Dying on Principle (33 page)

‘Possibly.'

‘The guy died, by the way. TB,' he said flatly.

‘But this is twentieth-century Britain! I know one of my students had it once, but he brought it with him from India. I always thought it was a Third World disease.'

‘Some of these winos live a lot worse than folk in India. Think of the climate. And then the dosshouses. And getting them to take their medication. New York, now, it's reaching epidemic proportions, and London – it's getting bad down there. Antibiotic-resistant strains and all.' He stopped abruptly. ‘My last girlfriend was big in environmental health, see.'

‘What's the news about that building?' I thought that a safer topic than girlfriends.

‘What indeed?' Chris was back. He stayed where he was, by the door.

‘It's George Muntz's all right. But to be honest I'd like to get a preservation order slapped on it. You got to come and see it, Chris. Now you know who owns it you could get proper access and all.'

‘What an excellent idea!'

‘But why the hell should they want it?' I asked. ‘It'd take millions to make it usable. And they're up to something in Provence. I only saw a corner of the file, but it said ‘ment Centre, Provence', clear as you like.'

‘Management, probably.' Both men laughed dourly.

‘And there's the Bradford connection, too,' I said. ‘Any news on that? I've not heard from Aberlene.'

‘I'm seeing your James Worrall at two,' said Chris. ‘He concedes that it's not impossible that he can offer one or two suggestions that might prove of some tenuous assistance.'

‘He's not as bad as that,' I said and laughed. ‘Not quite. What about Luke?'

‘According to the conference organiser, he's not due in Exeter for another hour. No RTAs involving a yellow car on the M5 yet. I've alerted patrols.'

‘You take Sophie very seriously, our Chris,' Dave said, looking at Chris and then back to me.

‘Yes. I do,' he said.

There was a little silence.

‘Did you tell Dave about those rumours about paper at Muntz, Chris?' I asked, to break it.

Dave's eyes gleamed. ‘There's a college up north,' he said, ‘where they always bought paper from the same man. Not the same
firm
; the same
man
. Whichever firm he was at got the contract. And it was worth a bit. Everything. Exam paper, memos, letter heading—'

‘Muntz have just got a beautiful new logo. It's on absolutely everything except the loo paper. Whoever got that contract must be happy.'

‘Are you trying to imply something, sweetheart?'

‘Just making polite conversation. No, I'm not. Someone there mentioned paper, I'm sure. What was in it for your northern college?'

‘Funny you should ask. This salesman had a nice little place in the Dordogne. Seems he felt he'd like to lend it to certain senior staff every holiday. He got to see other people's tenders and always managed – by coincidence, of course – to undercut them. When we've sorted out all the missing documentation, I wouldn't be surprised to find the same scam going on here.'

‘But surely that's fraud?'

The two men laughed.

‘Happens, sweetheart. And it keeps me off the streets.'

‘So: we have a building that doesn't make sense,' I began. ‘An outpost in a city that doesn't make sense; a technician who's worried about his computer supplies – including paper! – and a loony lecturer. Chris, is she still missing?'

He nodded. ‘Despite all our best efforts.'

‘What else? A dead technician; a dead principal.'

‘And computer porn, sweetheart. And someone who – and this shows rotten taste – doesn't like you. What the hell do you know?' Dave wasn't cuddly, sexy Dave any more. He sat at Chris's desk and leaned on his forearms. ‘Come on, get your bloody act together.'

I glanced at Chris; he was leaning against his door, arms folded. I could detect no signs of irony.

‘Sweetheart, we haven't got all day. Your bloody interference may have sent an innocent man to his death. So just interfere a little bit more. Come on. Give.'

I felt very close to losing my temper. ‘What are you implying, Dave?'

‘I'm not bloody implying, I'm saying it, for crying out loud! You know something. We want to know it.'

I wouldn't look to Chris for help. I gathered myself up with dignity. ‘Read my statements. Listen to what I'm saying.'

‘You're not saying it clear enough.' He slammed his open hand on the desktop.

