Last Rites (13 page)

Yes. And Chloe should still be alive.

Mason sipped slowly at his tea and, once more, tried to force the image of his daughter from his thoughts.

Coward. Can’t even face her in your mind. Just like you couldn’t when she was dying. When she needed you.

He turned away from the window and sat on his sofa, gazing blankly into the air. From the bedroom he could still hear the TV set, the words drifting languidly to him much like the smoke from his cigarette that was forming, shroud-like, around his head.

A single tear rolled unannounced from his eye and trickled down his cheek. Mason didn’t even bother to wipe it away.

29

Walston, Buckinghamshire

Margaret Coulson dug wearily in the pocket of her coat and pulled out her front door key. Even as she pushed it into the lock she shook her head irritably. The walk from the bus stop to her house normally took less than ten minutes. The entire journey from the hospital only took thirty minutes but not tonight. It had taken her more than an hour and a half to get from work to her home. First she’d been delayed at the hospital because of a car accident, the two victims having been brought in only minutes before she was due to leave. Fortunately neither of them were hurt too badly, Margaret mused. The worst injury was to the driver who’d suffered a fracture of his left wrist and some deep cuts to his face. The passenger had suffered only minor cuts to her face and neck but was in shock. No one else had been involved.

Despite the relative simplicity of the injuries, the delay in the arrival of a doctor to attend to them had ensured that Margaret was already late by the time she got on the bus to begin her homeward journey. When the bus then succumbed to a flat tyre five minutes after leaving the stop, she realised that it was just one of those nights.

Just one of those nights. Margaret turned the key in the lock and wished that she could be as philosophical about the delay. She was already tired. She hadn’t been sleeping very well during the last two or three nights and a friend of hers at work had given her a couple of sleeping pills to ease the discomfort. She had been hoping to try them out a lot sooner. She was on the same shift for the next week and, in many ways, she preferred the late hours. Except on this particular night. When she was on early shift she was at least home with her husband during the day and she saw more of her daughter too. Perhaps, she thought, trying to salvage something from what had been a lousy night, she and Amy could even have lunch together some time this week.

It was a thought that brought a tired but welcome smile to her face as she stepped into her hallway, careful to close the door quietly behind herself for fear of waking her daughter.

She needn’t have worried about that.

In the darkness of the small hallway, Margaret Coulson didn’t immediately see what awaited her. Only as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom and then, as she reached out with one hand for the light switch, did she realise its nature.

The body of Amy Coulson was hanging from a length of rope, suspended in the middle of the hallway, secured to one of the landing balustrades above.

It didn’t take Margaret’s training as a nurse to tell her immediately that Amy was dead. In the harsh glow of the hall light she could see the milky whiteness of her daughter’s cold skin. She knew that the teenager would be cold even before she touched her. As it was, Margaret stood transfixed for several moments before finally extending one shaking hand and touching Amy’s left foot.

Cold as ice.

She must have been dead for a couple of hours at least. Her body was hanging almost completely motionless too, disturbed only by Margaret’s gentle touch. Any movement that had occurred after the initial drop to the end of the rope had long since subsided.

Margaret looked up at Amy’s face and saw that the eyes were closed. The lips were parted slightly and she could see the tip of a swollen and blackened tongue protruding through them. There wasn’t a mark on the body otherwise apart from the vivid red discoloration of the skin where the rope had bitten so deep into the soft flesh of the throat. Whether she had broken her neck in the fall or slowly strangled, Margaret neither knew nor cared. Amy was unblemished. She hung there like a porcelain doll, suspended by some vengeful child.

Margaret was surprised at her own reaction. Shocked by the sight she moved slowly, almost robotically, around the hanging body, still gazing up at it. Numbed by what she saw. Unable, it seemed, to scream or shout. Helpless.

She managed to swallow hard as she turned towards the phone which she picked up and pressed lightly to her ear. That done she jabbed three nines and waited to be connected to the emergency services. They would be here within minutes, Margaret knew.

