Blood Notes, page 11
‘How do you know I’ve found anything out?’
‘Oh, come on, of course you have. You can’t help yourself.’
Steph told him about her conversations with Jake, omitting the one about the porn photo. After all, she comforted herself, when she let Jake off she had no idea that she’d be back working for the police again, even as this strange creature called a civilian detective. She told Hale about the rumours going around college and Margaret’s weird accusations. She was surprised, yet pleased, that she could summarise all the gossip succinctly and she’d not lost her touch.
Hale, as ever, was encouraging and positive. It was as if she’d given him golden nuggets in his search for the truth. But then he frowned and ran his fingers through his dark hair – still no sign of baldness – a movement she associated with his frustration when he was getting nowhere fast. She grinned as he unfolded one of his A3 trademark mind-maps, full of spidery writing with complex arrows between the boxes.
‘Now your Jake—’
‘He’s not my Jake—’
‘I assumed he’s another of your needy young men – you do seem to collect them! Anyway, from what you say, Jake claims he didn’t see Justine again after eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, when he left her to go home to look after his sister. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, either he’s lying, and they shared the red wine and the Chinese – incidentally we’re checking CCTV footage outside the two local Chinese takeaways – or someone else was there. Now who could that be? Looking at my map of her relationships, it could be...’ Hale smoothed the mind map on his knees and traced his finger along the lines from the central box. ‘Who could have known that Justine was alone? Margaret? She could have visited to comfort Justine after the concert, but why would she kill her?’
‘She wouldn’t – Margaret had got what she wanted. After the row at the concert, Justine was back with her until she left for music college. Justine was a weapon she could use against Harriet. She wouldn’t kill her; she was too valuable.’
‘That makes sense. Harriet? She was furious with Justine for the sabotage at the concert – do we know who was responsible, by the way?’
‘Peter had arranged to see all those involved, but then we found Justine.’
‘Perhaps it’s something you could find out from your end?’ He paused and looked across at her, sipping her glass of water. Silence. ‘Would you like some paper and a pen, or do you have a notebook handy?’
‘Sorry. Yes, I have one over here.’
Embarrassed, she leaped up and dashed to her desk by the French windows. She knew she didn’t have a notebook but didn’t want to admit it. But then, she hadn’t known that she’d be needing one.
Sifting through the piles of paper she planned to ‘sort’, she grabbed an address book with a William Morris design on the cover. Turning the spine towards Hale, she hoped he wouldn’t notice the graduated edge with letters on each step. She opened it at the letter ‘i’, knowing it was a blank page, and hoping they wouldn’t need to get to ‘j’.
‘Sorry.’ She resumed her seat. ‘Let me re-cap. I’ll explore who caused the disruption at the concert.’
Steph jotted notes. She was aware that her tone had changed to that of the briefing room. Sharp, factual, business-like. She was sad at the loss of the lighter, chattier side with Hale; it had become a professional conversation and most definitely nothing more.
‘Moving on then.’ His finger re-traced the path on his map. ‘Where were we? Harriet? Justine had humiliated her. She’s a proud woman and, from what you say, holds grudges. She could have visited, ostensibly to effect a reconciliation, but in fact intending to remove this annoying barrier to her future with Edmund, her new protégé. Then there’s the fanciful version that Margaret’s given you via Caroline. Justine was threatening Harriet, so she might have had a motive.’
‘So, Harriet’s the prime suspect? Unless there’s someone outside college we don’t know about yet?’
‘Someone we don’t know about,’ Hale repeated. ‘Hang on! Didn’t you say earlier that Harriet was having an affair with someone in college?’
‘David Stoppard – the new Head of English.’
‘Perhaps Margaret’s right.’ Hale wrote a note in the top corner. ‘Maybe Justine, to get revenge, threatened to tell Mr Harriet about Harriet’s affair, so Stoppard gets rid of her before she opens her mouth?’
