Authors: Catherine Sampson
Meanwhile, Gilbert was a consistently popular teacher. When the principal suffered a heart attack, the school was plunged
into chaos. So much responsibility had rested on this one man. When Gilbert modestly offered his services in whatever capacity
was useful, his offer was welcomed with a Gallic sigh of relief. Of course, there were various contributions that Gilbert
Ballantyne could make, several of which were discussed.
No one, at this point, is quite clear how it came to pass that Gilbert Ballantyne, a man with no financial qualifications,
even on the curriculum vitae held by the school, came to be given such responsibility, but that he was seemed a reflection
of the high esteem in which he was held by the school community. In particular, the school secretary, a lonely married woman
of some glamour, felt a deep bond with Gilbert, a man of a similar age, who looked a little lonely and who treated her with
the utmost respect, unlike her husband. Everyone was also admiring of Sabine, who worked hard and had by now entered into
all the school activities, especially the community welfare projects, at which she would help her father distribute soup to
the poor in the winter. If there was, at that point, any criticism of Gilbert, it was only that he was in danger of exhausting
himself with work. They diagnosed his excess of involvement thus:
“C’est parce que sa femme, elle est morte depuis deux ans.”
For six months, while the principal was in intensive care and then convalescing at home, Gilbert Ballantyne was, in effect,
in control of the entire school budget. The teachers were surprised, but pleased, in his second month of tenure, to read an
announcement (signed by the principal) that in fact the budget allowed for modest bonuses to be paid to all staff. The bonuses
appeared in their pay packets at the end of the next month. There was also a staff party at a reasonably priced restaurant,
at which a certain amount of red wine was supplied and subsequently imbibed.
For some months these bonuses continued. Later, one or two of the staff would question where the money came from. But at the
time it was deemed better not to inquire. There was even, among some members of staff, a certain amount of resentment that
the excess in the budget had not been recognized and distributed earlier. One of the junior teachers was able now to put down
a deposit on a house; another allowed herself to become pregnant, although she later regretted it.
The week that the principal returned to work, Gilbert organized another party, a success like the first. He, however, was
absent, sending a message that he had caught a bug and was unwell. Sabine, it transpired, had the same bug, a nasty virus
that lingered. When, the next day, the school secretary rang Gilbert at home with a billing question about the party, the
phone rang and rang, and she had the strange sensation that it was ringing into an empty space. The next week, dealing with
the same billing issue, the principal pointed to the signature on the catering order form and asked the school secretary,
“C’est à qui, ça?”
“Mais c’est la votre, non?”
When the principal shook his head gravely, the blood drained from the school secretary’s face. She hurried to the filing cabinets,
from where she retrieved a large stack of documents, all bearing the same signature. She collapsed into her chair and stared
at the documents. At the top of the pile was the letter authorizing the staff bonuses. She knew, also, that somewhere in that
pile of paper was a letter signed by the principal informing parents of the annual school trip to London, detailing costs,
and requesting that payment be made directly to the organizer, Gilbert Ballantyne. It was a letter that Gilbert had professed
himself most unhappy with.
“I don’t like to use my personal account for the girls’ money,” he’d protested. “Isn’t there some other way that we can do
it?”
But for some reason—the school secretary had forgotten now what the reason was—it transpired that the only sensible way to
do it was through Gilbert’s account. Were there tickets to show for this? An itinerary? She rang the airline advertised and
then the hotel. There were reservations, certainly, in the girls’ names. A nonrefundable deposit, indeed, had been paid. The
balance of the tickets should have been paid for a week earlier, but they had heard nothing from Mr. Ballantyne. Did he still
require the seats?
Her heart so heavy that it had taken refuge somewhere in her gut, the school secretary carried the documents through to the
principal and placed them one by one in front of him, forgetting his heart condition and failing to note the pallor of the
man and the drops of sweat that developed on his brow as they proceeded. She showed him the signature on the bonus notification.
“Et celle-là, c’est la votre?”
“Non. Ce n’est pas la mienne.”
His voice was clipped, tense, quite unlike his usual tone.