‘Clear
l
y.' I took a breath – he wasn't going to intimidate me. ‘Let's get this straight. The only connection I have with any of this is the fact that I didn't listen to a girl who was frightened someone would kill her. And then she died. I'm an outsider.' I felt like one now, too, confronted by two men I'd thought I'd known, one of whom I'd slept with, as tenderly as I knew how.

Chris must have picked up a note in my voice I hoped no one would hear. ‘OK, Dave, why don't you have a shufti at Sophie's notes? She passed the time one evening trying to make connections – didn't you?' His smile sprang for just one moment from formal to tender and back again. But Dave would have seen that moment.

‘I just listed people I'd been talking to, and summarised the conversations as best I could. There's Phil, the technician, who seems as loquaciously honest as the proverbial day. But he was able to hack into Dr Trevelyan's system, and – I know this sounds weird, Chris, and maybe you've put something in your coffee – I saw him at a car-boot sale near a microwave. In all fairness I also saw an engineer whom I have unlovingly christened Sunshine in the same place. And not long before, Sunshine attempted to take up residence in my room and to investigate my files. I would love it to be Sunshine who dunnit.'

This time the silence was uneasy.

‘I think you can rule him out,' said Dave at last.

‘Why?'

‘Can't explain – not until the job's over, at least.'

‘Do you seriously mean to tell me – to let me infer, rather – that one of your officers was investigating me?' That sounded unforgivably pompous. ‘
Moi? Moi?
' I got deeper into Miss Piggy's voice. Then I found my own. ‘Fucking hell! Which of you two do I kill for this?'

‘Neither. Another area of investigation altogether. Look, Sophie,' Dave said, ‘there's so much shit flying round at your place, you can't expect us not to have picked up the odd rumour – and to have acted.'

‘Would this rumour have anything to do with the pornography? OK, I know when to keep quiet.'

‘Except, if you'll forgive me saying so, Sophie, you don't,' said Dave, hard again.

‘It was you who came into my place yelling “fraud”!'

‘How was I to know the sodding place was bugged?'

‘Children, children!' Chris had donned his glasses and was looking over them. He held up his left hand, pulling the spread fingers down with his right as he mentioned names. ‘Dr Trevelyan. We know she's up to something. Petty fraud. Bound to get picked up sooner or later. But she didn't strike me as the sort of woman to get involved with pornography. Mr Curtis. You don't like him, and I'd guess the feeling was mutual, but you've nothing currently on him, except he claims qualifications he may not have. An altogether easier way of discovering the truth would have been to ask me. As soon as nine strikes, Tom will get on to the accountancy organisations Curtis claims membership of. OK? Mr Blake. Because of his sexual proclivities he is unable to make a statement.'

‘How come you were at the dratted place anyway, sweetheart?'

‘I was part of a team working on computer programs to develop literacy skills. Idiomatic English made easy for people whose first language isn't English.'

‘A geek!'

‘Far from it! I know a bit about programming, but it's the English-teaching bit that I'm best at. In all honesty, I reckon Worrall hatched the plot to get me off Murdock's turf for a bit.'

‘Does everyone realise that?
Everyone
?' Chris repeated. ‘Because you always seem to know what I'm talking about these days. Sometimes more, come to think of it – you were dead keen for them not to switch on the computer Blake was using.'

‘Only because I'd been reading about it in a mag at the doctor's. And teachers specialise in bluffing,' I added.

‘Not hacking?' Dave put in.

‘I've never hacked in my life. The only time I ever saw it done was actually at Lloyd House,' I said, with a grin at Chris, ‘with an audience of senior police.'

The atmosphere had eased at last. Dave and Chris stretched, and I looked at my watch. Nearly nine.

‘Is it worth trying William Murdock – the personnel people – again? You never know, Chris, they might respond to the blandishments of you or Dave and tell you his car number and everything. Oh yes, it'll be on file – for our car-parking records.' I dialled the number, got through to Rosie, a fellow cricket lover, and posed the problem. She demurred, as of course she should, then came up with a bright idea.

‘Tell you what,' she said. ‘Why don't I phone the police and ask to speak to this Chris and then I'll know he's real, won't I?'

