Funeral Music

by Morag Joss

  It was only Wednesday. He had always hated Wednesdays, especially the last lesson, by the end of which he usually felt shipwrecked and adrift on an unending and dangerous week. He had always hated geography. And he hated Year 8, from whose room emanated the unmistakable aroma of mucky kid, a disgusting mixture of wet dog and stale cake. As he opened the door Derek discreetly lifted his sleeve to his face in the hope that a vestige of that morning’s Eau Sauvage might linger there and sustain him.

  He called them to order, a thing he did effectively, being several times larger and more intelligent than any of them and also the headmaster. He discouraged the word ‘headteacher’. Thirty-eight specimens of south Bristol’s jeunesse dorée looked at him expectantly. Higgens would have set them something to do, not that she, he or they expected that this meant that they were really going to do it.

  ‘So, what have you been doing with Mrs Higgens?’

  Obscene sniggers.

  He tried again. ‘What has Mrs Higgens left you to do?’

  Silence. Bewilderment. Outrage.

  ‘Do, sir? Aw, sir, ’s nearly four o’clock, sir!’

  Derek sighed as the mayhem of protest rose around him. He folded his arms. He really could not be bothered.

  ‘Sir, sir, we got a sheet, sir,’ came a sole, craven voice. Good. You could always rely on there being at least one crawler. Half the class groaned and the other half hissed hideous threats of reprisal to the informer.

  ‘Right, thank you. Now, let’s have a look at this sheet. Have you all got it?’ A proportion of the class waved the sheet in lethargic surrender.

  ‘What is the country on the sheet? It is a continent, in fact,’ he added quickly, preempting any, Ooh, sir! Mrs Higgens says it’s a continent , sir! Does Mrs Higgens know more than you, sir?

  ‘Sir! Sir! Sir! It’s Africal, sir!’

  Derek sighed again. He should be used to it by now but it could still catch him unawares, the Bristol accent. When he had first come to this school ten years ago, taking up his first, and as things had turned out, his only headship, he had been taken aback when the caretaker had said, ‘Ah, good ideal,’ when Derek had proposed some minor change to the litter-picking rotas. Hardly the province of an ideal, he had thought, before the caretaker had added, ‘I’ll see to it tomorral.’ But he had had ideals then, a real vision, and nowadays he could barely see further than the end of the lesson.

  The class broke into two opposing camps.

  ‘Snot! S’Indial!’

  ‘Course’s snot! S’Africal!’

  Derek said nothing. On a good day, he was just pallid with the boredom of it all. On a not so good day, perhaps in assembly when he was about to lead the whole fucking school in some listless prayer, or at his desk, hearing the janitor (my site manager) explain that half a hundredweight of paper towels had blocked the toilets again, he could feel a sort of dry sobbing going on somewhere inside him and he would have to take a deep breath to prevent his whole body from cranking publicly under the weight of his unhappiness. But on a bad day he could see quite far enough ahead, thank you. He could see right ahead to the forthcoming OFSTED inspection in November, which might very well consign his whole dog-eared school and all its chewed-up staff and its spat-out youngsters to the bin marked ‘Failing Schools’. What could he do, what more could he do between now and then, to give each child a turn with the books he had to share with three others, to stop Miss Cross teaching art history with black-and-white photocopies of the paintings, to get the head of maths off antidepressants and back into his classroom? On a bad day the hot, incoherent soup of rage and shame that simmered inside him rose to a fast rolling boil, making him windy and irritable. People knew to keep away. There had been a time when Cecily, with her adoring availability, had perked him up on bad days, but after a time compliance as even-tempered and unvarying as hers had become irksome to him, as had the hints that she might be expecting something more permanent to develop from their liaison. She had even come close, once or twice, to mentioning that she was short of money. Good God, if he helped her with money, what would that make her? What would it make him? Cecily just couldn’t help being a little shabby. The only real balm for his bad days now came from the prospect of getting another job before he was suspended after the OFSTED disaster. He could still, just, conceive of a sweeter life for himself beyond the boundaries of south Bristol, but he hardly dared to. Now that an opportunity in Bath, that parallel universe of prosperous gentility and nice buildings, had beckoned, he was not going to let it go. It would be his. He would make it his. He was seeing to it.

