Pecking Order, page 21
He held it up to his face and brushed it against his lips. 'Want to show me what you use it for?'
His eyes had lowered slightly and, staring at her breasts, he stepped forward to re-close the gap between them.
Clare brought her knee hard up into his groin.
With a breathless 'guh' he doubled over, one hand grabbing the corner of his desk, feather skittering across the surface. She snatched it and ran straight for the door. Once it was open she risked a glance back. Julian was in exactly the same position; his other hand clutched tightly between his legs.
In the corner of the room the CD carried on playing, banjo-tight vocals angrily straining. I guess it's something to do with luck, but I've waited my whole life for just one -
She slammed the door shut behind her.
Eric sat back in the armchair. Waiting in the chancellor's outer office again, this time his mood was altogether different. The rhythm the typist was tapping out on her keyboard seemed upbeat, triumphant almost. He looked at the paintings of previous chancellors crowding the walls around him and met each man's eyes in turn, defiance shining in his own. But then his eyes lighted on a portrait of a portly gentleman, cheeks and nose touched with red. The similarity to Bert was unmistakable and Eric abruptly lowered his eyes, unable to meet the old man's unblinking gaze.
The door behind the secretary opened and the chancellor quietly called out, 'Eric, sorry to keep you waiting. Yet another journalist calling for a quote. Please come in.'
On hearing the door click open Eric had instantly adjusted his expression to a worried one. He rose slowly and walked across the room.
'Some tea please, Lesley,' the chancellor whispered to the secretary. He then addressed Eric in the hushed and sympathetic tones of an undertaker. 'How are you bearing up?' He placed a hand on Eric's upper arm and gently guided him to the chairs on the other side of the room.
'More than anything, I just feel tired,' Eric replied wearily. 'It's such a terrible shock.'
‘Indeed, for us all. Quite the most awful thing. You know, I've been to Pat's place quite a few times for social functions. I've even used the very bathroom they found her ... found her ...' His words trailed off.
The two men sat and the chancellor carried on, 'But, as they say, life must go on and it's our duty ensure the education of our students isn't affected in a negative way by this tragedy. Firstly, I'd like you to take over the running of Patricia's half of the department.'
To hide the relief he felt certain was flooding his face, Eric looked down. 'If you're confident I can step in, then I'd be only too happy to help out.'
'Of course I am, Eric. As the remaining head of department, it's only natural you steer the ship from now on. So, if you're in agreement, I think we'll need to phase out many of the modules Patricia ran on a solo basis. I propose students due to start any of her modules for the next academic year are contacted and asked to select one of yours or one of the remaining courses being run by the other lecturers in the department.'
Eric nodded his agreement.
‘As regards the ESPRC's grant, I've had our lawyers look at the contract. The money was awarded to the Social Studies Department. Nothing in the agreement stipulated that the funding was dependent on Patricia heading up the research. Therefore I think you should oversee that project too. This means you now control the entire departmental budget. I know Patricia mentioned taking on some extra staff to assist in the additional work that will be created by the research project. Again, you have final say on who they will be. I know all this significantly increases your workload, but I believe with your leadership and some hard work over the summer, we can turn this tragedy into a triumph of resilience for the Department of Social Studies, and the University as a whole. Of course if you need me for anything, I can be easily contacted at the dig on Dartmoor.'
Back in his own office, Eric typed out a memo to the entire department informing them of the changes. Then he typed a separate note to Julian asking him to consider becoming deputy head of Patricia's old department and taking on responsibility for the research project. He printed it off, sealed it in an envelope and went through to what was Patricia's domain, eyeing with disapproval the garish posters lining the corridor walls. They wouldn't be up for much longer, he thought.
In Patricia's office, he asked Lisa to give him her file regarding the recruitment of new staff for the research project. Hesitantly Lisa handed over a thin manila folder and Eric walked down the corridor to Julian's room.
