by Pat Young
Something in his tone suggested he knew Liz had been breathalysed.
‘She wasn’t a drinker, you know. We used to laugh at how tiddly she got on a lager shandy or a glass of Pinot Grigio.’
McCallum’s silence told Sheila that he was not about to comment.
‘Will she still be charged with drunk driving?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary under the circumstances.’
‘No, I suppose you’re right. Stupid question. How did the papers know it was suicide?’
‘Not from us, I can assure you, Miss Scott. Reporters hear of a lonely death and spice it up a bit, suggesting there might be something more to it.’
‘Okay. One last thing; I know you must be a very busy man.’
‘Go ahead. What would you like to ask me?’
‘The letter I got made it clear who was to blame for Liz’s committing suicide. If I give you the name of that person, will you arrest him for causing the death of Liz Douglas?’
***
CHAPTER 18
Despite its minimalist décor and the bank of computers and printers along one wall, Pearson and Goodwin’s front office smelt as it had done since she was a small child. Sheila remembered coming in here with her granny to hand in some document or other. For many years P & G had been her parents’ solicitors and now, she supposed, they were hers.
‘Miss Pearson will see you now, if you’d like to go through, Miss Scott. The last door on the left.’
At the end of the corridor a figure was waiting, silhouetted against the large Georgian window. ‘Hello, Miss Scott. Please come in.’
She was ushered into the office by an improbably young woman who offered her hand, introducing herself as Pamela Pearson. She waited until Sheila was seated and then sat down behind an antique mahogany desk. The vast director’s chair seemed to swallow her up, giving Sheila a strong impression she was involved in some child’s game of let’s play lawyers.
‘How can I help you?’ asked the young woman, a warm, welcoming smile on her face.
‘Are you Mr Pearson’s daughter?’
‘Yes and it depends what Mr Pearson you mean. Strictly speaking I’m the fourth in a long line of Pearson solicitors. But I’m the first female.’
Sheila was reminded of a saying of her father’s, ‘You’ll never get a short answer from a lawyer or a politician.’ He had trusted neither.
‘And I’m fully qualified.’ She gestured with a slender, pink-nailed hand towards the row of framed diplomas on the wall behind her, then put her hands on the desk. ‘This was my great-grandfather’s.’ She gently polished the dark wood with the flat of one hand. ‘I like to believe it imparts wisdom.’
Sheila found she was smiling. By being casual and friendly, this clever young woman had put Sheila at her ease. She felt confident she would be given good advice.
‘I would like to pursue a legal complaint about bullying in the workplace.’
‘First of all I need to make you aware that I’m not a specialist in employment law. However, I can certainly give you some advice on how one proceeds in a case of workplace harassment.’
Sheila said, ‘Good,’ and took a small notebook out of her handbag. She read from the list she had made up in the sleepless hours of the early morning. Pamela Pearson stopped her before she was anywhere near the end of Smeaton’s list of cruelties.
‘Without hearing too much more I can tell you that it looks to me as if you have a good case to make. May I check some details with you? Have you spoken to anyone about this, for example, HR, your Union rep or someone from your professional body?’
Sheila shook her head.
‘Not to worry,’ said the young lawyer. ‘Have you kept a diary of these incidents? I know you have a list there in your notebook, but do you have them logged somewhere with dates?’
‘No.’ She had asked Liz this same question about the stalker at the gate. Liz had said she was too busy running the school and her diary was full enough without noting down that kind of stuff.
‘Have you kept letters or e-mails that relate to any of these issues?’
Sheila didn’t know the answer to that one, but it sounded more promising. ‘That’s a good suggestion. I’ll look into that right away.’ She made a note in her little book.
‘Have you seen your doctor? I don’t mean to pry or be indelicate, but have you been offered prescription drugs like anti-depressants or tablets to help you sleep?’
She knew the answer to this was a definite no. Liz had refused to discuss the possibility of confiding in her GP.
