Child's Play

by Alison Taylor

  ‘Dr Scott’s been suspended.’ As Alice spoke, she felt her heart lift. ‘Well, she’s actually on extended leave, but I expect it’s the same thing.’ She looked at the dazed faces around her. ‘It was on television this morning. Matron’s gone, too.’

  *

  Every room along the administration corridor was empty, so Jack went to the kitchens. Some of the domestic staff sat around a table, drinking tea and gossiping, others were cooking breakfast or preparing vegetables for lunch. Fat Sally lumbered out of the huge walk-in refrigerator, a sheep’s carcass hanging over her shoulder, her white overalls dark with blood.

  ‘In case you haven’t heard yet,’ Jack began, ‘I thought I’d better tell you that Dr Scott has gone on extended leave.’

  ‘We know,’ one of the cleaners said. ‘It was on telly.’

  ‘Well, then,’ he went on, ‘you’ll also know about Matron.’ There was a loud thump behind him as Fat Sally dropped the carcass on the butcher’s block.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ the cleaner said. She looked around. ‘And good riddance, too!’

  Voices murmured agreement and one woman, elbow deep in a mound of potatoes by the sinks, said she blamed Matron for Imogen’s overdose. Fat Sally simply took up a cleaver and began butchering the carcass with clean, deadly strokes. He glanced at her as he made for the door and was shocked to see tears coursing down her pendulous cheeks.

  ‘Hey!’ the cleaner shouted. He stopped in his tracks and turned. ‘Tell that boss of yours to pull his finger out before somebody else gets hurt!’

  Janet was pursued up the drive by a massive, chauffeur-driven Bentley Continental in British racing green. The ultimate convertible, she thought, as it parked disdainfully beside Dewi’s prized car and made it look like a cheap tin toy. The chauffeur leapt out, whisked open the near-side rear door and saluted the tall, sleek man with silver hair and hand-tailored clothes who emerged.

  He stared at her, appraising her from head to foot, then moved forward, hand outstretched. ‘Good morning,’ he said, with a flash of teeth. ‘I’m Nicholls, the chairman of governors.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Janet said, offering her own hand. ‘I saw you on television. I’m Detective Constable Evans.’

  His flesh was warm, his grasp firm. When his thumb began to caress the back of her hand, she pulled free. A spasm of anger crossed his face. ‘Superintendent McKenna doesn’t seem to have arrived yet,’ she told him, ‘but Inspector Tuttle is here.’

  ‘I don’t think I need to bother either of them.’ His eyes were steelier than his hair.

  Despite telling herself that people who fooled with wolves were bound to get savaged, she felt a passing sympathy for Freya Scott. ‘I think you should let Superintendent McKenna be the judge of that,’ she advised. ‘It’s unfortunate that we had to find out about Dr Scott and Matron from a television news bulletin.’

  ‘What I decide to do at my school is my business!’

  ‘In normal circumstances, perhaps,’ she conceded, ‘but not in the middle of a police investigation.’ She started walking away. ‘If you’d like to come with me, I’ll take you to Inspector Tuttle.’

  Twice, Justine tried unaided to get into Tonto’s saddle, but he turned his head one way and swung his hindquarters another. Finally, while Alice held the bridle, Dewi gave her a leg-up, before dodging out of reach of the suddenly clattering hooves. Leaning on the fence, as he had yesterday in the arena, he watched Tonto lead the others, at a cracking pace, towards the track that passed the classroom block. In the sunshine his coat was as dazzling as Charlotte’s hair. Alice sat on an upturned bucket, her envious gaze following his.

  ‘They’re going to the foreshore,’ she said. ‘The tide’s out.’

  ‘I hope Justine will be OK.’

  ‘She’s ridden him before. You should be worrying about Miss Attwill. Purdey goes mad when she starts galloping.’

  ‘So why is she riding her?’

  ‘Someone has to. Justine could, but Miss Attwill can’t handle Tonto at all.’ Alice rubbed her eyes, leaving dirty smears on her face.

  ‘You look tired,’ Dewi observed, thinking how plain she was.

  ‘That’s because I’ve been awake for hours.’

  ‘Where did you see the news on TV?’