He was just placing the envelope and file in Julian's pigeonhole when he heard music coming from the other side of the door. He knocked and, seconds later, the volume was turned down and the door opened.
When Julian saw who it was an unmistakable look of fear washed over his face. 'Yes?' he croaked.
‘Julian, I was just leaving these things in your pigeon hole, but far better if we can speak in person. It's about a change of position for you.'
Julian's arm dropped from the doorframe and, limping slightly, he returned to his chair.
Slightly puzzled by his strange behaviour, Eric closed the door and sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. 'Have you received my internal memo?'
'Yes, I just received it. I don't know whether to congratulate you ... given the circumstances.'
‘Well, you may find deciding on a reaction to what I'm about to say difficult, too.'
Julian considered trying to pre-empt the coming accusation, try and claim Clare had invited herself into his study and was obviously incensed when he rejected her advances.
But before he could say anything Eric continued, 'I'd like you to consider taking over the research project. Of course I'll oversee it as head of department, but I think you are the right person to become deputy head.' Eric had never seen anyone look so lost for words.
After several, stupid blinks the younger man whispered, 'Thank you.'
'Can I take that as a yes?'
‘Yes. I'd be delighted to.'
‘Good. Now, I've got Patricia's file regarding new staff. Given the need to recruit researchers before the next academic year, the first thing you'll need to do is get advertisements into The Guardian's educational supplement.'
He opened the file and saw an A4 sheet with draught wording for an ad. It invited applications for two positions as researchers / assistant lecturers. 'Well, it looks like Patricia has saved you one job,' said Eric, handing the sheet of paper over.
Underneath it he saw, to his surprise, a departmental application form already completed. He took it out and read through Clare's application and CV. A post it note on the front, written by Patricia, read 'Other position to be filled from respondents of job ads or CVs sent in on spec.'
Eric looked at over two dozen CVs from postgraduates at universities and colleges throughout the country. Each one had a covering note requesting that, if any position were to arise in the department, could they be sent an application form immediately.
'What do you make of this?' asked Eric, handing Clare's application to Julian.
He looked over it with one hand under the table lightly cupping his tender testicles. 'With all due respect to Patricia, that's highly unprofessional. And, I think from a Department of Employment perspective, it could be against the law.'
'Yes,' said Eric, remembering Clare's comment about joining a sinking ship. Looking at her CV, he scanned her address, stopping at the telephone number. He handed Julian the rest of the file, keeping Clare's CV back. 'I'll deal with this - so you can get on with the proper procedure for recruiting. Now, if I can leave you with that, I've got some major course restructuring to work out.'
Back in his office he immediately rang Clare's number.
'Hello, Clare here.'
‘Ms Silver, it's Professor Maudsley speaking.'
A pause that lasted just a fraction too long as Clare waved frantically at Zoe to turn the TV down. 'Professor Maudsley. Hello.'
'You won't be aware of this, but with Mrs Du Rey's death, I've been asked to take over the running of her department.'
'Oh,' replied Clare quietly.
He carried on in the same ominous tone. 'Part of my duties entail the overseeing of the research project into the discrepancies in sentences being handed down to battered women who kill their husbands. In that capacity, I've just been looking through a folder Mrs Du Rey had regarding applications for research positions.'
In her flat Clare rolled her eyes at Zoe. Her friend sat frozen on the edge of her seat. The table in front of them was covered with estate agent's listings of properties for rent in the city centre.
‘To be frank, I'm surprised at her unprofessionalism. Apart from going against the spirit of how we like to employ people here in the Social Studies Department, it is also, I suspect, against employment law to award jobs before they have been advertised. I presume that Mrs Du Rey requested that you apply prematurely?'
'Yes,' said Clare.
'Well, I must inform you that you'll need to reapply once the positions are formally advertised in a few days’ time. And you can be assured your application will receive no such favours with me. It will be judged strictly on merit alongside all the others. However, I can say that, comparing your CV to those of numerous postgraduates who have sent in applications speculatively, you fall some way behind your competitors.'