Pamela had been making notes on a big yellow pad. She put her pen down and leaned forward, her fingers steepled. Were they taught that stuff or had Pamela copied the technique from her dad? Maybe it was genetic, a family trait, like red hair.
‘Miss Scott, have you told this man, or woman, to stop? Or have you made a complaint to his or her line manager?’
‘He’s the big boss, the top dog. Not a person you’d tell to stop. If you could see this individual in action, with his bulging eyes and crimson face, his words caustic enough to take the varnish off this desk, you would understand why everyone’s terrified of him.’
‘I see.’ Pamela sat back in her seat and gave Sheila a long look, as if she were considering her next words. ‘I think the best advice I can give you is to go through the steps I’ve mentioned, logging incidents, contacting organisations that can support you etcetera.’
‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful. I feel I should be honest with you. I’m here on behalf of a friend. Sorry I didn’t say that to begin with.’
Pamela smiled, ‘Don’t worry. You would be surprised how many clients make their initial enquiries on behalf of someone else. Why don’t you ask your friend to follow the guidelines on the ACAS website and,’
Sheila interrupted her. ‘It’s a bit late for that, I’m afraid.’
‘No, not really.’
‘Yes, really. You see, my friend took her own life at the weekend. I’ve got a letter from her. Read it.’
‘I’m sure it’s personal.’
‘Read it, please.’
The young solicitor took Liz’s letter and read it. As she folded it closed she said, ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Is it any good to us?’
Pamela shook her head sadly.
Sheila stood on the pavement for a minute to give herself time to think. It was clear she needed to get her hands on some hard evidence. Without that, no lawyer or policeman would give her the time of day. If she were going to bring Smeaton down, she would have to find some proof he had bullied Liz to her death. She had to get into Liz’s filing systems. Next stop, Cavenhead Primary.
Sheila swiped her own ID badge to let her in through the main door to the school, but as the door swung open a buzzer sounded and Mr McAdam, the Janitor, appeared.
When he saw her, the man removed his cap and said, ‘Miss Scott, I am so sorry for your loss. Well it’s our loss too. I can hardly believe it.’ He looked every day of his sixty-odd years and sounded genuinely heart-broken. She watched in sympathy as he removed a pristine white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. ‘I’ve put in my resignation. Time for me to retire. Miss Douglas was the only thing that kept me here. I had such admiration for the sterling job she’s been doing all these years.’
‘She thought the world of you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Aye, I do. She told me regularly. That’s a good boss for you.’
‘Will I see you at Liz’s funeral?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. That’s one of the reasons I’m finishing at the end of the week, to be sure I can go. Did you hear Mr Smeaton at HQ is refusing to let us close the school as a mark of respect? The teachers are drawing lots to see who can go to the funeral. I never heard anything so disgusting in my life.’ The man walked off shaking his head.
When Sheila opened the door to the school office, Liz’s secretary, Linda, was checking her face i
n a small mirror. She popped it into a drawer, saying, ‘Hello, Miss Scott. I don’t know why I’m bothering. I know my face is a mess. The mascara got cried off hours ago. How are you?’
‘In shock, I think, Linda. It hasn’t quite sunk in.’
‘I know what you mean. Every time I hear footsteps, I expect her to walk in the door. Did you hear the latest about our request for a special closure on the day of the funeral? He’s said no. Can you believe that?’
‘Did he give a reason?’
‘Apparently, parents would object. Lost teaching time and all that.’
‘What a load of rubbish.’
Sheila heaved a great sigh. She pointed towards the door to Liz’s office. ‘D’you mind if I go in? There’s a couple of personal items I’d like to save.’
‘Go ahead. The door’s unlocked. I found it like that when I came in this morning.’
A vase of withering roses stood on the window sill, dirty-green water showing through the crystal. They would be the last flowers Liz ever bought to brighten her office. Sheila picked up a photo frame from the desk. The snap had been taken last summer when pupils from their two schools had made a joint trip to a theme park. It had been a great success, part of an on-going project to bring two diverse communities together. ‘The Bridge’ had been Liz’s brainchild and one she was convinced was the way forward if Scotland wanted to get rid of the scourge of sectarianism. ‘Start them young,’ had been her mantra. ‘We’ve got to get to them before the bigots do.’