‘You’re right. Sorry. Just remembered, I overheard Justine hinting at that in her row with Harriet before the concert.’
‘Harriet and Stoppard then?’ said Hale.
‘What about Edmund?’ Steph got up to get another glass of water. Hale held out his empty glass to her. ‘We know he visited on Saturday with a bottle of wine, which Jake and Justine drank. He could have returned on Sunday night with another.’
‘Why would he want to kill her?’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t cope with being rejected by her?’ She handed the glass to Hale.
‘You’re right. We mustn’t overlook Edmund.’ Hale added a box for Edmund on his mind map. ‘But he’s only been in the college a few days.’
‘So had I, but you checked up on me.’
Hale laughed ‘Fair point! Both Edmund and his mother – Imogen Fitzgerald, isn’t it? – are ambitious, but they’ve already got what they want – star billing. You’re right, we should add them.’ Hale drew a second box on his map.
Hale looked down at his diagram. ‘Yes. I’ll see all of them. In the meantime, will you go through the college emails to check Justine’s, Jake’s and Harriet’s accounts – in fact any of the teachers involved? I have Justine’s phone and I’ll get the tech guys to apply for a production order so we’ll have access to her texts and messaging.’
‘Fine.’ Steph jotted down a list of actions.
‘Here’s Justine’s diary – see if you can find anything.’ Hale handed Steph a maroon leather journal, with a leather clasp secured by a little gilt lock and key. Steph placed it gently on the table beside her, aware of the potential secrets hidden in its pages.
‘Was the key in it?’ she asked.
‘Yes. You’d expect her to have hidden it somewhere?’
‘Perhaps she trusted her parents so didn’t need to lock it away from them.’
‘Look at the time! Same time tomorrow if that’s OK?’ He got up, put the papers in his bag and opened the door.
‘Perfect. See you tomorrow.’ She shut the door and stood with her back against it. She felt so alone. So very alone. It had been good to have male company, even if it was about business. How life had moved on. Now both she and Hale were single. A widow and a divorcé.
Mike, her husband, had been Hale’s boss. They’d got on well and enjoyed Friday night curries. She felt a flash of anger that Mike could no longer share such moments with her. Why did it have to happen? She knew why. She should stop asking. Too many fourteen-hour days, too much booze, too much junk food, too much stress – a heart attack waiting to happen. He didn’t have to wait long. It was Hale who’d found Mike, folded over his desk. He’d died working.
She’d tried to go on alone – filled her diary, pretended she was fine, and then she’d hit the wall. Now she was, as they say, ‘getting there’.
Yes. It was good to see Hale again. Very good. She opened the fridge to find a ‘Gourmet Meal for One’. They all tasted the same but filled a gap and were quick. Derek stood by the dog cupboard looking up; hope glinted in his eyes.
‘No chance, sunshine. You’ve already had your supper. Now I’ve got work to do.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Steph
Dear Justine,
I am so furious with you I can hardly write this email. How dare you ruin my concert? After all I’ve done for you. You should be ashamed of yourself, behaving like a spoilt child having a tantrum. You ruined a precious moment for me, sabotaging my concert, all because of your childish jealousy.
After tonight, there is no way I can help you or even support your application to the Royal College. Musicians need thick skins, resilience, the ability to take knocks and to get on with it. Tonight, you showed me you have none of those qualities. I am no longer prepared to coach you or to spend my free time helping you to improve.
Please don’t bother coming to apologise – I will not accept it. Margaret Durrant will take over your performance coaching from now onwards. You will continue to attend my A Level classes but as one of the music group. You will get no additional help. I want nothing further to do with you.
Harriet Weston
Shaken by this vindictive and unprofessional email, Steph closed her eyes to concentrate on the implications of what she’d just read. She was interrupted by the phone. ‘Good morning, Oakwood College.’