She also knew with stomach-knotting certainty that there was no need for them to hurry.

30

Walston, Buckinghamshire

Mason tried to settle himself on the wooden bench once again but finally stood up, anxious to stretch his legs once more.

The drive from London had taken him less than ninety minutes but the need to stretch his legs hadn’t been caused by the drive. He just couldn’t sit still. His heart was thumping a little more quickly than normal, despite the fact that he’d been sitting in this outer office for more than ten minutes. It was, he told himself, the adrenalin coursing through his veins now, and which had been since he first hauled himself out of bed that morning, that was causing his discomfort. He knew that beyond the thick oak door across the outer office lay the room of the Headmaster of Langley Hill private boarding school.The man who would effectively decide his future. Of course, Mason only knew that the headmaster was in that room because he’d been told so by the smartly dressed woman in her late forties who sat behind the desk opposite him. She had her dark-brown hair in a bob and Mason could see a few strands of grey against the darker background. Her make-up was carefully applied, except for her lipstick which looked as if it had been put on with a paint roller.

She had informed him that she was the headmaster’s assistant. She had made the appointment he was keeping this morning. Mason glanced in her direction once more and when she looked up from her keypad she met his gaze.

Mason smiled at her and paced slowly back and forth, his eyes flicking over the large notice board behind him.

‘Can I get you another cup of coffee, Mr Mason?’ she asked.

‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Too much caffeine.’

‘I’m sure Mr Grant won’t be much longer.’

‘Like I said, I was early. There’s no hurry.’

She nodded politely and returned to her work. Mason felt as if he was intruding inside her work space, distracting her from the myriad duties that she, as the headmaster’s assistant, had. He wanted to leave the room, walk the stone corridors of the school. In fact, he just wanted to walk until he was called in to see the headmaster. Mason hated sitting around. He hated waiting. He’d never been a patient man.

‘Do you live at the school?’ he finally asked, immediately feeling guilty for interrupting her.

‘No,’ she told him, smiling politely. ‘I live in the town like most of the staff.’

Mason nodded.

‘Have you worked here long?’ he continued.

‘Almost twelve years,’ she informed him, her long fingers resting tentatively on eight keypads. She was waiting, Mason thought, not daring to resume her work in case he asked her another question.

He nodded, looked at his watch and checked it against the large clock suspended on the wall behind the woman.

‘I’m just going to nip to the loo,’ he said, deciding that he’d just given her more information than she either needed or desired.

The woman nodded, this time without looking at him.

‘You know where it is, don’t you?’ she said, her eyes still fixed on her computer screen.

‘Down the corridor on the right,’ he said and slipped out of the outer office.

Despite the morning sunshine that was flooding through the windows on one side of the corridor, it was still quite cool within the stone walkway. Mason crossed to the nearest window, his footsteps echoing on the polished slabs beneath him. He peered through the glass, looking out over the grounds of Langley Hill. They stretched away as far as the eye could see. There were several sets of rugby posts in view and, in the far distance, Mason could see what appeared to be a hockey match going on.

He stood there for a moment longer then turned and walked slowly down the corridor in the direction of the lavatories, amazed at how quiet it was within the school. Granted, he didn’t know how close the nearest classrooms were but, even if they were on the floor above, Mason had expected to hear some raised voices. Some indication that several hundred pupils were being educated at this hugely expensive seat of learning.

Just because it isn’t what you’re used to. No screaming and swearing every few seconds. Perhaps money buys silence as well as privilege.

He reached the toilets and entered, once more struck by the silence. Mason stood at one of the urinals, marvelling at the fact they weren’t defaced by all manner of graffiti.

Something else you’re not used to.

He relieved himself and washed his hands in one of the large porcelain basins nearby. He studied his reflection in the mirror above.

Tie not too tight. Freshly shaved that morning. Suit looks good.