Sheila stuck the photo in her bag and added a few little nick-nacks that had no monetary but great sentimental value. Then, deciding she had wasted enough time, she opened the top drawer of Liz’s desk looking for the key-ring she always kept there. It was missing. Maybe Liz had taken it home, but that was unlikely. She always left it in school so her staff would have access to her filing system, if ever she were taken ill.
Sheila looked at the row of grey cabinets against the far wall. On impulse, she tried a drawer on the first cabinet. It opened and slid out towards her. The next filing cabinet was unlocked too, as were its companions. Sheila checked the alphabetical labels on the drawers and opened one marked C - D. She flipped through the files and selected one marked correspondence. It was empty. She tried L and found a folder marked Letters from HQ - it was also empty. Sheila didn’t take very long to work out that someone had been in Liz’s office removing anything that could be used as evidence in an enquiry. She wondered if she were being paranoid, so she did a check by looking under P for policies. That drawer was full. Same with H for Health and Safety and M for Mission Statement.
She went back to Liz’s desk and looked for her big diary. It was nowhere to be seen. A memo block showed a spotless white face to the world and a shorthand notebook sat open at a blank page. Sheila picked it up and examined the wire binding. Tiny strands of paper were trapped in its spirals. She knew that this was a pet hate of Liz’s. Whenever she tore a page out of a ring bound pad, she fished out the little wavy bits of paper that got left behind, snagged in the wire. Sheila had often teased her about the possibility of OCD, but Liz had laughed at her. ‘The world’s gone mad. Because I’m tidy you want to stick a label on me. I’m not compulsive, just neat. I tear the wee bits out because I hate them scattered all over my desk like confetti.’
Sheila opened the door to the outer office. When the secretary looked up, Sheila asked, ‘Has the depute head been in to fetch stuff from Liz’s room? Or anyone else?’
Linda looked a bit vacant, as if the question were a strange one to ask. Her dark curls trembled as she slowly shook her head from side to side.
***
CHAPTER 19
‘David, did I tell you I was talking to someone the other day who is in exactly the same boat as me?’ She took a sip of wine.
‘What boat’s that, Marty?’
‘The immense container shipful of people who have been screwed by Thomas Smeaton, Director of Education, Libraries, Leisure and Culture.’
‘Is that his job title?’ David laughed. ‘No wonder the man upsets people from time to time.’
‘Upsets people? He doesn’t upset people, he ruins lives. Or takes them.’
David laughed. ‘That’s a tad melodramatic, don’t you think?’
She could tell he’d had a pint or two. Otherwise he’d be choosing his words with more care. Before she could trust herself to answer, she bit down hard on her lip. ‘No, I don’t think it’s melodramatic. I think it’s precisely what he did to my life. Ruined it. And what about poor Liz Douglas? He took her life. As surely as if he’d aimed a gun and pulled the trigger. Now her friend Sheila’s life is wrecked too. She’s in mourning.’
‘Would you mourn if something happened to me?’
He’d had more than a couple of pints if he was getting maudlin.
‘Don’t change the subject. We were talking about Smeaton.’
‘Wish we could change the subject,’ David muttered, clearly hoping she’d not hear.
‘What did you say?’ That snappy edge was back in her voice. She couldn’t seem to help it.
‘I said, you must agree he’s got a big job title.’
‘That’s part of the trouble.’
‘What is?’
‘The fact he’s taken over so many departments.’
‘Come on, Marty, be fair. No-one could want that many diverse areas of responsibility.’
‘Don’t you go feeling sorry for him.’
‘I can’t help having some sympathy for him. How can he please all the people all the time in a job like that? Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.’
