‘Detective Sergeant Trenchard has confirmed that your fingerprints numbered among those on Sophie Wenger’s access card. And you were here Saturday morning. Do you have any idea how that looks, Mike?’
I tried to look busy with some filing near Tweedy Mabel’s desk. She was as mesmerised as I was, and the twitches had escalated. Her arms creaked up and down restlessly, fingers tapping against the spectacles, adjusting the gold chain behind them, fluffing her minimal hair. The rest of the staff had the decency to move to a ten-metre perimeter.
Stinky Mike laughed. ‘God, Anne! I just came to get my jacket! You saw me leave – I didn’t take anything else with me!’
Mum stared at him, her expression inscrutable. ‘Mike, Security find it suspicious that Sophie’s card was swiped in, not yours, and that yours was swiped out, not hers.’
Sweat was glistening on Mike’s sloping forehead. He wiped the back of his hand against it and trailed it dry on his trousers, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while he shook his head vehemently.
‘I came in with that gaggle of guests through the front door. This is outrageous. Anne, I –’
Mum held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. I hadn’t realised you came in with the historians. I thought you were already here.’
‘You’re mistaken!’ Mike’s face was getting flushed.
I glanced at Mabel to find her looking at me. She glanced away quickly.
‘Would you tell Security to cross me off their list of suspects?’ Mike continued. ‘We’ve all picked up that girl’s card at some stage. She’s always leaving it lying around.’
Mum sagged into her chair. ‘You were never really a suspect, Mike. I told them it was ridiculous.’
They spoke more quietly, then Mum got up and saw Mike to the door.
‘We’re still at square one,’ she said clearly, her voice carrying right across the office. ‘I’m going to call Security and CCTV footage will need to be checked to see if we can find out who took Sophie’s card,’ she added.
Arns came to stand nearby. ‘Wow. Didn’t know there were cameras in here, Dr Bird.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mum, pointing to a small lens mounted in the far corner of her office.
Mabel and I gaped openly at the office now.
‘Good idea,’ said Mike. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this.’
‘I’ll call you back in when I’ve had some answers from Security,’ said Mum.
Mike turned to go, his mouth set in a narrow line.
Then Mum’s phone bleeped and she picked it up. ‘Hello? Yes, I’m expecting her. Ten colleagues? No, there’s simply not enough’ – she held the receiver away from her ear then listened again – ‘Oh, all right. Bring them up to my office, please.’
Five minutes later Security trooped our town campaigner extraordinaire into Mum’s office. Esme Trooter had brought along ten OAPs, our over-the-road neighbour Mr Kadinski, predictably, being one of them. He gave me a small finger wave, and I gave him one back. It looked like the pensioners at the Setting Sun had one last mission left in them. If Mum weren’t so stressed about it all, and if I weren’t so worried about what was going to happen to my favourite place in all of Hambledon, I would have found it quite funny.
But, even without Esme Trooter shrieking at Mum in front of everyone, it was very, very unfunny indeed.
And that was before Vice Chancellor Gordon arrived.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday afternoon, the dwang hits the fan
Vice Chancellor Gordon is a huge and hairy man. Very dark, brooding eyebrows, upright posture, sharp eyes – all befitting of The Boss Of All Hambledon University. He is frightening, unapproachable, unforgiving, but highly regarded by everyone. Whatever he does, he does well. And what he did this Thursday afternoon, once he’d got rid of the pensioners from Mum’s office, was Tell Her Off. From what I could see, she didn’t say much. Just nodded a lot. But then, at one point, Mum shrugged her shoulders and he went slightly mad at that. He started pointing and wagging his finger and I didn’t like it. Not one little bit.
Before I could think about what I was doing I was marching over, thudding on the glass of the office door and barging in.
‘Excuse me, Dr Bird,’ I said with dignity as Dr Gordon stopped in mid roar, ‘I’ve got the Prince of Wales on the phone and he can’t hold on much longer.’
Mum nodded calmly at me, her hand going to the phone on her desk. ‘Is it about the Highgrove papers? Or Camilla’s family tree?’