'So you won't give me the position?'
'How can I say that until I've seen all the applications?'
Clare realised he would never admit outright to her that she would be turned down.
Before she could think of any thing to say, Eric announced, 'Now, I have many other matters to attend to. Goodbye.'
Chapter 43
Clare slowly replaced the receiver. 'I don't believe this. Eric's been given the whole department. He saw Pat's file for job applications for the research project. My one's sitting in it before the job's even been advertised. He just told me to forget about getting a position.'
As Zoe began to quickly stick Rizlas together, Clare stared at the feather standing upright in a small earthenware pot on the table. 'You're sure that's a feather from a Rhode Island Red?' she asked.
'Positive,' Zoe replied, unease making her rush her reply. 'My gran used to keep a few in her garden. They’d come from battery farms; they get rid of their birds after a while. You should have seen the state of them when they arrived. Anyway, my favourite was called Clutterbuck. She was a right character. But one day an egg was cracked and some of the white seeped out. Chickens peck at anything shiny. Tin foil, marbles, anything. Clutterbuck pecked at the egg, got a taste for the white and started pecking open any egg that was laid. Gran had to wring her neck. I was gutted.'
'Well, I seriously believe Maudsley was trying to kill Pat.'
'I know, you've told me already,' said Zoe, all her emphasis on the word 'already', as if she didn't want to hear it all again.
Acknowledging her friend's tone, Clare immediately responded. 'Yeah, and you haven't come up with any decent alternative explanations for ...' Clare held up a hand and began counting off points with her fingers. ‘Totally against his beliefs, Eric gets a mobile phone just as this bloke calling himself Rubble starts getting calls from a mysterious man who fits Eric's description perfectly. Two, Eric's been sniffing round factory farms in the area and Rubble lives locally and works on a battery farm. Three, a couple of old people no-one cares about die. The sort of people Eric would know all about from when he was a social worker before becoming a lecturer. At exactly the time of their deaths, Rubble claims he's killed an old man and an old woman. Four, Eric was just about to lose his department to Patricia and now,' the strength suddenly left her voice, 'she's dead.'
Zoe was careful to sound sympathetic, 'OK, OK, all good points, I agree. But you're also saying some ex-soldier and an old biddy have been killed as part of a process intended for Patricia.'
Clare picked up the local paper and thrust it at Zoe. 'This ex-soldier and this old biddy: not made-up people. Real ones, killed as part of some sick euthanasia plan.' She reached over and picked up the feather. 'Now he's in control of the whole department and my chance of a job has just disappeared. I'm giving this to the police.'
Zoe instantly replied, 'You can't. What evidence have you got? One feather - which you say blew out of his office on a draught of air. And some crank caller you only know as Rubble. And who, you think, works on a chicken farm. I admit, Rhode Island Reds are the preferred choice of chicken for battery farms. But, until this bloke calls again, you can't do anything.'
'Shit!’ Clare cursed by way of a reluctant agreement. 'I can't believe this ... this scrap, is all I've got.' She picked up a hardback book she had borrowed from the departmental library and carefully placed the feather between its pages for safekeeping. Getting to her feet, she paced backwards and forwards for a few seconds. ‘I know.’
She tore out the newspaper report on the ex-paratrooper's death. After refolding the paper at page two, she called the number in the panel on the side of the page for the editorial desk. 'Yes, hi. Could I speak to the reporter who wrote a piece in yesterday's paper about an ex-paratrooper, Bert Aldy.'
She was put through to another phone and repeated her request to someone else.
'Oh Bert.' The person replied. 'Chris Lynham covered that one. Why do you want to know?'
‘He served with my dad. I'd like to know when he'll be buried.'
'Hang on I'll ask him, he's over by the water cooler.'
Half a minute later the same voice returned to the line. 'Petersfield Garden of Rest. His ashes are in the plot reserved for council burials.'
'His ashes?' asked Clare.
