Argyll gathered up the fallen pieces of paper. ‘This was none of your business.’
‘You’ve got four floors full of crimes and scandals and corruption and BLOODY MURDER CONFESSIONS!’ She snatched one of the newspaper clippings from his hands — a photo of Roberta Tilford-Smith in all her angular fake-tanned glory, smiling away as she posed with some grim-faced fat bloke, both of them in hard hats and high-vis jackets, beneath the headline ‘DEVELOPERS TEAM UP TO BUILD NEW PANDEMIC QUARANTINE FACILITY’. This one had two gold stars on it. ‘She stabbed a man to death in Bristol, and you’re giving her “good girl” stickers?’
The headmaster turned his back on them. ‘Hello, Shauna? It’s Arnold, from St Nicholas College?... Oh, fine, fine, thank you. How are Gerald and the little ones?... Oh, how lovely.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Argyll snatched the clipping back and shuffled everything into a neat pile. ‘The stars are a merit system based on one ex-student assisting another, and, in this case, the school. There’s no need to pretend you don’t know that’s how the world works.’
‘Listen, Shauna, I’ve got a little favour to ask. Apparently there’s been some sort of a fracas at Detective Sergeant Lucy McVeigh’s home in Ballrochie... That’s right, the old grieve’s house. Would you be a sweetheart and send a team in to tidy up for me?... Oh, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but bodies, blood, incriminating evidence, that sort of thing.’
Lucy blinked. ‘How the world works?’
‘Honestly, Lucy, you sound like a broken parrot.’
‘Yes... Yes... Oh, that does sound helpful, thank you.’ The headmaster turned and peered at Lucy. ‘And I think we’ll need a bit of cleaning at the school as well... Two of them... Sometime in the next half-hour would be best... That’s right; if it’s not too much trouble?... Wonderful.’
‘So, let me guess — you “mould” these children, you “guide” them, and they all get into Oxford and Cambridge, and they become bigwigs in business and politics, and then you own them.’
Argyll grimaced. ‘You make it sound so... exploitative. We help them become their best possible selves and they very kindly look after St Nicholas College, but not because we “own” them; they do it because we’re always here for them. Their parents farm them out to nannies and boarding schools, but we support them. We care.’ He pulled one shoulder up, the smile on his face the same sad one he’d worn in the restaurant. ‘We’re the only family they know.’
‘All right, thank you, Shauna. Give my love to Gerald and the kids... OK... Bye.’
‘You make them kill people before they start here!’
‘We need to know they’re ready!’ Argyll stared at the ceiling for a moment, then tried what he probably thought was a reasonable voice. ‘There are certain traits that indicate whether someone is suited to positions of high power or not; we select the candidates that best align with those traits through rigorous tests and examinations and assessments, and we weed out anyone who isn’t suitable. We’re not asking random children to prove they’ve got the gumption to succeed at that level!’
The headmaster put his phone away. ‘My dear Lucy, remember, you yourself were deemed worthy. If your father had been able to afford the fees, I’m sure you would’ve passed your final exam with flying colours.’ His face softened. ‘All those wasted years “getting better” in psychiatrists’ offices, suppressing everything, when you could have come here and been seen and appreciated for who you really are.’
Argyll stepped closer. ‘You’re one of us.’
Lucy backed away. ‘Who did you kill?’ Waving a hand at the floor-to-ceiling stacks of filing cabinets. ‘It’ll be in here somewhere, won’t it? Your confession and the photos and the incriminating evidence.’
Closer. ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Lucy.’
‘Yeah, but you screwed up, didn’t you? With your little forgery of Benedict Strachan’s essay — oh, whoever you got to do it did a bang-up job, except for one thing: they weren’t left-handed.’
Argyll brought his left hand up, moving it across his body, fingers twitching as if he was writing with an imaginary pen. The wrinkles deepened on his forehead. ‘The letters should’ve been smudged.’
‘That and the ink hadn’t dried properly.’ She flashed up her stained fingertips.
‘You’re right. I should’ve known better.’ He lowered his left hand, the right one disappearing into his academic robe. ‘But sometimes one has to improvise. I’m sorry, Lucy, I really am.’ When the hand reappeared, it was wrapped around the handle of a knife. Not a big, flashy hunting knife, nothing showy or shiny — it was short and brutal, the kind of knife you used to kill people. ‘But I’m afraid you’ve left us no option.’
‘I’ll take that backpack, please.’ The headmaster held out his hand. ‘You have something in there that doesn’t belong to you, and rules are rules.’
Damn.
She slipped the straps from her shoulders.
Argyll spun the knife, so the blade pointed downwards from his clenched fist. ‘St Nicholas College has stood here for over three hundred years. What we’ve built is simply too important to let anyone ruin it.’ He twisted his wrist, till the blade lay back along his forearm. Which meant he actually knew what he was doing. And that was never a good sign. ‘Try not to worry, though, I’ll make it as quick and painless as possib—’
Lucy’s backpack slammed into the side of his head. The cordless drill and other bits and pieces gave it a decent amount of weight. Enough to bounce him off the wall of filing cabinets before he clattered to the marble floor.
The headmaster only had time to open his mouth before she barged past him, knocking the old man flying as she sprinted her way through the almost-maze of stacks and out onto the landing.
The Bloodsmith was waiting for her.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ She hammered past him and down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time as the school’s PA system bing-bonged into life.
Argyll’s voice echoed out from hidden speakers, the words hard and clipped. ‘All pupils and teachers: block every exit from the quad! There are now two intruders loose on school grounds. One of them has just assaulted the headmaster.’
‘You might want to pick up the pace there, Kiddo. He doesn’t sound happy.’
Lucy skidded her way around the first-floor landing and onto the next set of stairs, bouncing off the wall on her way, setting a handful of portraits flying. Clattering down the final flight to the soundtrack of their glass shattering and the frames splintering.
Her trainers squealed on the reception floor as she ran for the main door, shoving through it into the rain. Every window in every building shone with light, but it was still dark out here, the paths and that twisted old oak tree shrouded in the blue-grey gloom of a stormy night.
The Moonfall Gate was closest; all she had to do was get through it before anyone tried to stop her. Easy.
She accelerated, trainers splashing along the path, knees up, elbows out, the backpack swinging from one hand like a big black pendulum.
Almost there...
Then clack, and the whole quadrangle was flooded in bright white light.
Almost there...
It was less than two dozen feet away. This was going to work.
She made the turn into the Gate and—
‘Bastard!’
The thing was packed with children and teachers, standing shoulder to shoulder. Most of them were still in their pyjamas, but a few had made it into their school uniform. Some had armed themselves with hockey sticks or cricket bats, others with hammers or knives.