‘The press is pressuring the palace for feedback on the Highgrove issue,’ I said importantly.
The multiple-coronary purple was receding from Dr Gordon’s face. I could see him collect himself: I’m yelling at a valued member of staff in front of everyone, was the thought I saw flit through his mind.
I shut the office door behind me and went to the nearest desk to ring Mum’s extension. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dr Gordon put a hand to his forehead and mumble something.
Mum nodded and then I saw her gesture at the camera mounted high on the office wall. Dr Gordon looked relieved. He said some more stuff, shook her hand and left, giving me a nod on the way out.
I reached for my pot of VapoRub and took a hit. This much stress required clear sinuses.
Mum picked up the phone. ‘Thanks, Lula. I couldn’t have lasted another second.’
‘Are you okay?’ I said into my receiver.
‘No,’ she replied. She sat down and stared blankly at her in trays.
‘What’s with the camera?’ I asked.
‘Dad’s old Polaroid,’ she said quietly. ‘I put it up this morning, hoping it would scare someone in this office. The Security guys are convinced the theft is an inside job.’ Our eyes met across the office.
‘Cunning,’ I said.
‘Desperate,’ she countered. ‘Mike is my friend. There’s no chance he’s got any connection with the developers. And he didn’t turn a hair at my camera ruse. Dr Gordon’s right. I’m clutching at straws. There’s no way Mike took those papers. Maybe I should rethink Sophie Wenger. Maybe her dentist-appointment alibi is a sham.’
‘What’s the deadline for supplying the council with the documents? When will it be too late?’
‘Monday morning, ten a.m.’
I kept quiet, then, ‘Check Sophie’s personnel records,’ I whispered. ‘And cross-reference them with the planning application. Maybe . . . maybe there’ll be some connection to Harrow Construction? Maybe her dad is Harrow’s plumber or accountant . . . or . . . I don’t know . . .’
Mum blew out a frustrated sigh. ‘Hardly, Lu, but I suppose we’ve nothing to lose. Actually, I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve. Are you ready to see me in action?’
I raised my eyebrows as Mum hung up with a quiet click and got her bags together. She locked her office door behind her, and cleared her throat loudly.
Everyone in the office stopped what they were doing and looked up.
She bent her head to acknowledge their attention. ‘Thank you, everyone, for your help in trying to find the Coven’s Quarter documents. I’d like you all to continue with your usual projects from this point because Security has confirmed that the surveillance disks I have locked in my desk drawers are sure to have information with regard to the missing papers.’
A small cheer went up.
Mum smiled, and before anyone could ask further questions, she said, ‘I’ll be examining the disks with the vice chancellor and the head of Security tomorrow. Could I ask you all to ensure my office door stays locked as an extra measure?’
‘All our access cards open your door, Mum,’ I said, not following her logic.
‘Yes, but only ours. And the perpetrator is hardly one of us! The locked door is a good extra measure,’ she concluded blithely.
‘And no better safeguard than that camera you’ve got there, Anne.’ Mabel’s high-pitched voice was as clear as a bell.
Mum grimaced. ‘I’m afraid it’s not working right now, Mabel,�
�� she answered. ‘But it’s a good thing it was recording when we really needed it. I’ll see you all tomorrow.’ And she was off.
I heaved a sigh, staring into Mum’s office. This was not a very sophisticated trap. And, without any method of surveillance, all totally pointless. I looked around. Everyone knew Mum kept her drawer keys in her pen pot, but nobody seemed interested in the security of the disks. They were already focused on catching up with their usual projects.
I stared blankly at my computer, wondering about Mum’s plans. On the screen in front of me was the uni home page, with the different faculties all listed down the left-hand side. Hmm, I thought. Sophie does drama club here, doesn’t she?
Even though they’re at school, not university, the Hambledon pupils using the uni drama department have, like, headshots, and portfolios, and CVs and things. And because their classes are held here on campus, maybe . . . Clicking on Drama, I moved quickly through the different menus.
