Dying to Write (20 page)

‘If you try that bap, I'll explain.'

As gingerly as if he were expecting the thing to explode, he pulled apart the two halves of the roll to liberate huge chunks of chicken in what looked mayonnaise. We sniffed. He nodded, replaced the top half and bit in. He smiled, and broke off a large piece for me.

‘Try it. And then tell me about CNN.'

I nibbled, and smiled. ‘Yes, it's OK, isn't it? Not that I'd have identified it as tikka without a label, but it's good in its own right.'

‘And CNN?'

I reminded him about Kenji, my Japanese rabbit-loving lover. Ex-lover. ‘He's replaced me with an American woman who's a reporter for CNN. I asked Kenji if there was anything in the Japanese papers to connect Nyree's husband with Japan. I didn't think they were going to bother. That's why I spent the morning at the
Guardian
on CD-ROM in the college library. Ended up with asthma and little else.'

Chris spent several seconds picking up a minute crumb and parking it on the side of his plate. He was going to ask me something he shouldn't.

‘Did Brierley know you were going there?' he said at last.

I picked up my glass and tilted it, as if to tip it over his head. ‘I told about six people in Harborne that Hugh and I left separately for Birmingham and we met by chance while I was hanging round waiting for a bus home. I told you. I expect you to believe me, even if they didn't. I didn't even know I was going to William Murdock until I was on the bus. Dust in the library gave me my usual allergy. Agnes had my spray. Chris, she had a strip of my tablets too –'

‘A bubble pack?' he asked. His eyes twinkled in self-mockery. He was clearly feeling better.

‘As it happens, yes. But nice big tablets, not like Nyree's phenobarbitones. I suppose no one mentioned finding them in the lounge?'

He shook his head. But it didn't mean anything. Agnes could have put them in her bag. If she didn't, probably Shazia had picked them up. But I wanted to know what had happened to them.

I risked a glance at my watch. Chris saw me.

‘Time to run you back?' he asked sadly.

‘No, the car won't turn into a pumpkin yet. And I suspect eight thirty is optimistic. But I want to be there eventually. As your eyes and ears, as much as anything else.'

‘Humph. And of course you'll share anything you pick up.'

‘I usually do.'

‘Eventually.'

‘Another palpable hit.'

‘Why did you bring that appalling vehicle?'

‘George's van? It's not that bad. It's waterproof, thickly insulated and has an engine and four wheels. Beats my bike any day!'

He finished the bap and sloshed the dregs of his mild thoughtfully round the glass. He was about to say something else I wouldn't like.

‘How would you feel,' he began, ‘if I asked you to have a minder again?'

‘Why me? Why not all the others? The women at least.'

‘Because no one else has had threats. Someone is clearly after you. I don't want you to end up –' He stopped abruptly.

The thought of round-the-clock company filled me with revulsion. I seized on a diversion: ‘I think Kate's still alive – and I reckon you do too.'

He looked up and smiled. ‘OK – you tell me why.'

‘Because all your best efforts haven't found her body. There have been a lot of oriental people around here giving the impression they're looking for live women, not dead ones. Because a number of things have gone missing. That asthma spray, for instance. Because – No, your turn now.'

‘Same reason. Your tampons. Who'd want to nick something they could buy?'

‘It could be one of the women “borrowing” and forgetting to tell me. That toothy woman, maybe. No, Tabitha!' I said spitefully.

He shook his head. ‘You'll keep this under your hat? That chemist's, down the road. A man tried to buy some, then changed his mind and bought a stack of large-size disposable nappies.'

‘Any description?'

Chris shook his head. ‘Nope. God knows how long they'll let the pharmacist continue to practise. I'd say she was nearly blind. I suppose her dispenser does most of the work. Scared me rigid, though. Don't let her give you any tablets, eh, Sophie?'

‘Nappies?' That was what I ought to have picked up on before. ‘Why the hell buy nappies when you want tampons?'

‘I was hoping you might tell me.'

‘Only that – Christ!' I didn't even want to consider the possibilities. Not if I wanted to sleep tonight. I pulled myself up short. Hadn't I intended to use the night to spy on whoever might have used Kate's car?