She showed him the letter about payment for the school trip. He read it without comment.
“Non. Je ne l’ai jamais vue.”
He reached his hand for the next document, read through it. It was a notification to teachers of the upcoming visit of the
school inspectors. He had signed it during one of Gilbert’s regular visits to his house. Gilbert always carried a briefcase
with him and would usually produce some piece of paper or other for his signature. For the most part, these were, like the
notification of the school inspection, things of no great financial import.
“Oui,”
he told his secretary,
“celle-là, c’est la mienne.”
Relieved, she handed him the next document. If it was just the bonuses, well, the teachers would just have to pay them back,
although she did not want to have to be the one to tell them. If the parents had lost the money on the school trip, there
would be a huge loss of confidence in the school and some very angry calls that she would have to field, but the school would
survive.
Silently, he read. And then he read again. With an angry jerk and a shake of the head that looked as though he were fighting
off the hangman, he handed the document back to her and stood, pushing back his chair so that it fell over on the carpet behind
him. The school secretary glanced down at the paper and felt nausea overwhelm her as she saw a list of numbers that represented
the school bank accounts and a transfer order, another bank account number, a bank address in the Virgin Islands, and the
principal’s signature.
“Appelez la police,”
the principal barked at her before his knees buckled and, gasping, he collapsed.
W
E landed in Majorca, and I had to drag myself away from my father’s crimes in France and concentrate on my missing teenager.
What I had feared would be a grim and distressing day turned into something else entirely. She had been found, quite happy
and not much wiser, after an absorbing holiday romance abruptly ended. Instead of interviewing worried police, I ended up
interviewing the teenager herself, who was surprised to find herself missing. She was funny and frank about what she’d been
up to, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way, but the fact that she was alive and available for interview meant that filming
took longer than we expected. We spent that night in an uninspiring hotel, and headed back to the airport the next morning.
On the plane home, I read the English papers. Inspector Mitford had admitted that the raid on Ronald Evans’s house and the
detention of both Ronald and Sheryl had been “regrettable.” Evans was said to be staying with relatives, “devastated” by what
had happened.
“We carried out the search with what we hoped would be minimum disruption to Mr. Ronald Evans and to Mrs. Sheryl Laver, who
was a guest in his house at the time of our visit,” Inspector Mitford said in a statement issued to the press. “Because of
the information one of my officers had received, and because of the grave anxiety we felt about the well-being of Christopher
Darling, we felt that it was vital to give no prior warning that the police would be searching the premises. In the event,
we regret the distress we caused to Mr. Evans and Mrs. Laver. We would repeat that no incriminating evidence of any kind was
found during this search. We would like to thank Mr. Evans and Mrs. Laver for their cooperation, and assure them both that
we will not be troubling them again.”
A second article noted that Fred Sevi, “psychiatrist and companion of missing camerawoman Melanie Jacobs,” had been questioned
for a second time by police after “new information” had surfaced.
I shifted uncomfortably in the cramped airplane seat. Dave had nodded off, and his head was threatening to land on my shoulder.
We were circling over London, waiting our turn to land, bumping through clouds, the view from the window in turn obscured
and then clearing so that I could see the city below.
I got back to find that William was throwing up, his pale little body shaking and shuddering with misery. Carol, who had been
clearing up vomit all morning, was exhausted.
“He’s thrown up everywhere,” she wailed. “The poor thing can’t understand what’s happening to him.”
For the next three hours I did vomit duty, ferrying him to and from the bathroom, laying him on a bed of towels. In between
bouts of sickness he slept, and I used the time to load up the washing machine and then the tumble dryer, and I showered the
vomit out of my hair and changed my clothes. When he had not woken for an hour, I knew the worst was over. But I was so awake,
so conditioned to the idea that I would not sleep that night, that I was not surprised when the telephone call came. I glanced
at the clock as I picked up the receiver and rubbed my eyes. It was nearly midnight.
It was Justin, desperately apologetic as only Justin could be, but upset and angry, too.
“I need your help,” he said. “Jacqui’s gone with her dad to meet the kidnapper. They just left. They’ve gone to get Christopher
back.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“To get Christopher back, from the kidnapper.”