‘Yeah. Where there's no family to claim the body, it gets cremated there. Just the vicar and someone from the council at the service. Dead sad really, pardon the pun.'
'What about the old lady, Edith Davis?' Clare asked, sounding desperate.
‘You knew her, too?’
‘No – well, kind of.’
'Hang on love, I'll check.'
A heavy rustling sound as a palm closed over the mouthpiece.
Clare was just able to hear a muffled voice saying, 'Chris, the old bint who popped her clogs. What's happened to her? Didn't the daughter go mad after you asked when the was last time she'd seen her mum alive?'
A few moments later the hand was removed and the voice said, 'Her daughter had her cremated the day after she was discovered.' The tone of his voice shifted. 'Something you want to share with me about this, love?'
'No. Thanks for your help,' Clare hung up. 'Shit - they've been cremated already. There's no evidence for the first two murders.'
Looking freaked out, Zoe lit up the joint. After taking several massive drags she offered it to Clare.
'No cheers, I need to keep my head straight. I need to think about this.' She sat back with an exasperated sigh. 'I've got to do something. '
'Yeah,' agreed Zoe. 'But accusing him could land you in some serious shit. And it certainly will guarantee you don't get that job.'
'Zoe, I think we can safely assume my chances are screwed on that one.'
Her friend took another drag and then said, 'What about playing some mind games on Maudsley? Judge if he's guilty that way.'
'What do you mean?' asked Clare.
'Do you know where he lives?'
'Yeah - I had to drop an essay off at his house in my first year.'
'Start posting him chicken stuff. Eggs, feathers. See how he reacts to that. At the very least, it'll do his head in until this Rubble character rings again.'
Finally, Clare smiled.
Chapter 44
It was the best Eric had felt in weeks. A fresh supply of energy coursed through his limbs and, though his thoughts occasionally strayed to the things he'd orchestrated with Rubble, he was finding it easier and easier to push those memories away - especially with all the planning he had to do now he was sole head of department. He imagined that, when the fresh demands of a new term arrived, all recent events would be a dim and distant part of his past.
Humming Aaron Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man, he climbed out of me shower and, standing on a mat lying on the lino floor, briskly rubbed himself dry with a rough towel. Bending over, he worked a corner of the material between his toes, slack scrotum swaying between his legs as he did so. Straightening up, he selected the towel's opposite corner and pushed it into each ear and started making small, circular movements.
Hanging it back over the small radiator, he picked up his shaving brush and soap off the windowsill and turned the sink tap on. He held the brush momentarily under the stream of water then began rotating its end against the soap until he'd worked up a lather. Dipping one finger into the thick foam, he scribed a circle in the misted-up wall mirror, wiping his fingertip over the surface until all traces of the shaving foam had disappeared and a clear view of his face had been created.
Without his glasses on, he had to bring his face close to the mirror in order to see himself clearly. Carefully, he applied the brush to the lower edge of his beard where the stubble had begun to creep down his throat, forming a bridge with the straggling mass of greying hair that sprang up from his groin, coated his torso and congregated under his arms.
Picking up the bic razor, he brought the blade up to below his chin and scraped away the foam, creating a neat edge around his throat. Then he lightly pressed the blade over the upper part of his cheekbones, clearing away the individual hairs that had begun to emerge from the skin there.
Still humming, he removed what little foam was left on him with a musty smelling flannel then tilted his head back and examined his nostrils. Even though he'd trimmed them only a few days before, a few straggling hairs had begun to emerge from each dark crevice, like the tendrils of a creeping plant seeking the light. He snipped them away with the special blunt tipped scissors that sat in the pot alongside his toothbrush. Then he walked naked into his bedroom to dress.
Downstairs in the kitchen he decided against the demands on his attention that listening to Radio Four would require. Instead he tuned the machine to Classic FM, slowly scribing a triangle in the air with one forefinger as the gentle tones of Bach's Concerto in D Minor filled the room.