  ‘In the senior common room.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Minding my own business.’

  ‘There’s no need to get stroppy,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m entitled to ask.’

  Instead of responding, she stared glumly at the ground, then raised her eyes to look again after the horses, now tiny figures in the tree-hung distance. ‘They won’t go in the woods any more,’ she said with a violent shiver. ‘They’re afraid of seeing Sukie’s ghost.’ Slowly she met his gaze. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever been to that old house in Conwy called Plas Mawr?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never actually seen anything, but it’s certainly got a creepy atmosphere.’ He grinned wryly. ‘To be honest, I wouldn’t want to spend the night there, especially not alone.’

  Alice mulled over his words. ‘My mother says people are never really honest. She said it’s not possible.’

  ‘Did she?’ He was taken aback by the abrupt change of theme. ‘Why’s that?’

  Trying her hardest not to reinterpret and redefine, she said, ‘It’s impossible to know what someone else truly feels, but that’s behind what they say, even if they don’t know it themselves.’

  ‘In my experience, when people tell you lies it’s deliberate.’

  She frowned. ‘But you only deal with criminals.’

  ‘Alice, criminals are simply the ones who got caught.’ He smiled down at her. ‘And if they stood out from the crowd, we wouldn’t be turning the school upside down looking for the person who sabotaged Purdey’s saddle.’ His smile faded when he saw her tormented expression. Moving away from the fence, he crouched beside her. ‘What is it? Do you know something?’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed violently. ‘I don’t know anything!’ Tears streaming down her dirty cheeks, she jumped up and fled in the direction the riders had taken and was yards away before he was even upright.

  Cursing himself, he took off in pursuit, but she soon stopped. Doubled up, she leaned against a huge beech tree for support, and he could hear her rasping breath long before he reached her. Pausing only to glance at her ashen face and blue lips, he slung her over his shoulder and headed back to the school at a fast trot.

  6

  Gauzy morning sunshine suffused Torrance’s hospital room and she could see the light through her closed eyelids as she climbed hand over hand up the side of the bottomless well of unconsciousness. Every so often, always looking upwards, she stopped to gather her strength and when she finally reached the top her eyes snapped open on a bright, white horizontal expanse.

  Without moving her head, she found first one, then all four, of the sharp lines that enclosed the expanse, which her brain quickly rearranged into a rectangle that she was viewing from a particular perspective. The four vertical expanses suspended from above became walls, and she knew there must therefore be a door and a window to let in the light that had roused her.

  She flexed her fingers and wiggled her toes. One foot was very stiff, with a dull pain gnawing at the bones. Sharper pains bit elsewhere about her body, and when she tried to move her head, agony speared her neck and shoulder. Her mouth was utterly parched and her throat too stiff to move her tongue, but she could feel every complaining inch of her body, so the crashing fall she remembered with complete clarity had not crippled her. She also remembered lying in the ambulance, clutching David’s hands, and his gentle voice telling her that Purdey was unhurt. When the memory made her smile, her face threatened to crack.

  Her senses told her she was not alone. Steeling herself to withstand the pain, she very carefully moved her head to the left. A plump young woman in uniform sat by the bed with her no
se in a copy of OK magazine. Then she turned her head to the right. A gaunt, dark shape stood at the window, a black hole in the haze of light. Believing Death was waiting to carry her away, she opened her mouth to scream.

  7

  Nicholls leaned on Freya’s desk, well-manicured fingers splayed under his weight, waiting for Jack’s response.

  Jack met his angry, imperious look. ‘You may address the school to explain that the deputy head is now in charge,’ he said. ‘And if you must sustain the fiction, I won’t even stop you repeating the nonsense about Dr Scott’s extended leave and Matron’s voluntary retirement.’ He paused. ‘However, you will say nothing about Imogen Oliver or Sukie Melville. Is that clear?’