‘We also have a person who is nicking biscuits,' Chris said. ‘Shazia tells me three packets so far have disappeared from the kitchen before she could even open them.'

‘Perhaps writers nibble for inspiration? I should try it.'

‘Three whole packets seems excessive. Shazia wasn't going to tell me, but it seems you bollocked her for not passing on information.'

‘Did I?' Oh, dear – if only I could escape my teacher persona when I'm not teaching. I shall turn into a flogger and hanger if I'm not careful, a blue-rinsed scourge of liberal home secretaries. D'you see me at Tory Party Conferences, Chris?'

‘I'd love to,' he said.

The drive back was short and uneventful. He offered to drop me a hundred yards from the house, in case I didn't wish to be seen as his nark.

‘Don't worry,' I said, staying put – the car was warm, and rain was slicing down again – ‘everyone knows we're acquainted. Everyone knows everything on a course like this. Like everyone will know I spent the night with Hugh and Matt last night.'

‘Hugh
and
Matt?'

‘Hugh and Matt,' I said firmly. ‘So rumour's got a bit above itself, has it? We all got boozed, and fell asleep writing a poem. There should be a copy on Matt's notepad. Matt and I shared the sofa; Hugh was on the floor. I woke early needing the loo, and saw my overshirt. The rest you know.'

Chris yawned. What time had he come on duty?

Then I yawned too. And my stomach rumbled vehemently. We both laughed.

‘Chris, I want to talk to you again.'

‘So I should hope.'

‘Because there are odds and ends floating around my head, and they may tie up with things in your head. I'll try and make a list.'

‘I'd be grateful,' he said. No sarcasm; just sincerity.

I wished I could hug him without raising his hopes. I liked him immensely, loved him even, but not in the sense he wanted love. Why should I fancy someone like Hugh, who was hardly more than an acquaintance and whom I perhaps ought not to trust at all, and not poor Chris, as worthy a man as I've ever met, apart from George, that is?

‘Better go in,' I said.

‘OK.'

‘I'll talk to you soon.'

‘When?'

‘As soon as I've something to say!'

As soon as I'd discovered whether Hugh had any plans that might include me. I yawned again. A night safe in my own bed seemed at the moment preferable even to a night in Hugh's. And the prospect of cruising round in George's van was repellent. I ought to face it, I simply had no energy left for anything.

He stopped outside the front door.

‘Thanks. And will you be working late or heading for your duvet and a glass of scotch?'

‘Depends what turns up.'

Now we had the embarrassing business of saying goodbye. We'd never got it right yet. Perhaps that's why we had rows: to give us exit lines. He wanted to say something tender. I wanted him not to. I ran up the steps and turned to wave him off. As his car disappeared to the area where the police were parking, I saw another car. It was at the edge of the student car park, just where it narrows into the drive. No lights. Just for once, though, I wouldn't stick my nose in. It must have got past the police checkpoint. It was none of my business.

I pushed open the front door.

All the other doors sighed in greeting. The constable was answering the phone and didn't look up. On impulse, I decided to go straight to Hugh's room: I wanted to see what the afternoon's activities had done to the delicate shoots of what might grow into a relationship. Then I thought perhaps I wouldn't. Not until I'd combed my hair at least. I dodged into the nearest loo, spruced myself up, told myself to be assertive and re-emerged into the corridor. What I did not expect to see from the dark corner of the hallway was Hugh running downstairs, his hands on his hand. Matt followed him. Then came a man with a gun. He herded them into the lounge.

The door slammed on them.

It all happened so quickly I couldn't believe it. It didn't make sense. Any moment they'd all come out laughing and joking. But I knew they wouldn't because it dawned on me that the man with the gun had been wearing a stocking over his face.

I waited. Then I slipped off my shoes and padded back to the reception area. I eased the door a fraction, praying that the others wouldn't respond. I couldn't see much, of course. What little I could see brought bile up from my stomach. Shazia was lying face down on the floor, her hair streaming free of her scarf. She whimpered once, but silenced herself. Beside her stood a man I'd not seen before, his foot perhaps an inch from her head. His gun pointed at the middle of her back. Naukez was slumped against the reception desk, his chin bleeding and bruised. The door to the student corridor swung slightly – someone must have just gone through. Perhaps the sigh from that had been enough to cover my arrival.

