. ‘I’m teaching now. Bye, Tim.’
Well, it could have gone better, but it could certainly have gone worse. He’d established that he and Debbie were talking to each other again. Now he had to get round her prickliness and hostility. He’d hoped for an evening over a few glasses of wine, maybe a club or some food afterwards, reinstate their on-again off-again relationship. Tim wasn’t too worried. He could charm Debbie again. Now for the other problems. He should have been ready for that question about the Peterson girl. Trust that eagle-eyed cow to spot him! And what was the situation with Debbie and Neave? The encounter outside the college didn’t look too friendly. With a bit of luck it, whatever it was, was over – if it had been anything in the first place.
He sat at his desk and thought. He wanted that big story. Berryman could cut him out, but he had something real, something that no one but he knew. Someone was following Debbie, and he had a good idea who that someone was. He’d planned to talk to the Peterson girl again, but she’d got herself killed. He’d been worried about that at first, worried that the Strangler had got her. When it turned out to be the boyfriend and he’d had a fright for nothing, he’d been angry. Of course, it was a terrible tragedy, but he hadn’t been sure how long his stopper would have worked. She couldn’t have been too bright to have fallen for it in the first place, and she was bound to have mentioned the whole thing to somebody soon. Well, she wouldn’t now. But he needed more information, he needed something that would stand up before he could write his story. He’d show Berryman up. He imagined his headline. Blunderman bungles in Strangler killings.
Tim hadn’t wasted his Christmas. He’d spent a lot of time with a computer friend, and a lot of time trawling round some not-so-public files. The result of that was he’d met up with – more by good judgement than luck – a clerk who worked for the local police, one who worked with Berryman’s team, to be exact. He hadn’t said anything to her yet about the case, but he was planning to work round to it that night, ask her how things were going after they’d had a few drinks, see how she responded. She was plain, plump, quiet. He was reasonably confident she’d give him what he wanted. He smiled. It should be easy.
The first days back after a break were always difficult, but this particular start of term had been worse than most. By Wednesday, Louise and Debbie were exhausted, and in an almost unspoken agreement, they ended the day at six o’clock in a wine bar in the town centre. ‘Dan says I’m turning into an alcoholic,’ Louise said gloomily. ‘He’s probably right.’
‘That’s what my mum says,’ Debbie agreed. ‘Oh, God, what a week. I saw the A-level group on Monday. I didn’t know what to say to them.’
They talked about Sarah for a while, but Debbie was relieved when the topic changed to the problems at City.
‘You really do need to move on,’ Louise advised her. ‘Even if your job was safe – and you don’t need me to tell you what’s happening – you’ll stagnate here. You need to expand your experience, get some management responsibility, go somewhere where they’ll appreciate you.’
‘I know.’ Debbie was beginning to realize this. ‘I just hate the thought of leaving. I’ve got a house, friends, a life – I’m happy here.’
‘It’s none of my business, but you don’t seem too happy at the moment.’ Louise looked at her. ‘You’ve been down for a while, and at the end of last term you looked really low. I can probably put a name to the problem, as well. Rob Neave, right?’
Debbie felt herself going red. ‘Is it that obvious?’ she said, angry with herself.
Louise raised an eyebrow. ‘I may not be a counsellor for Relate,’ she said, ‘but when two people who seemed to be getting on fine suddenly grow two left feet in each other’s company, then I draw my own conclusions.’ She looked at Debbie and added more seriously, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’ Debbie stared into her wine glass. ‘You can tell me to mind my own business,’ Louise added. ‘Probably will. But I’m worried about you.’
Debbie sighed. ‘I did start something with Rob, but it sort of stopped before it really got anywhere. It was just the wrong set of circumstances at the wrong time, or it never would have happened.’
‘Oh, I expect it would,’ said Louise. ‘It’s been a disaster waiting to happen for weeks. Look, in my capacity as nosy friend and line manager, I’ve been asking a few questions and calling in a bit of old gossip.’ She stopped Debbie’s protest with a look. ‘You probably think you don’t want to know, but you should. Rob Neave, he’s a lovely man, I grant you that, but he’s had a rough life. He�
�s quite damaged, I think.’
‘I know about his wife and his little girl,’ Debbie said. ‘He told me. That was why …’
Louise nodded. ‘I’d kind of worked that out,’ she said. ‘There’s a bit more, if you want me to tell you.’ Reluctantly, Debbie nodded. ‘Well, for a start, he was brought up in a series of children’s homes, which isn’t the best background to have. Not that I’m blaming him for that, you understand. But I talked to Claire – she’s married to someone who used to work with him. Apparently her husband and Neave, they used to hang out together, did all the usual man stuff, women, booze, you know. Claire said that all the women fancied Neave, but she thought he was a cold-hearted bastard. That was before she and Mick were married – she was just a clerical officer, a civilian, but she saw a lot.’
‘That was ages ago,’ Debbie said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Louise agreed. ‘I’m just giving you some background. Well, it seems that all this changed when Neave met his wife. He was bowled over, Claire said. He stopped going out, stopped going to the pub with the lads, stopped socializing with his colleagues. It’s an important thing in the police – a kind of mutual-support thing. You tend to stick to your own, so that didn’t go down too well. Claire said that it was fine by her – it slowed Mick down enough for her to grab him on his way past – but it caused a bit of resentment.’
‘I know he hasn’t got over it yet. I don’t think he ever will.’ Debbie was thinking about his face as he talked to her in the pub that Friday.
‘Claire showed me this. I asked if I could borrow it.’ Louise got an envelope out of her bag. ‘It was taken just over two years ago.’ She took a photograph out of the envelope and passed it over to Debbie. It showed a couple on a beach. It looked like one of those fine days of early winter, because the light was brilliant, sparkling off the sea, but the sun was low in the sky and the couple were wearing gloves and scarves. The man was standing behind the woman with his arms round her waist, laughing at something behind the camera. She was leaning back against him, one hand shielding her eyes, obscuring them with a band of shadow. The bright light seemed to have bleached all the colour from her, except for her hair which was a red-gold blaze. Debbie tried to get some sense of the woman’s face, but there was nothing to see, just shadows. Rob Neave and his wife. He looked so young, so happy. Louise took it from her. ‘Just two years ago, and it changed him that much,’ she said. ‘Do you see what I mean?’