  ‘No?’ Eyebrows raised, Nicholls said, ‘Imogen Oliver attacked Nancy Holmes with her stick. Your superintendent removed both stick and crutches for forensic examination.’ He looked over Jack’s shoulder for a moment, then his gaze swivelled back. ‘Shortly afterwards, Imogen Oliver all but killed herself. Suicide,’ he went on, ‘is regarded by the experts as a homicidal impulse turned inwards; more pertinently, it is often the next act of someone who has committed murder. Cripple she may be, but I am convinced Imogen Oliver is the killer.’ Regarding Jack with narrowed eyes and a narrower smile, he added, ‘So why don’t you simply pack up that hideous contraption you have parked in the grounds and be on your way? I will deal with the loose ends. If the Oliver girl survives it will be made clear to her parents that she is not welcome to return. That, I think, should solve the problem. It will also put a stop to your frittering away any more public money.’

  ‘You and Freya Scott are two of a kind, aren’t you?’ Jack remarked. ‘You both see the Hermitage as some kind of parallel universe, where you can upend the rules to suit yourselves. But shall I tell you how it really is?’ he asked, as Nicholls’s mouth contorted with fury. ‘You’re living inside your own dangerously warped version of reality and that’s at the root of everything that’s gone so horribly wrong.’

  ‘Your chief constable will hear about this!’ the other man seethed.

  Jack shrugged. ‘Feel free. And while you’re talking to him, ask about Imogen’s letter.’

  ‘What letter?’

  Jack smiled wolfishly. ‘The letter she left for Superintendent McKenna, which Matron and Dr Scott took it upon themselves to open.’ He moved round the desk, crowding the other man towards the door. ‘Now, Mr Nicholls, I have a lot to do, but before you go I’d like to know how you got in here last night, as the caretakers wouldn’t have been around to unlock the door.’

  ‘I have my own keys.’

  Jack held out his hand. ‘Then if you wouldn’t mind? You’ll get them back eventually.’

  Only moments before, Jack had put down the telephone after telling Martha about Alice’s asthma attack when McKenna walked into the mobile incident room, dropped his briefcase on the floor and sat down heavily. ‘Randall’s just brought me up to date on Matron and Dr Scott,’ he said. ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘Matron phoned Imogen’s parents to tell them about her overdose,’ Jack replied, ‘and they called Nicholls. He came here while Scott was still at the hospital and made his executive decision. However, as he didn’t think to tell us, I’ve given him a good trouncing.’ After a small pause he added pointedly, ‘In your absence, that is.’

  McKenna’s face was pinched with fatigue. ‘Yes, I should have said I’d be late.’ The silence stretched then, broken only by the click of his lighter. ‘I’ve arranged for those two who started the betting to be formally reprimanded,’ he went on at last, blowing smoke towards the open window. ‘I also spoke to Berkshire about Imogen’s letter, but they can’t interview her parents yet. They left at the crack of dawn to come here.’ Staring at the glowing cigarette end he said, ‘And in a way, rather like Freya Scott, I was considering my position. I should have foreseen Imogen’s overdose.’

  ‘No one else did.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘Well, none of us is infallible,’ Jack admitted. ‘Alice had an almighty asthma attack because of something Dewi said to her, although he’s no idea what. She recovered after a couple of puffs from her inhaler, but I’ve let her mother know.’ He yawned. ‘Maybe we should let her take Alice away for the weekend. The kid’s nerves are like piano wire — hence the attack, I imagine.’

  ‘Everyone’s nerves are strung to breaking,’ McKenna commented shortly. ‘I called at the hospital on my way in. There’s no change in Imogen, but Torrance has come round.’ He smiled fleetingly. ‘When she woke up, Vivienne was standing at the window with her back to the light, looking like the Grim Reaper.’ Then his face fell once more. ‘Hester Melville’s been readmitted. Someone walking their dog found her late last night on Menai Bridge, lying in a heap on the walkway. I haven’t spoken to her, though. She’s stuffed to the gills with sedatives, which is probably for the best.’

  ‘Does her husband know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. You could don your social worker hat and get in touch with him, couldn’t you?’

  ‘And you could get your bloody act together!’ Jack retorted angrily, his patience on the verge of exhaustion. ‘Even the kitchen staff have got your measure. The message from them to you is “pull your finger out before somebody else gets hurt”!’

  ‘I see.’ Cigarette quivering between his fingers, McKenna folded his arms tightly, almost visibly shrinking into himself as if Jack were about to strike.