‘You're a genius. It's Detective Chief Inspector Groom. Got that? Great.'

‘Except the switchboard's always so busy it'll take her ten minutes to get through,' said Chris. ‘In any case—'

There was a sharp tap at the door. Tom poked an anxious Geordie head round the door. ‘Chris, man, there's something you might want to know. I've had a call from the Transport Police. Some guy beaten up just outside Bristol Temple Meads. Managed to pull the communication cord.'

‘Name of Schneider?'

Tom nodded, big-eyed.

We were scuttling down the corridor when Chris asked, ‘Why should the Transport folk call us?'

‘Because I thought, if there were no accidents on the motorway, there was always the train, sir. So I got on the blower to them. Ian always said to get all the information, Gaffer,' he said, almost in extenuation.

‘Where are we going, anyway?' I said, breathless from the rush.

We all stopped, abruptly.

‘Back to my office, I suppose,' said Chris, turning and leading the way. ‘The Avon lads can ask him what we need to know. It's just – you know – after all this inactivity a bit of action would be nice.'

‘You're right,' Dave said glumly. ‘There are times when war, war, war is better than jaw, jaw, jaw.'

Chris took me back to his office, leaving me there probably against every rule in the book, while he and Dave adjourned to the incident room. Since he made no prohibitions at all, I felt myself honour bound to do nothing to upset his moral code. I read the
Guardian
twice and even tried the crossword. I hadn't any marking, of course, or any of the books I'd long been intending to read, and was, in a word, bored.

One thing I could usefully do was make that dental appointment, and I couldn't see Chris begrudging me one phone call. The phone book sat neatly on top of the Yellow Pages by the phone, and I hunted for the Cavendish Road Dental Practice. What I always forget is that the Birmingham directory has business numbers at the front, and my search through the main residential pages brought me no joy at all. In fact, there were hardly any Cavendishes, and one, I. M. Cavendish, made me forget about my teeth. She hadn't been at work when I phoned in yesterday. Chris and I had joked about it; at least I had, and Chris had been rather dampening. I turned to the business section, got myself an outside line, and fixed my appointment for mid-July – the start of the college holiday for those of us not on the new Muntz contract.

My hands found their way back to Cavendish, I. M., and dialled. No reply. But then, she'd be back at Muntz, wouldn't she? Not a woman to take sick leave lightly, Mrs C. I dialled Muntz and asked to speak to her.

‘I'm afraid Mrs Cavendish is unavailable.'

‘Do you mean she's in college but is too busy to speak to me, or that she's not in college? It's Sophie Rivers here, Stella, one of the computer-project people.'

‘Oh, I thought I knew your voice! It's ever so strange, she's not in, and I don't know when she last had
one
day off, let alone
two
. And I don't think she even phoned in today. At least I didn't take the call. Hang on a sec. Sylv, did you take a call from Mrs C this morning?'

I heard a decided negative.

‘No, Sylv didn't either. Strange, isn't it?'

‘Hmm,' I said enthusiastically. ‘Must have gone to a sale or something.'

‘Well, she's got the money, of course, since her father died.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry – were they close?'

‘Never mentioned him until she came in with this lovely pair of shoes, Italian, the softest leather. £159 she said. Lovely.'

‘Wish I could spend that on shoes.' Well, actually, I could. Maybe I
should
. ‘Look, Stella, is Mr Curtis around? Because maybe I'd better talk to him direct.'

‘No. Hey, Sophie, you don't think they've done a bunk together! Thick as thieves, they are.'

‘Wouldn't she be a bit old for him?' A very ageist thing to say, but needs must.

‘Well, I wouldn't look at either of them.
He
's nice looking, of course, and now he's got that posh car, but he's not really my type. I like warm brown eyes and nice tight little bums.'

‘As opposed to nice tight little fists?'

She crowed with laughter, hurting my ear. ‘Look, Sophie, Sylv's pulling faces 'cos she's having to take all the calls. Talk to you again – OK?'

‘Cheers!' Yes, I rather thought we might be talking again. But I didn't tell her why.