Chapter Eleven.
“I appreciate you’re tired, Barbara,” he said; “but I need to have this straight. I can’t have the press knowing more than me about this.” He being Superintendent Wilson, looking rather ragged. He was wearing an evening suit rather than his uniform – had been attending some civic function when the bad news – or developments in the investigation – had reached his ears and spoiled his evening’s enjoyment. We were in his office, where I had most definitely been summoned. DS Brightly had been left in charge of the scene. Not a crime scene, as he later testily pointed out; hardly even a potential one. I desperately wanted to go home. I wanted to see my partner and have a drink – not necessarily in that order.
“My report, sir,” I said. I handed him two hastily typed – or word-processed – pages, detailing my supper invitation from Lisa Markham and my subsequent visit to 50 Princes Street. He read through it, and then handed it back to me with a pained expression.
“I can’t go with this, Barbara,” he said. “You must see that.”
“Should I care, sir?” I replied. “Aren’t the politics your problem?”
He swivelled in his chair – turning his back on me – to face the window and the night. “Yes, you’re right. Go home, Barbara. Sleep.” He turned back to me as I was in the process of leaving. “Well done, incidentally.”
*
Castle Black lies approximately three-quarters of a mile distant from the police station, and I generally make the journey on foot. Leaving the police station, you turn left on Piper Street, which runs out after about seventy yards, where it’s traversed by Victoria Road. If you turn left into Victoria Road, you will be walking down a slight incline until you reach Amberton town centre. Turn right, and you’ll be walking up and out of Amberton to the outlying villages. Cross Victoria Road, which I did, and do, and you’ll cross into Heather Drive. There’s a little triangle of grass on one side of the junction with a bench, where you can sit and rest. On the other side is a modern, single-storey cream building, which houses the veterinary surgery; I say the because Barney, Maggie, and Midnight are on their books. There are, I believe, two or three other veterinary practices in the town.
Walk along Heather Drive, which has a parade of shops halfway down – a newsagent; a grocer-cum-off-licence; a Chinese takeaway; and a Fish and Chip shop – and at the end turn left into Rook Lane. The houses are larger here, and some stand in their own grounds. If you walk the length of Rook Lane – which essentially runs parallel to Victoria Road, though it gently arcs towards town from its starting point on Heather Drive – you will find yourself at the public library, a grand old building, which was the subject of much protest and local press coverage in our first year here when the council toyed with the idea of shutting it down.
A small crescent runs off and on Rook Lane – unsurprisingly called Rook Crescent – which comprises four largish, three-storey houses, five bedrooms plus, standing in their own grounds, one of which is Castle Black. Castle Black is not a castle, nor is it black. It acquired the soubriquet as a result of a visit from one of my colleagues, a DI who lives in a three-bedroomed semi with his wife and three children. He wondered aloud why a childless couple would have need of such a large house. My mentioning that we had three cats didn’t strike him as sufficient justification.
Of course, we don’t need such a large house. It’s an indulgence, one which I’m happy to blame on my partner, his name is Paul, who was brought up in cheap rented accommodation and social housing, where neighbours’ noise – inconsiderate or otherwise – is something with which you’re obliged to come to terms. A week after we moved in, the skies darkened and the air crackled with electricity. We opened the front door and sat on the bottom step in the hall to watch the storm. As the lightning flashed and the rain poured, Paul put his arm around me and said, “I’ve never been happier than I am at this moment.” I confess a small lump came to my throat; I may even have shed a tear.
I enjoy being at home, but not nearly as much as Paul does. It never occurs to him that perhaps – just occasionally – we ought to go out. It does occur to him to suggest it occasionally, but only because we’ll have discussed it sometime in the recent past. Rather as if he’s come up with a slightly odd idea that nonetheless might meet with approval, he’ll say tentatively, “Perhaps we should go out this weekend.” I know I should appreciate his making the effort, but I find it amusing, and have, on more than one occasion, responded with gentle – I hope it’s gentle – sarcasm. “Oh my god, Paul. All this social whirl. I mean, really, don’t you ever feel like a quiet weekend at home?” Paul has a very good repertoire of wounded expressions, and will wander off looking crushed.