  McKenna’s response was a reflex, beyond his control, and with a sickening jolt Jack saw how they must look: he the bully, McKenna the victim. That insight made so much that had baffled him fall instantly into place and he understood at last why Emma’s long friendship with McKenna’s former wife had foundered so suddenly and mysteriously. For months after McKenna walked out of the marriage, Emma had been Denise’s champion, even when she took up with another man, and then, without warning, she refused even to speak to her. When Jack asked for an explanation she would only say, ‘I made a dreadful mistake. Some people are not what they seem to be.’

  Staring intently at the papers in front of him he said, ‘I’m sorry. I was out of order.’

  McKenna’s tension lessened a fraction. ‘Arguably, it’s a fair comment. I haven’t been conspicuously successful.’

  ‘None of us has got past first base with this pig of an investigation,’ Jack said, ‘because Scott made sure we wouldn’t.’ His voice tailed away, his mind awash with images of Denise, no longer the wronged wife, but the evildoer, who had so diminished her husband that he lived in fear of his own shadow. He lifted his head and, looking into McKenna’s eyes, saw there the darkness that dwelt in so many of the Hermitage girls, as if the light of life were guttering. How often, he thought despairingly, had the man been black and blue under his clothes, as Sukie must have been?

  ‘Freya Scott is a tyrant and a bully,’ McKenna remarked quietly. ‘And unfortunately, despite your warning me about her on Thursday, I let her get the better of me. A psychologist would say she creates a psychic drama with everyone in her orbit to ensure she stays in control, but transactions of that kind have a devastating effect because they expose people’s deepest insecurities.’ He dropped the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray, and rose to his feet rather unsteadily, his chair rocking. ‘Bullying is a transaction, you know,’ he added, ‘even though the victims are coerced. For some, their pain satisfies a diffuse and deep-rooted sense of guilt. Others are simply too scared of more pain to resist.’ His mouth twisted, perhaps in a wry smile. ‘The devil-you-know syndrome.’ Bending down for his briefcase, he said, ‘I’m going to see Matron.’

  Bereft of words, Jack watched until he was out of the door, then put his head in his hands. He wanted to weep.

  Walking through the school on his way to Matron’s flat, McKenna encountered signs of the new order at every turn — uncharacteristically noisy girls, the thump of pop music from behind closed doors, a pervading sense of freedom — but underscoring the b
uoyancy was a strident unease and there was little laughter, although he recalled reading somewhere that children and teenagers were supposed to laugh hundreds of times each day. The few staff he saw resembled shell-shocked survivors of some dreadful battle and he wondered if they understood that the war was far from over, or how easily the school could collapse about their ears once the novelty began to dissipate and fear of the unknown took its place.

  He climbed the stairs to the first floor, passed the junior dormitories and rapped on Matron’s door. Putting his ear to the wood, he knocked again, much more loudly, and long before he heard her dragging footfalls his imagination had her already dead by her own hand.

  ‘Who is it?’ Her voice was full of tears.

  ‘Superintendent McKenna.’

  The tumblers fell in the lock, then she inched open the door. Her appearance was soul-destroying.

  ‘May I come in?’ he asked.

  Without a word, she turned and plodded away. He shut the door and followed her into a small sitting room that overlooked the gardens and Strait, and allowed a distant view of Anglesey. By the window there was a tub chair with squashed chintz cushions where she seated herself. She still wore her uniform, but not the belt with the silver clasp. That lay on the floor, the clasp winking where sunlight caught its intricate workings, the overstretched elastic rippled along both edges. Her clothes looked as if she had slept in them and her hair was in total disarray, but it was her collapsed face that shocked him.

  ‘I’ve only just heard,’ he began. ‘I’m truly sorry.’

  She looked at the hands clasped in her lap. ‘I don’t expect anyone else is.’

  As soon as she opened her mouth, he realised that the tartar-stained teeth he had noticed yesterday were missing. Without them, she hissed like a serpent.

  ‘Why were you forced to retire?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t. I’ve been sacked. Summarily dismissed with forty-eight hours to quit the premises.’ She clamped her lips together to stifle a sob.