‘David, you don’t know diddly about this man. He steals people’s jobs. Takes over their areas of responsibility and forces them out.’
‘Corporate re-structuring, isn’t that what they call it? It’s all down to funding.’
‘That’s what he calls it. Other folk call it gathering power, building an empire.’
‘Why on earth would he do that?’
Marty could feel her patience running out, like sand in an egg-timer. She tried to hang on to the last few grains. ‘Because he’s a control freak, that’s why. He gets off on being able to wreck other people’s lives, I’m telling you.’
‘Don’t be silly, Marty.’
That was it. The final tiny grain of sand was lost and her temper with it. She stood up, kicked her chair back, slapped her hands on the table and leaned forward.
David recoiled, a look of surprise on his face.
‘Don’t you EVER tell me I’m being silly when we’re discussing that man. What does he know about running a school? Damn all! He’s not even a teacher.’ She was screaming now. Chance stood cowering in the doorway, clearly anxious. She hated to upset her dog, but there was nothing she could do about it. She could smell the chicken burning in the oven, but she was beyond caring. ‘He’s a nobody. Do you know where he started? Guess his area of expertise.’
David shrugged.
‘Go on, guess.’
‘I’ve no idea, Marty. Why don’t you just tell me?’
His long suffering sigh incensed Marty even further.
‘Leisure!’ she screeched. ‘He used to count the fucking deckchairs on Saltcoats fucking beach. That’s where he started out, responsible for the amusements at Largs, ice cream vans on Millport. And now he’s deciding who gets to run schools, and whether disadvantaged kids get to go canoeing instead of shooting up in some public toilet. Oh no, I forgot. He’s the man who decided the public don’t need toilets anymore and shut them all. Before he moved to Education and started shutting down bothys and little kids’ orchestras.’ Her last few words, yelled at the full capacity of her lungs, reverberated in the silence of the kitchen.
Marty stormed to the utility room, grabbed her jacket and said, ‘Come on, Chance. Let’s get out of here.’ She allowed the dog to slide through the gap then slammed the door.
Despite the dark and the damp, Marty felt calmer when she came in from wal
king her dog; but not calm enough to face David. She made herself a cup of tea and took it through to the computer. She checked her bank balance, read a review of some books and browsed winter fashion, knowing it was all displacement activity. What she wanted to do was contact Joe Docherty. She opened her e-mail account then took her hands off the keyboard, twisting her wedding ring round her finger.
She opened a new message and typed in the address from the little card Joe had given her that first day by the canal.
‘Dear Joe’ she typed, feeling like she was edging out onto a frozen lake. She backspaced and started again. ‘Hi Joe,’ Better. ‘A quick line to let you know I passed on your contact details to Winker. I expect you’ll hear from him.’
Okay. That was the easy bit done. She spun her ring while she thought about what to type next, if anything, then took another step on to the ice.
‘Enjoyed seeing you.’ Nope. Backspace. Try again. ‘Good to see you the other day. Maybe bump into you again. Or Chance will.’ Good, that was the tone she was looking for, chatty and friendly. She sat back in her chair. Her heart was thumping, a little too fast. She touched her face. It was warm, as if she were blushing.
‘Kind regards,’ Too formal. ‘Love, Marty.’ Absolutely not. She settled for ‘Bye,’ added an M and read the message from the top.
As an afterthought, she typed, ‘PS I meant every word I said about Smeaton.’
She stared at the screen for a moment then deleted the lot. There was no point faffing about, leaving things to chance. Or Chance. If she wanted something to happen, she needed to make it happen.
She moved the cursor to the top of the message and typed.
Hi,
Good to see you. I think there’s a reason we met again after all those years.
Someone needs to put a stop to this man before he damages anyone else. There are plenty of folk out there who have good reason to be mad at him but I suspect very few would be willing to do anything about it.
I’m prepared to try. If you’d like to meet and discuss this, reply asap. If you’d rather not get involved, I shall understand. The only thing I ask is that you don’t discuss this email with anyone, please.