We bought Castle Black, or 1 Rook Crescent, on our arrival in Amberton. Paul wrote and writes articles for computer magazines and had just published his first book, an eccentric, tongue-in-cheek computer help manual, which wryly condescended to the reader and recommended and explained things it wouldn’t ordinarily occur to them they’d want or need to do. Obviously, your first task when you get your new computer home is to wipe the hard disk clean, thus rendering the computer temporarily useless to you, as well as clearing it of a lot of unasked for and unwanted junk in the process. You’ll then want to partition and format your hard disk and install the operating system and programs of your choice. Yes, there is a choice; indeed – don’t be frightened! – there are choices. In this way, you’ll be prepared and know what to do should disaster strike. A computer should come to you naked and unsullied, eager and willing to be clothed in the scrim and samite software of your choice. A computer should dress to please. When I began expressing discontent about living and working in London, he told me that he was happy to live wherever my job took me; and when I later got the opportunity to apply for the DCI position in Amberton, I reminded him of this. “Were you serious about moving with me?” I asked. “If I got a job in Scotland, you’d go with me?”
He said, “Yes. I don’t really mind where I live. I’ve no sense of attachment to place. Why? Are we moving?”
Amberton? Practically up the road.
Not a problem.
*
The following morning, I was summoned to hear Superintendent Wilson outline the official position regarding the death of Sharon Hall. In short, the two deaths were unconnected. Or, in officialese: No connection has been established between the two deaths, though we’re not ruling anything out at this early stage of the investigation. Preliminary findings indicate that Sharon Hall sadly took her own life. None of which we’d say unless we had to. I said, “What do I tell them if they ask what took me to Princes Street in the first place?”
Superintendent Wilson looked amused. Perhaps it was the naivety of the question. “What you don’t tell them, Barbara, is that you had supper with our local MP’s daughter, who suggested that Adrian Mansfield talked Ms Hall into committing suicide.”
I grinned. “So not the truth, then, sir? Shall I tell them I visited Princes Street on an unrelated matter, sir – I mean, we are there quite a lot, sir – and found Sharon as a result of her friends’ concern about her? What do you think, sir?” I had adopted a girlish, ingenuous tone.
“Yes; thank you, Barbara.” He was trying not to laugh. “Our dealings with the press are not a trivial matter – as you well know.”
“No, indeed, sir,” I said, smothering a smile.
*
St Mary’s Grammar School for Girls lies on the north east side of Amberton and caters for a thousand plus students. It was, and still is, the highest achieving school academically in the area, and parents go to considerable lengths to get their children admitted. Not being a parent myself, I’m not entirely sympathetic to the various manoeuvres parents employ to get their children places in certain schools whilst avoiding others. After a particularly glowing Ofsted report, the deputy headteacher alluded to this problem, joking that middle-class parents in Amberton were having their sons castrated in order to qualify for admission to St Mary’s. To my knowledge, no-one’s ever gone quite that far, though it does serve to illustrate the point.
I presented myself at the school office and was escorted to the headteacher’s office by a pony-tailed young Asian woman in a cream trouser-suit, who introduced herself simply as “Rita”. She didn’t offer a surname, and I didn’t insist on one. She invited me to sit down on a bench, or banquette, with black vinyl covered cushions while she checked that Ms Brampton was ready to see me. I sat; she made a point of watching me do so. Then she knocked on the door, was summoned, and went in, taking care to close the door behind her. Somewhat amused, I wondered if this were attributable to protocol or simply secretarial punctiliousness. The door re-opened in a matter of a few seconds, and Rita informed me that Ms Brampton would see me now. She left the office door ajar and walked off in the direction we’d come.
I went in, the open door implying that that’s what I ought to do. Ms Brampton was standing behind her desk. She said, “Welcome, Chief Inspector. We’ve met before – briefly. Please, sit down.”