The silence was shifted by some heavy breathing, then his voice. ‘OK Steph? Keep an eye out for me. I’ll be round to see you soon.’ The phone went dead. She held onto the desk to keep her balance; she felt sick and faint. She tried breathing in slowly, but her panic blocked her throat and she caught little gulps of air.
‘Are you all right, Steph?’ A gaggle of students peered at her as she forced herself to relax enough to slow her breathing to almost normal.
‘I’m fine. Must be hot in here this morning.’
Re-assured, Zoe, a music student, was the spokesperson for the group. ‘Please Steph, could you make us an appointment with Mr Bryant? We want to ask him about singing at Justine’s funeral.’
‘What a lovely idea. He’s free at one fifteen. That’s Zoe, Denise and…?’
‘Saffron Blake. I’m in Justine’s music class with the others.’
‘I remember you now – I saw you playing the saxophone at the concert.’
‘Thank you. See you later.’ The girls trooped off towards Justine’s shrine. Steph hoped they were going to lessons too. The atmosphere in the college had remained subdued – the volume still turned down, the brightly coloured hoodies and tee shirts at the start of the term replaced by uniform greys and blacks.
Steph stared at the clouds scudding across the pale blue sky. Placing her hands firmly on the desk she counted to seven as she did her breathe in, hold it, then breathe out routine for a few minutes until she felt her pulse slow and her brain return. Carter was invading every corner of her life. How was she going to get rid of him?
At last she felt calm enough to return to the appalling email. It was outrageous that a tutor should write to a student in this way – unprofessional and really nasty. No wonder the poor girl was distraught when she’d received it.
She continued her search through Justine’s home email. Her college account had been unremarkable – appointments for tutorials, rehearsals and deadlines for essays – but her home email was crammed with messages from Harriet. They commented on Justine’s looks, advised her on clothes to wear for concerts and gave her technical tips on violin playing.
It felt as if Harriet had been running Justine’s life for the last year. From the emails, Steph pieced together her life. She had regular coaching at Harriet’s Southwold beach house at weekends and occasionally even stayed the night there. Steph wondered what Justine’s parents thought about this relationship. But then, Harriet was promising she could get Justine to the top. Many parents pay for additional tutoring, while this had come free.
Could Harriet have been having an affair with Justine, as Margaret suspected? It was a close relationship, with Harriet the dominant, controlling figure, but Steph found little evidence of a more intimate partnership. Justine must have been flattered to have a woman who was a tutor and twelve years older taking such an intimate interest in her life.
There was a crash as the corridor door was flung open and its handle smashed into the wall. Steph’s head jerked up to see what the emergency was. A student dashed towards her.
‘There’s been an accident!’ Grace, breathless and panting, threw herself at the reception desk. ‘Please, we need help!’
‘Where? Do we need an ambulance?’
‘In the drama studio. No – I don’t think so – no, I don’t know – you’d better come and see!’
Steph called out to Jane to cover reception, grabbed the first aid kit from beneath her desk and ran off with Grace to the drama studio. Steph was the ‘designated first aider’ and she’d taken the training course in August to prepare for the role.
The drama studio was at the far end of the campus, beyond the music centre. They ran across Main Quad, through the foyer, then into the studio. It had no windows, there was retractable seating on four sides, and spotlights threw three pools of light onto the dull black floor. A scaffold tower stood beside a body to the left of the central pool of light.
Steph dashed towards the heap on the floor. ‘You haven’t moved him?’
She knelt beside the boy, who was lying on his side. It was Edmund. His eyes were open. He gave her a faint smile.
‘I fell. I’m fine – I think. A little dizzy and my leg hurts. They told me to lie here until you came.’
The drama teacher, Sam Griffiths, hovered around Edmund like a buzzy fly. It was his first teaching post and he looked terrified. Whatever had happened here, he would be held responsible. Three girls, who had been standing over Edmund, stepped back to re-assure Sam. A group of tall male students, who looked more like rugby players than sensitive actors, hung around behind the scaffold tower.