  ‘It is, in fact, Africah,’ he said. ‘The continent of Africah. And what is the name of the country shown over the page? One of the countries of Africah?’

  ‘Sir! Sir! Sir, Kenyal, sir!’

  ‘Kenyah. All right, what can you tell me about Kenyah?’

  After this Year 8 dried up, but with determined coaxing, Derek managed to evince from them the fascinating news that like many countries in Africal, Kenyal was a tropical malarial areal.

  CHAPTER 8

  ON FRIDAY SARA got back wet through from her run to find a message from Andrew asking her to call him back on his mobile. Over the crackle he said there were two things, and he was coming over to discuss them. From the tone of his voice it was obvious that neither of them was Fauré’s Élégie in C.

  ‘But I’ve just been out running and I’m soaked. You don’t mean this exact minute, do you? I’ve got to shower.’

  ‘Oh, no, not this exact minute. You’ve got, oh, about fifteen, I should think,’ he said, and hung up. When he arrived he asked if they could go up to the hut. They made their way up the long zigzagging path which crossed the orchard, bordered the wide lawn on the left of the cottage and then, continuing to rise, ran between the banks of lavender bushes above. At several points a number of smaller paths joined the main one: these led from the lawn, from the line of hazelnut trees which formed the boundary on the far side and from the large pond surrounded by corkscrew willow and irises at the other. The air was heavy with the scent of the sun on wet petals and damp stone. Sara fastened back the wide double doors of the hut and they sat in the wicker chairs looking out at the sodden hillside and the six lime trees, heavy and bright with rain. Andrew spoke without looking at her.

  ‘I find I can think up here, and I wanted to go over a few more things with you. First, though, thanks for the help with the keys and knife. We got them, although it took until this morning. They were in different parts of the bath. So it’s possible – likely even – that they were thrown in from different points, which means your theory might be right. Forensic’s looking at them, but they’re unlikely to tell us much. It’ll be in Monday’s Chronicle, but I wanted to let you know first.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. It doesn’t concern me, you know, just because I found the body.’ She turned to him. ‘Look, Andrew, I’d rather forget all about it. You should come here to play the cello, not to talk about the case. I can’t help you. I don’t want the case taking over... all this. Here. All this is...private.’ She waved an arm vaguely. ‘This is my place.’

  He took her by the wrist and replaced her arm in her lap.

  ‘I understand that you’d rather forget all about it. But you won’t, you know, any more than I will. You can’t. I’m talking to you now as...just me. Not as a police officer. But I can, and I will, if you’d prefer it that way. But, Sara, please’ – he took her arm again and gave it a gentle shake – ‘please help me? I need your help.’

  Sara did not look at him. Andrew paused, his hand still on her arm, seeming to find the next bit difficult.

  ‘Sara, what was your impression of Detective Sergeant Bridger?’

  Sara gave a short laugh and turned to face him. ‘Frankly? I thought he was a sexist prat. He assumed things. He stereotyped me. He was also profoundly ignorant.’

  Andrew looked weary. ‘Off the record, I’d have to agree. We’ve still got a few of his type, not many now, th
ank God.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been going over the reports of his first interviews. And by the way, if I tell you this, it’s strictly between ourselves. I could be in trouble otherwise. Understood?’

  Sara nodded.

  Andrew went on. ‘Bridger thought it was pretty suspicious that you own your house – in an extremely desirable location, he said – and are so extremely well dressed when you are single and ‘don’t have a proper full-time job’ and wonders if this unexplained prosperity could somehow have a bearing on the case. Worth following up, in his view.’

  Sara gave an ashamed laugh. ‘It’s my fault. I couldn’t help it. He asked me if I did “this cello-playing stuff” all the time. He didn’t think there’d be that much call for it. And I said, no, because I was taking a break for the time being, and I just played the charity thing to help the festival. Then he said, “I suppose you’d have to be really good to make a living at it, so it’s what, more of a hobby then?” And I said, “Yes, I suppose you could say that, although I do get paid sometimes.” ’

  Andrew exploded with laughter.