And there she was, along with a load of people from all the schools in Hambledon, including Barbie from PSG, and – wait for it! – Vincent Harrow, son of Harry Harrow, the developer who wanted to ride roughshod over Coven’s Quarter. I looked at the photo of Vincent. It didn’t take a genius to suss that Sophie would fall for this guy:
1. He was strangely attractive.
2. He was as goth as you could get without facial piercings.
And if he needed to get something sorted for his dad, then there was a motive, and opportunity, for document snatching. Who could tell me if Vince and Soph were an item?
I logged out and grabbed my bag to hare off to the 300s on the second floor in search of Arns.
‘Er, Tallulah?’ came a voice from behind me.
Stinky Mike.
I forced a smile.
‘Yes, Mike?’
‘Could I have a quick word? I see you’re on your way –’
‘Sure,’ I said quickly.
‘I was just wondering. I feel so’ – he shifted from foot to foot – ‘helpless about the missing documents. I thought maybe we could help your mother find them?’
I blinked in disbelief. ‘Uh, how?’ I asked, on the brink of downright rudeness.
His eyes narrowed, and I smiled hurriedly. ‘I was just wondering about Sophie,’ he murmured. ‘Could she have mistakenly filed something from your mother’s office maybe? You know her better than most. She’s in some of your classes at school, isn’t she?’
I was thrown. Was Mike really trying to be helpful, or just pointing a finger? ‘I don’t know her that well,’ I replied grudgingly. ‘It would be good to know who she’s very friendly with.’
‘It would,’ Mike agreed.
We looked each other in the eye.
‘Look,’ Mike sighed. (Yowzer. That blast of breath was not pleasant. We’re talking a garlic salami with fishpaste combo.) ‘If those documents don’t come to light soon, I’m going to be in just as much of a tight spot as your mother – you know, as I’m second in command.’ He looked out at me from under his wiry eyebrows with a yellow-toothed grimace. ‘Can you find out anything about Sophie?’
‘The security footage will confirm everything, though, won’t it?’ I suggested mildly.
Mike didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Sure it will,’ he said. ‘But further proof would be good.’
‘I’ll make a few calls,’ I replied.
(I’ve ALWAYS wanted to say that for real!)
It was all quiet in the 300s when I finally got up there. I checked every stack, but Arns was nowhere to be found. I texted Alex instead. My watch said three p.m. Two hours till home time. Trapped here until then. I ground my teeth in frustration, and unscrewed my pot of VapoRub. Right. I’d have to go and slump in the 600s. Stare at my lardy navel for a while. Put some VapoRub on it. Maybe go and see if Jessica Hartley and Jason Ferman were still snogging down in the 000s. Or, seeing as they were staying clear, photocopy my nostrils. Hey, that could be fun. Maybe I’d do that first.
In the end I checked on the snoggers before I went anywhere else. I wanted to research head angles. My hopes for the date with Ben were high.
Jason and Jessica were thankfully still at it when I got there, but all I could see was the back of Jessica’s head. I was about to creep down the next stack to get a profile look at them between shelves when I saw where Jason’s hand was.
Yikes!
I bolted.
Wasn’t that, like, tenth base?
In my headlong flight from perversion in the book stacks I ran smack bang into a hard and bony ribcage.
‘Wheck!’ I yelped.
‘Erghupf!’ said Arns, winded.
‘What the frik are you doing?’ I hissed. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’
‘Jessica Hartley and Jason Ferman?’ he croaked.
‘You don’t want to know!’
I hustled down to the photocopy room and Arns limped behind, wheezing and cursing all the way.
‘Oh, stop it!’ I commanded as we burst into the copy room. ‘Pull yourself together.’
He fell gratefully into one of those plastic bucket-shaped seats on spindly metal legs and it collapsed predictably to one side, leaving him sprawled on the ground.
I laughed.
Correction.
I howled. Until tears ran.
‘You are not normal,’ muttered Arns.
I staggered over to help him up and he ankle-tapped me just as I bent over to grab his outstretched hand. I went down hard, but skilfully got his shoulder blade with my killer right elbow.
‘AAAAAAAAAA!’ he yelled.