Emily Brampton was a tall, slender, middle-aged black woman, who wore her hair cut short. She was wearing a charcoal dress buttoned up to the neckline, and a pair of half-moon, silver-rimmed spectacles hung from a black-beaded chain about her neck. We had met – very briefly – at a civic do at which we were both reluctant attendees. We were introduced to a bearded academic, a professor of politics or something, who said that it was “a pleasure to meet two such charming instruments of the state”. He had clearly wanted to make an impression, though not necessarily a good one. No doubt he meant to be provocative. There’s always someone who enjoys steering the conversation into choppy waters. It’s just a matter of identifying and, optionally, avoiding them. Such people are not easily rebuffed and our non-committal smiles were duly interpreted as an invitation to continue. Perhaps he thought we were flattered. He explained that it was the role of the education system to prepare young people for the needs of society, and the role of the police to pick up the pieces when it, the education system, failed in this duty. Academics, like adolescents, impart their wisdom as though they’re offering something fresh and vital to the world. Adolescents believe it; with academics, it’s probably a performance issue.
Ms Brampton said, “You don’t think the family has some role to play, professor?”
“Families provide the raw material, Ms Brampton, on which your institution must work. The less the family has to do with the process the better. Government pays lip service to the family while systematically working to circumscribe the role it plays in the upbringing of children. Good parents, from the state’s point of view, are those who work with the education system; bad parents, either through ignorance or intent, are those who work against it. Consider the National Curriculum, or laws on child welfare and discipline. One of the first things one is obliged to do with one’s new child is to give it a label and register it with the state. It’s not too fanciful to regard parents as state employees charged with the task of producing and helping to bring up tomorrow’s workforce.”
“Can I take it you don’t have any children of your own, professor?” I asked.
“No, I do, Chief Inspector,” he said, as though admitting something vaguely shameful. “Two daughters, now at university: doubtless a credit to me and the state.”
Ms Brampton smiled and said, “Professor, if the state were that much of a problem, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The professor smiled thinly, and said quietly, “There are other conversations we’re not having, Ms Brampton.”
I sat down now in one of two seats available. A large side window with Venetian blinds, fully opened, looked out over the deserted playground. The day had darkened somewhat, and it had started to rain. Ms Brampton sat down and said, “How can I help you, Chief Inspector?”
“I’d like to speak to one of your students,” I said: “Caroline Meadows.”
“Caroline?” The note of surprise suggested Caroline was highly regarded and not the sort of young lady who got into trouble with the police.
I said, “I’m investigating a death, Ms Brampton. I’m hoping that she can help me. This isn’t about Caroline being in trouble.”
“No, of course it isn’t,” she said. She stood up and checked her watch. “I believe we’ll find Caroline in Mr Larsson’s class. If you’ll follow me.” She led the way out of the office and turned towards reception, and I followed as per request or injunction. We left the building before reaching reception – Ms Brampton pushing the bar on a fire door, a privilege presumably denied the pupils – and crossed a grey playground dotted with patches of green. Schools tend to be architecturally depressing places; no-one but a building inspector would welcome a tour round an empty school. We crossed from the Victorian building, wherein Ms Brampton had her office, to a squarish, modern building that probably dated back less than twenty years. The building had a corridor that was entirely windowed on one side, overlooking the playground, with the other side offering, at intervals, the doors to the classrooms, which were themselves windowed. I wondered if this design were deliberate, turning space wherever possible, and within certain seemly constraints, into communal, public space.
We turned left on entering the new building and walked past two classrooms. At the third, Ms Brampton stopped and tapped on the glass with the knuckle of her middle finger. A blond, bespectacled man turned towards the door and smiled. Ms Brampton opened it and went in, pushing the door to behind her without closing it. There then ensued a brief confabulation, mute to me and doubtless inaudible to the class, after which Mr Larsson addressed one of the students in the middle of the class. She smiled uncertainly and walked to the front, where Ms Brampton escorted her to the door. She was a tall, coltish girl, her blonde hair worn in a thick single braid down her back.
Ms Brampton said quietly, as though she were speaking in a library, “Caroline, this is Chief Inspector Black; she’d like to ask you one or two questions.”
Caroline smiled at me and said, “Hello.”