  ‘I’m ashamed of myself, really. I was piqued because he’d obviously never heard of me, and I had no right to be. I’m a brat. He said he didn’t go for the highbrow stuff himself but he quite liked that fat bloke, that Italian, what was his name, Nessun Dorma.’ She smiled. ‘And I said yeah he was quite good, funny name for a bloke, though.’

  She paused and watched as a wood pigeon, startled by Andrew’s laughter, took up and off from the shelter of an apple tree.

  ‘I suppose now I’ve obstructed the police in the course of their enquiries and I’m going to be handcuffed and shoved in the back of a police van. I’ll be eaten alive in Holloway, I hope you realise.’

  ‘That’s the least you deserve. I’ll see to it you get a good going over down the nick as well. You are a brat.’

  ‘Look, I really didn’t mean to cause trouble or hold things up. If I have, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You haven’t, don’t worry. Actually it’s helped, because it was only because I know you that I could see what a hash he’d made of interviewing you. And I really enjoyed being able to tell him that your inexplicable prosperity arose from the fact that one of your concert fees would amount to about a third of his annual salary, and that it would be an unusual month if none of your recordings cropped up on Radio 3.’ He paused, smiling again. ‘I’m not absolutely sure he’d heard of Radio 3.’

  He grew more serious and it crossed Sara’s mind, as it periodically did, that she could not go on indefinitely living off royalties and repeat fees. She would have to ring Robin.

  ‘So, I’ve been going back over the people Bridger interviewed, and some of them I’m seeing myself now. It’s possible he’s been missing things. I only found out from Olivia Passmore, for example, that you and she know each other. He spent barely fifteen minutes with her and ticked her off as spinsterish: a workaholic with ageing father. He thinks she’s a strong suspect.’

  ‘Why on earth does he suspect her?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a tabloid thinker. Unhinged by having to go back to being number two when Sawyer came on the scene. Frustrated, neurotic, bitter, trapped by dependent relative. He’d practically written the headline. You know the sort of thing: SPINSTER’S FRENZIED KNIFE ATTACK.’

  ‘Oh, typical. Oh, God, Andrew, how can you work with this person?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t convince me either. I went round to see Olivia Passmore on Sunday afternoon, and unhinged is the last word I’d use to describe her. Bridger had been to see her in the morning. But how true is the workaholic bit, would you say?’

  ‘Oh, she is very clued up and good at her job, but you shouldn’t reduce Olivia – well, you shouldn’t reduce anyone – just to that. There’s much more to her. Her father is Edwin Passmore.’

  ‘Right. Er, just remind me?’

  ‘The horn player. Really brilliant. Years and years ago – he’s in his eighties now. But a fabulous player. He’s been ill for years with emphysema, and Olivia looks after him, and there’s a resident nurse now. She’s never been married. I think it all falls to her. She’s got a niece who works at Fortune Park. You know, where I go to swim. Sue’s surname is different: Olivia has a married sister. Sue’s heavily into aerobics and the body beautiful. Olivia’s a music lover: she loves the festival and does things for the MBF. You know, Musicians’ Benevolent Fund. That’s how I met her.’

  ‘And what about her job? Was she jealous of Sawyer, do you know?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely not. You know she ran the whole museum service for quite a while. Well over two years. She said to me once she couldn’t wait to be free of all the hassle. She’s a curator, a conservator. She takes care of objects, textiles, mainly. She wasn’t interested in running shops and tea rooms and party bookings and security and all that. She was glad to hand over to Sawyer. Didn’t she tell you all this?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Yes, well. There you are. That kills Bridger’s little theory, doesn’t it?’ She added indignantly, ‘And what the hell is “spinsterish” supposed to mean, anyway? Olivia’s got such style. Don’t you think she looks fantastic? I don’t just mean the clothes. There’s a poise about her – strong, knows what she’s doing. I really admire her, actually.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Andrew said, recalling the unembellished elegance of the woman. ‘Inner calm. She is quite beautiful, in an Eleanor Bronnish way. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when I went round I had to wait for ages before she came to the door. Then when she took me up to the drawing room she was having trouble with the stairs. Same thing coming down. Bad legs or something.’