They talk about split-second decisions. I had to choose in that moment whether to make a heroic attempt to throw myself at the man, who pointed a weapon and who had been strong enough to lay out Naukez, or to try something, anything, else.

I'm afraid I chose not to be heroic. I let the door shut as quietly as I could, and retreated to the corridor again. Plainly I couldn't stay there.

I had to get out of the building to get help. That was clear. How? I dared not risk the creaking corridors at this end of the house. The cloakroom again. Some of the cubicles had windows to the outside world. I found one that seemed a possibility, and scrambled on to the toilet seat. And froze. Someone was opening the cloakroom door. I crouched, still on my slippery perch. I pushed the cubicle door very gently. Like the others it hung practically closed. I heard footsteps. Saw a male foot, brutal in a Doc. Heard breathing. Held my own breath.

The feet withdrew.

Now escape took on a more personal note: I knew I had to save my own skin. I turned back to the window, a small version of an old-fashioned sash. The upper part was open. That meant the lower part should open too, if I had something to lever it with, like a knife or a screwdriver. I had fingernails, and short ones at that. They scraped against the paint, the sound setting my teeth on edge. The longer ones bent right back. The wood did not move. So I would have to get out of the top section. I pulled the window right down. The wood screamed. Without waiting to see if anyone had heard, I put my hands on the frame and started to pull myself up. This was one form of exercise for which the Canadian Air Force had not prepared me. I thought my arms would pull from their sockets. My legs and feet flailed against the wall. But at last I got my chest across, and rolled slowly the rest of the way.

I landed hard on gravel, my elbows and knees first. Surely someone must have heard. I'd lost a shoe, but dared not look for it. Kicking the other off, crouching and dodging, I hurtled for the stables.

If I expected a hero's welcome, I didn't get it. I was plainly superfluous. I don't even think they noticed me for a while. Chris was already strapping on the sort of bulletproof vest I'd only ever seen on TV correspondents. Other men and women were doing likewise. If Chris caught sight of me, it might shake his concentration.

I backed out. I stood irresolutely in the deepest shadow I could find. Words like ‘crossfire' sprang into my mind.

I made my way, crabwise and keeping as close to the wall as I could, back to the main building. Pressing right up against the stucco, I peered round. The dark car was still there, and now my eyes were thoroughly used to the dark, I could see it was a Granada. The driver was pulling on gloves. Such a prosaic gesture terrified me as much as anything I'd already seen. What I couldn't work out was why he'd let Chris walk away. And how had he got in past the police presence at the main gate? I'd almost persuaded myself he might be one of Chris's colleagues when I saw the unmistakeable shape of a gun in his right hand.

Around me I sensed movement. Then heard feet, in controlled little rushes. Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and thrown down. When I twisted my head, I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun. This one was about a foot from my head. Then I picked out flakjacket and a navy sweater.

‘It's OK, officer,' I breathed. ‘I'm Sophie, DCI Groom's friend.'

God forgive me for trying to hide behind a man's authority like that. But it worked.

‘What the fuck are you doing out here?'

‘Trying to warn you all; there's trouble – men with guns …'

The man grunted, and spoke quickly into his radio. ‘Female civilian', was I?

I didn't hear the reply, but he gestured me to get up.

‘Where will I be least in the way?' I breathed.

‘Just fucking stay here.' He now stood watching from my previous vantage point. He lifted his gun in both hands and aimed at something I couldn't see. I have never felt so impotent. I should have waded in to help when I had the chance, done anything rather than cower like this.

It was so quiet I could hear not just my breathing but the policeman's too. Nothing else.

We waited.

A shot. From inside the house, surely. And screams. Including a man's. Then there was a gleam of light. I couldn't place it at first, light where none should be. But then I realised it was a reflection on the side of that big, menacing car. Someone had opened the front door. The man in the car turned. He stretched his arm to aim the gun.