I wanted to speak to her alone and, as it were, off the record; that is, I simply wanted to have a chat with her. I was hoping – indeed, rather taking for granted – that Ms Brampton would raise no objection to this. Other than to offer to accompany her, or have her accompanied by another teacher, presumably one of Caroline’s choosing, she did not, and Caroline expressed herself content to take her chances with me unchaperoned.
The rain had started to fall quite heavily, so I suggested a dash to the car, since walking a schoolgirl around in heavy rain while questioning her might be open to ungenerous construance.
Caroline climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. She was slightly flushed from the dash, and there was an air of contained excitement about her. She smiled and clasped her hands between her knees.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak to me like this, Caroline,” I said. “I do appreciate it.” But Caroline appeared to be deeply interested in something going on in the rear-view mirror. I followed her gaze: nothing but the front of the school, some over-pruned hedges, and the parking area shrouded in grey. I was, I think, about to express my bemusement when she said somewhat wistfully, “It’s hard to see rain in a mirror.”
I smiled and said, “Torch in the dark.”
“Sorry?”
“Torch in the dark,” I repeated. “Best way to see the rain. On a beach preferably. Of course, it does have to be raining.”
Caroline lowered the window and put her hand out, palm up. The sensation must have pleased her, for she relaxed back in the seat and said, “Can we go for a drive?”
I smiled and started the car, mentioning in passing – or pulling away – that it might not be a terribly good idea to leave her hand out the window like that. For the sake of the scenery, I drove out of Amberton towards some of the outlying villages to the north. I asked Caroline a question to which I already knew the answer: Did she know Adrian Mansfield? Yes, she did. She had. Why?
“You know he’s dead?”
“Yes, it was inevitable. He was always talking about it. He believed life was a curse.”
“Did you meet him?” This sounded slightly absurd, as though I were suggesting it might be something of a privilege.
“Yes, once. In the shopping centre. I think it made him rather nervous. When I told him my age, he laughed and said he’d probably be accused of grooming me. I said I hoped he didn’t regret deciding to meet me.”
“How did you communicate before that?” I asked.
“On the internet,” she said. She sounded surprised – perhaps at the stupidity of the question. “You probably already knew that, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“What did you discuss?” Another question to which – at least partially – I knew the answer.
“Lots of things; but the big thing – and his obsession – was death as a life choice. He was always going on about how powerful we’d be as individuals if we could just turn ourselves off – easily and without the risk of pain or injury.”
“Did you agree with him?” I asked.
“Well, yes – that part’s obvious,” she said. “Most people live shit lives. What would we do if we couldn’t get them to go on living them? If they turned themselves off because they didn’t like the shittiness, how would we get the shit stuff done? We’d have to make their lives less shitty – shittiless enough so they wouldn’t turn themselves off. It’s not just humans,” she added. “Imagine two cats: one gets to live its life as a much-loved pampered pet, while the other ends up being poked, prodded and shocked by white-coated freaks in a laboratory. It’s just the luck of the draw – but wouldn’t it be better if the unlucky one could just turn itself off? Because then there wouldn’t be any more unlucky ones.”
I said, “I don’t want to misunderstand you, Caroline, but are you saying that people in unfortunate circumstances should commit suicide?” This was a teensy bit disingenuous, since I was fairly certain that this wasn’t what she – or they – were saying – or, at any rate, intending to say.
“No, I’m not.” Sharply, as though she had heard this argument before and knew where it was going. “It’s not about that. Who’s to say what’s unfortunate anyway? I’m not interested in passing judgement on the quality of someone else’s life – that’s up to them. It’s about me. I don’t want my life limited by the idea that I have to go on living whatever. I don’t want to go to school most days, but I go. I don’t want to wear this uniform, but I wear it. School work bores me, but I do it. Ditto exams. I do it to please my parents and my teachers and to help my school’s Ofsted rating. Last year, the local newspaper came round to celebrate the school’s success. They wanted me to appear in the press photo, but I refused. The school and my parents understood – I was shy about my appearance apparently. I think they call that spin on the news. Imagine how terribly disappointed they’d all be if I switched myself off.”