  ‘Well, she seemed perfectly all right last Friday, as far as I noticed. Maybe she’s got rheumaticky knees or something, that just flare up. It was wet that weekend, and the damp brings it on, doesn’t it? Or she may just have been up at the top of the house, where her dad is. Or in the loo. It’s up on Bathwick Hill, isn’t it? They’re all big houses.’

  ‘It is big. Yes, you’re probably right.’

  ‘Well, then. I hope you’re going to leave her alone now.’

  ‘And then there’s George. I’m interested in George. He’s what Bridger calls ‘salt of the earth’, of course. He may be. But I don’t go for all that shocking-business-Constable, anything-I-can-do-to-assist-the-police-sir crap. Phoney. I don’t like forelock-tuggers.’

  ‘Oh, you’re being unfair. All right, George is a bit of a cheery chappie, but I’m sure it’s genuine. He’s just always been like that. And he’s been in that job for years. He’s not suddenly going to top his guvner, cor lumme, is he?’

  ‘S’pose not. I can’t see why he would. But, Sara, I’ll get nowhere if I get hung up on motives. Anyone can hide a motive and we could spend forever looking for one. The fact is that this murder had to be done by someone who could lock up and set the alarm afterwards. That means that Olivia, George and his band of assistants – Andy, Jack and Colin – are the chief suspects. Sticking to facts, you see? Someone’s alibi will break, and then the motive will emerge. I hope, because the forensic evidence is unlikely to be sufficient for a conviction.’

  He paused.‘Sara, this is a big enquiry. I’ve got twenty officers on it. There are hundreds of people to interview, and almost any one of them, at this stage, could be guilty. You do understand that I have been talking in the strictest confidence? I mean this, and I’m warning you: share this with anyone else and I will have you banged up for the rest of your natural.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Sara said lightly, laughing.

  ‘Sara,’ Andrew said, ‘I am serious. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. In fact I would be in big trouble if it came out I had. I could even have put you in danger. Look, you are not to let on to anyone – anyone, Sara – that you know anything about the police enquiries. Keep all this to yourself, for my sake but for your own as well.’

  THAT EVENING, Olivia rang.
>
  ‘This is terribly short notice, Sara, but I just wondered if you’d be able to come to supper on Sunday? I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages and I just thought with this awful thing with Matthew...it must have been so awful for you and I’m sure you’re fine, but, well, I thought of you on your own and maybe it would be good to get together. Sue and Paul are coming. Would Sunday do? Oh, good. Sorry it’s such short notice. Oh, yes, very informal.’

  CHAPTER 9

  DUNSMORE PARK ROAD was a left turning off Bathwick Hill, and Dunsmore Place, where Olivia lived, was a left turning a few yards further up off that, so that Olivia’s house, the end one on the right side, ‘afforded a fine view’ as an estate agent would have put it, down over the city. A similar row of houses stood opposite on the other side of the road and the two terraces stood facing each other in a state of benign standoff, separated by the road and surprisingly long front gardens. Just past Olivia’s house, the road turned almost ninety degrees back down towards town, giving the house the benefit of a strip of extra garden which ran down the right-hand side and was separated from the back garden by a wooden fence and gate. The disadvantage of having road on two sides was negligible, since the piece of road running along the other side of the high garden wall was a cul-de-sac which ended in a row of lock-up garages used by Olivia and her neighbours. The spur of Dunsmore Place ran back down to meet Bathwick Hill, and contained three pairs of newer semi-detached houses made of reconstituted stone, a car wash and a few shops.

  Sara saw, when Olivia opened the door, that her poise was a little precarious. Her eyes were glistening, and she seemed somehow in a hurry to appear relaxed.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming early,’ she said quickly, taking Sara’s offering of garden flowers. ‘Oh, thank you, how lovely. I thought we could just have a drink before Sue and Paul come. What will you have: red or white? Or there’s gin.’