‘Did you lose consciousness?’
‘No.’
‘Do you feel any pain anywhere?’
‘Not now. My knee’s badly grazed – it’s bleeding, you can see through that big rip in my trousers. No broken bones.’
‘Let’s make sure first, eh?’
Happy that Edmund was in one piece, she moved him so he could sit up and lean against the tower. Sam jumped forward and applied the brakes so it was secure.
‘You’re right, Edmund, it’s just your knee. You’ve been lucky. We’ll go to the medical room to get it cleaned up. You can walk all right?’
‘I think so.’
Alone with Edmund in the medical room, Steph cleaned the wound on his knee, applied butterfly plasters, then taped a dressing over it. His knee poked through the enormous hole in his trousers. No way could he go back to his mother like that.
‘Your knee will stiffen up later and I expect you’ll have a massive bruise there. How did you do it?’
‘We were acting. I was on top of the tower then, somehow, I fell off. It was an accident. They were a violent mob trying to de-throne a tyrant.’
‘Yes, but you’re supposed to pretend – that’s what acting is. You’re lucky you didn’t do yourself some real damage. Now, if you like, I’ll mend that tear in your trousers.’ She handed him a pair of tracksuit bottoms. ‘Put these on while I fetch the sewing kit.’
Steph frowned as she walked back to reception and reflected that Edmund appeared to be having a grim time. Kids could be so cruel. They’d decided that Edmund was different – not in their tribe – and he didn’t help himself by dressing like their dads.
By the time she returned with the sewing box, Edmund was sitting on the bed in his newly acquired tracksuit bottoms. They really didn’t suit him!
‘Right – now drink this. Give me your trousers and I’ll sew up that hole.’
‘Thank you so much.’
Steph sat on the red plastic chair beside the bed and started sewing. First aid was fine, but sewing was not one of her greatest skills.
‘You’ve been having a tough time of it. First that photo, now this. You must wonder why you ever joined us.’
‘I came because of Harriet Weston. She’s an exceptional teacher. Whenever her students appear at competitions, they’re always way ahead in style and technique. Her students have – I don’t know – a sparkle the others don’t.’
Edmund had recovered quickly, and the putty shade on his face was being replaced by a more human colour. He no longer looked as if he might faint.
‘Do you find it difficult being here after being home schooled?’
‘No. Not really. I’ve read more, so it’s fine in lessons. They’re better at using computers and smart phones. I’m no good at that; we don’t have them. But that’s about all.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I realise now that Mother was an excellent teacher. I’m not behind at all. In fact, in some things, I’m way ahead.’
‘But didn’t you miss spending time with children your own age?’
‘I met them at music competitions. Actually,’ he lowered his voice as if afraid of being overheard, ‘I sometimes think they can be a little silly. They waste a lot of time when they could do something more constructive.’
Steph thought of the students she’d met. Bright, lively kids most of them, bursting with curiosity. They experimented with life as they should at that age, but most of them had fun and emerged unscathed.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, they spend hours playing computer games, sending each other prurient messages on their phones and watching videos of cats that look like Hitler. I’d rather be working for my next music exam or concert – so much more worthwhile.’
‘I see.’
No wonder he was being bullied. He was so different and appeared to be proud to be so.
‘Sometimes though, I think I’d like to go to a party, just to see what it’s like.’
At last, a hint of rebellion, of wanting to have fun. The final stitch in place, Steph cut the thread and handed the trousers back to Edmund. ‘Now, are you able to go back to lessons or shall I phone your mother and ask her to come and collect you?’
‘No, please don’t phone Mother. I’ll go back to the music centre for my practice session. Thank you for helping me.’
With that he pulled down his tracksuit bottoms and stood in front of her in his boxers. Taken aback, she held up her hand. ‘Hang on, Edmund! Just leave them on the bed. I’ll pick them up later.’