“That’s not funny, Caroline,” I said. The rain was sheeting down now, and misting. I dropped my speed and pulled into a patch of gravel and grass that passed for a lay-by. An HGV lumbered by, a loose patch of tarpaulin flapping in the wind and rain. I turned off the engine.
“I didn’t say it was,” she said. “My aunt’s an office manager; and part of her job is disciplining staff who turn up late. That’s the word they use: disciplining. It’s just like being at school. You get taken into a room and told off. Not a big deal – unless you do it again. Then you get a more serious talking to, and told if you do it again you’ll be in serious trouble. If you keep doing it, you’ll be dismissed. This happens to adults – grown-ups – routinely. Something to look forward to. I don’t suppose that’s funny either.”
I asked – retreated to – a factual question. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt Adrian?”
“Yes,” she said, laughing. “Everyone who disagreed with him. He said whatever he was thinking, and pissed a lot people off. He thought that the people who wanted to beat him up were just threatened by his ideas. I think it flattered him. Why – did someone kill him?... Oh, don’t look so appalled. For Adrian, it would just have been another way to die. You couldn’t meet Adrian without being convinced that he was very serious about wanting to switch off.”
“Anyone in particular?” For a second, I had the queasy sensation of being out of my depth with a teenager – something to do with her knowing more and caring less about the nature of Adrian’s death.
She was openly amused. “What are you trying to find out, Chief Inspector?”
“Adrian was stabbed by someone,” I told her. “I was wondering who that someone might have been.”
“No-one I know,” she said; and then, drawing a fine distinction: “or no-one I know I know.” She turned away from me and gazed out the half-open window. In so doing, she distanced – or absented – herself from me. So effective was this that I had the disconcerting sensation of being alone in the car. Indeed, I was staring at her profile unselfconsciously – as though she couldn’t possibly be aware of my scrutiny – and imagined I saw adumbrated the young woman she would become. Her ear had been pierced, though she wore no ear-ring – possibly another school rule. When she turned to me at last, she was smiling bleakly. She said, “Oh, please don’t look so worried. I’ll still be here tomorrow. I mean, gee, tomorrow’s my favourite lesson, and we’ve got ice-cream for dinner.”
“Did you like Adrian?” I asked. “He sounds rather an unpleasant young man to me.” I’m sure I must have sounded rather dispirited and disapproving.
“Oh, dear,” she said; “you’re making me feel guilty. I should be full of the joys of life, and here I am, instead, making my elders and betters feel bad. Yes, I liked Adrian. He was stimulating. His sister’s suicide changed his life. It happened out of the blue; there were no signs or warnings. She wasn’t wayward; she didn’t self-mutilate. She was a good student and a dutiful daughter. After her death, Adrian became obsessed with her writings, which he said were amazing. When we met, he told me I reminded him of her, which made me feel a bit uncomfortable but was obviously meant as a compliment. Emma was resigned, he said, not rebellious – because she felt there was no point in rebelling. And it’s true; there isn’t. If you wear the wrong coloured blouse to school, you get sent home. If you keep doing it, you’ll be excluded. So sigh and put on the right coloured blouse. Easy. It’s not about you, after all; it’s about the needs of the community and – what’s the phrase? – equipping young people for the world of work. Well, I don’t want to be equipped for the world of work; if I can possibly manage it, I’d rather not have to work at all. I know you don’t approve, but it’s not a bad message: if life becomes too tiresome, simply end it. You can’t be exploited then.”
I was thinking of Sharon Hall – the ugly little room; the wretched end – and fought a surge of anger. “Do your parents know you think like this?” How absurd I must have sounded: a police officer – a servant of the state – lightly quivering with middle-aged disapproval.
“No, of course not,” she said. She sounded amused. “It would depress them terribly.” She added, presumably in response to my expression: “Oh, I’m afraid you’re paid to be depressed – and you did ask. My parents aren’t that silly.”
There was very little left to say. I thanked her and drove her back to school. As she took her leave, she must have seen some equivocation in me, for she smiled and said, “I think you know I can be trusted not to play hookie.”
I said, “You will let Ms Brampton know you’re back in school?”
“Of course,” she said. “It was nice to have met you.”
I watched her walk back into the school building. It was still raining.