That just finished me. I was laughing so much I couldn’t breathe and he was swearing, trying to get up from under me. I bet we would have come to blows if Tweedy Mabel hadn’t tottered in.
‘Well!’ she huffed. ‘Goodness me!’
I couldn’t speak.
‘Mabel!’ shouted Arns. ‘Thank God! Please get her off me!’
So not fair!
Mabel turned tweeded tail and ran.
‘Arns,’ I said, getting to my feet hurriedly, and straightening my clothes. ‘Have you ever seen Sophie Wenger hanging out with Vincent Harrow?’
‘Not since Debra Hansen’s birthday party.’
‘Oh yes?’ I sat down carefully in the bucket chair. It held.
‘A scary selection of those drama-club girls were trying to get Vinnie to do a strip tease –’
‘No way!’
‘Indeed way. You need to get out more, Lula. Even I know about this. Your friend Alex was very disapproving.’
‘I had the pox. Didn’t go anywhere that weekend.’
‘You didn’t miss much. Debra’s parents came home just as those girls threw Vinnie in the pool. He was really peed off. Mascara and eyeliner everywhere.’
‘Very goth.’
‘Wet goth. Bad hair.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I believe Sophie grabbed Harrow Jr’s nipples through the wet T-shirt at one point.’
‘Ew.’
‘What’s relevant?’
‘Hm?’
‘Why are you asking about the drama clubbers?’
‘Vinnie Harrow?’
‘Duh.’ Arnold slapped his forehead. ‘Harrow Construction. Who would know for sure whether Sophie and Vincent are on speaking terms?’
‘Alex,’ I said. ‘I’ve already texted her.’
Arnold nodded and pulled out his phone. He probably had a hundred unread texts from Mona. I checked my watch: 3.25 p.m. So much time to kill. And I couldn’t very well copy nostrils with Arnold around. I went back to worrying about my chances with Ben Latter and whether I’d better reconsider The List.
‘How old do you think Billy Diggle is?’ I asked him suddenly.
Arns looked taken aback. He shoved his phone in his jeans pocket and stared at me blankly.
‘Is he too young to have kissed anyone yet?’ I persisted.
A familiar noise filled the room.
‘I think that’s your Mona Phona
ringing,’ I said.
Arnold took the call while I tried to remember which year Billy had started at secondary school. Oh, frik. Had he started at secondary school?
Arns hung up with a smile. ‘She loves me,’ he sighed blissfully.
‘Please, please, boil your head,’ I begged.
I checked my watch again, sighed, got up from the chair and photocopied my nostrils. I had no dignity left, after all.
When Arns’s phone buzzed with, like, the billionth text of the day, I headed down to the staffroom. In the back of my mind was a persistent niggle about whether Mum had got anything out of Personnel, but somehow I just wanted the whole issue to go away. I suddenly had an urge for some quiet time and packed up to leave.
Back at the homestead I pulled myself over the back gate and went straight to the cellar doors. The key turned noiselessly. I pushed in through the right-side door and stretched in a tentative hand to find the light switch.
A blaze of light and there he was. Oscar. 1971 Morris Minor Traveller. Beeyoodiful. My pride and joy. I felt a rush of gladness and pulled the door closed behind me. There was something calming about being down here just beneath the house. The creaking planks overhead were the floorboards of the rooms above, the walls around me part of the solid foundations of our home. Dust and grit were thick on the ground, but that didn’t matter too much in the world of motor mechanics, unless you were in the habit of dropping spark plugs. Most of Oscar’s engine block was on a small workbench to the right of him, waiting for the gasket I couldn’t find or afford, but I stepped round that and slid into the front seat. I breathed in happily, a smell of wood polish and old leather still lingering inside, and promptly sneezed so hard I was glad my nostrils had been photocopied in case reconstructive surgery was necessary. ‘Bless me,’ I moaned quietly, wiping my eyes.
‘What was that?’ I heard just above me.
I jumped so high my right knee whacked the bottom of the steering wheel. Ffff!
‘Cellar door is probably open downstairs,’ said Mum. ‘Tallulah has been a bit scatty lately.’
Kisses for Lula Page 12