They couldn’t reject him on his appearance alone, he mused, drying his hands on the roller-towel. He stood there for a moment, sucking in a deep breath that was only faintly tinged with the odour of disinfectant then, composing himself once more, he set off back up the corridor towards the outer office.

He almost collided with the two girls as he emerged from the toilet.

‘Sorry, girls,’ he said as one of them stepped back to avoid the collision.

One was blonde, the other dark haired. Both were no more than seventeen, their uniforms immaculate. They were both carrying leather satchels laden down with books.

They nodded and lowered their heads almost deferentially, as if the barely avoided collision had been their fault and not his.

Mason hurried back towards the office.

Sammi Bell and Jo Campbell turned and watched him for a second before continuing on their way.

31

When Mason glanced at the grandfather clock that stood to the right of Nigel Grant’s desk, even he was surprised to see that almost two hours had elapsed since he’d first entered the headmaster’s office.

He’d been aware of the loud, rhythmic ticking of the clock throughout the interview but not the passage of time marked by that unbroken sound. Mason told himself that the length of the interview had been a good thing. He had enjoyed a reasonable rapport with Grant who was a personable enough man in his late fifties, dressed in a dark-grey suit, a pair of thick glasses perched on the bridge of his aquiline nose. His hair was thick, combed back quite severely, relatively free of grey but flecked with dandruff that also dotted his shoulders and collar in one or two places.

Mason did his best not to look at the offending flakes. At least not when Grant was looking at him.

‘Did you know anything about the school before applying for the job, Mr Mason?’ Grant asked, still running his alert green eyes over the CV that Mason had presented him with upon entering his office.

‘By reputation, naturally,’ Mason said. ‘That was one of the things that attracted me to the position.’

‘That’s very kind of you to say. We try our best.’

Grant sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his belly, rubbing the tips of his thumbs together gently as he regarded Mason across the large antique desk.

‘If you get the job,’ Grant began,‘the environment that you find yourself in will be very, very different to what you’ve been used to.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr Grant,’ Mason told him. ‘But as I told you earlier, as far as I’m concerned, children are children. Even if their parents are all multi-millionaires.’

‘I’m not sure what proportion of our pupils’ parents fall into that category, Mr Mason, but I’m sure not every child here is from such a financially privileged background. Some of them are from what we would somewhat scathingly refer to as working-class homes. Their parents care about their education though and they’re prepared to sacrifice other things to ensure their children receive the best possible education.’ Grant continued tapping his thumbs together as he spoke.‘But you’re right, a very large percentage of the pupils at Langley Hill do come from rich backgrounds. And that, unfortunately, brings its own problems both for them and for us.’

‘What kind of problems?’

‘Some of them are spoiled. There’s no other word, I’m afraid. They come from privilege and some have no idea how to cope with that. Their inability to cope sometimes manifests itself in their attitude. They can be difficult.’

‘Like all kids,’ Mason said, smiling.

Grant nodded slowly.

‘If you mean some of them are arrogant, I can cope with that,’ Mason assured him.

‘Arrogant is perhaps the wrong word, Mr Mason,’ the headmaster said, now tapping his thumbs against his shirt.

‘But certainly some of the older pupils can be trying
because
of their backgrounds more than anything. Wealth can be a burden as well as a blessing. Certainly it brings its share of problems when you’re sixteen or seventeen years old.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’

Grant nodded.

‘Well, some of the children here are from exceptionally privileged backgrounds,’ the headmaster continued.

‘At least four are the sons of ambassadors. Two are the offspring of Arab princes and the progeny of various assorted celebrities are too numerous to mention. Your head isn’t turned by fame, is it, Mr Mason? I ask because some of my staff, in the past, have found that a problem.’

‘I think everyone is equal, no matter how much money they have in the bank. And as for this situation, we’re teaching the kids, not the parents so I don’t foresee a problem.’