“How do they know where he is?”
“There was a ransom demand. They’re going to pay it.”
“Where did they get the cash?”
“Sheryl gave it to them. Everyone’s been screaming at each other. Dad shouted at Sheryl for giving Mike the money. He told
Mike not to pay the ransom, he said there’s no guarantee he’ll get Christopher back. Look, you have to hurry. I can’t move,
I can’t drive, I’m stuck here, and I’m afraid Jacqui’s going to get hurt. Her dad’s taken a gun.”
“Has Mike told the police what he’s doing?”
“Of course not, and you mustn’t, he’ll kill me. Please. Hurry. There’s a warehouse in Morden, Revender’s warehouse on Blodale
Road.”
I grabbed an A to Z from the bookshelf and looked up the address as we spoke. I’d have liked to tell Justin I couldn’t possibly
get there before dawn, but I could probably make it in about the same time that Mike could make it from Sydenham.
“You need to call the police,” I told Justin. ‘Tell them what you’ve told me.”
“I can’t,” Justin moaned. “Jacqui made me promise.”
“Well, if Jacqui gets killed, it’s your fault,” I told him harshly. “There’s nothing I can do to protect her.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, “I’ll call the police. But you will go, too, won’t you?”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll go and take a look,” I told him.
I had moved William into my bedroom so that he wouldn’t disturb Hannah. Now I switched on the bedside light and lay down on
the bed beside him. I felt his forehead. He was cool. His breathing was slow and peaceful, his arms thrown out in deep, comfortable
sleep. Whatever it was, he had got rid of it. I kissed him lightly, and he didn’t stir.
I ran up the stairs and tapped on Carol’s door. I heard a light being switched on, then reluctant footsteps. She appeared
in a dressing gown, pushing her hair out of eyes barely open.
“I’m sorry. You were asleep.”
“I was trying to get an early night. Is William okay?”
“He’s sleeping. He’s stopped throwing up. But I have to . . .”
I couldn’t bring myself to finish. She stared at me.
“You’re going out?”
“Could you possibly . . . possibly go and sleep in my bed, so you’ll be there if he wakes?”
She looked at me, and I knew I had to tell her about the phone call so that she would know that this wasn’t nothing. She listened
and she nodded. She tightened her dressing gown, pulled her bedroom door closed behind her, and padded down the stairs without
another word.
I parked in Morden. I leaned across to the passenger seat and picked up my bag. Inside I had a MiniDV camera, tape already
inside. I’d had no time to check whether or not the battery was charged. I pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder and
got out of the car. The street was deserted, the shops padlocked, windows barred. Revender’s warehouse was a large dark profile
set just off the road. A bright security light was shining over its yard. It looked like a football stadium all lit up for
the game.
My route took me past a pub. It was chucking-out time, and one guy was chucking up in the gutter. He recovered enough to yell
an obscenity after me. In my pocket I wrapped my keys around my knuckles and carried on walking. I pulled my mobile out of
my pocket and called Veronica’s number, but an anonymous voice informed me the phone had been switched off. I swore softly.
What was Veronica doing turning her phone off? I called the Sydenham police switchboard, gave my name, and asked for Mitford,
but they put me on hold for so long that I lost patience.
I circled the warehouse, looking for a vantage point. I settled, in the end, on an alley that ran along the side of the warehouse
and opened onto wasteland at the far end. It wasn’t an obvious access point, because the alley ended in a pile of builder’s
rubble. But I didn’t want access. I wanted to be able to see.
I clambered up the pile of rubble and discovered that once on top I could see the warehouse yard, illuminated under a security
light that bathed the concreted area in a sickly white glare. The gates, I saw, had been left open to the road. After a few
minutes, a white SUV drove into the yard. It stopped at the northeast corner of the yard and switched off its engine. From
where I was placed, I could see one figure inside. Where, I wondered, was Jacqui? I waited, settling the MiniDV camera into
a position where, I hoped, its lens would not catch the light. I started to film. Wait until something happens, and it’s always
too late.