Lucy raised an eyebrow. ‘Sky? They named him after a TV station?’
‘“Skye”, with an “E”. His family own large chunks of it.’ The headmaster turned on his heel, crimson robe swirling out behind him as he set off for the stairs at an impressive clip. ‘Skye’s got an older brother called Argyll, and a sister called Sutherland, for much the same reason. I guess you could say they’re a family that finds a theme and sticks with it.’
The Dunk was already falling behind, but Lucy kept up fine.
‘McVeigh, McVeigh, McVeigh.’ The headmaster’s eyes kept flicking in her direction. ‘Excuse me if I seem nosy, but the name rings a bell.’
Of course it did, because after a year of Sarah Black banging on to any scumbag media outlet who’d listen, why wouldn’t it?
She cleared her throat. ‘There was an... incident last August; it was in all the—’
‘No, I’m sure that’s not it.’ At the bottom of the stairs he marched straight for the door, snatching one of the brollies from the stand on his way past. Snapping it open like a magic trick. ‘McVeigh. I’m sure we had a student here called McVeigh. Any relation?’
‘Don’t think so.’ She grabbed the other umbrella, wrestling it up as she followed him out into the rain. ‘I almost went here, when I finished primary school. Did the aptitude tests, interviews, and exams, then my dad...’ Had another breakdown was probably oversharing a bit. Besides, that was no one’s business but hers, now. ‘Turned out we couldn’t afford the fees after all. Never did the final assessment.’
The headmaster stopped. Put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. If it’s any consolation, we now have a bursary scheme so children from less fortunate backgrounds can attend St Nicholas College.’
Which was both nice to know and insulting all at the same time. Here’s what you could’ve won. If you hadn’t had such a threadbare pauper basket-case for a father.
Then the headmaster was off again, taking one of the paths that branched towards the far back corner, where the vampire-castle bit reared up into the grey skies. Unlike the rest of the quad, the thick square tower had been Frankensteined together with random-shaped dark blocks, and was clearly a lot older than the neat sandstone buildings grafted onto either side of it.
At the end of the path, he shoved open the thick wooden door and held it for Lucy. ‘I shall have to look out your records.’ Throwing in a wink for good measure. ‘See how you fared.’
Not sure she really wanted to find out...
17
The headmaster looked over Lucy’s shoulder, out into the rain. ‘Your friend, the financial revolutionary, he’s not the fastest, is he?’
Difficult to tell if that was a dig at the Dunk’s physical or intellectual speed. Didn’t matter, though, because you didn’t take the piss out of your fellow officers in front of civilians. Even civilians who were right on both counts.
When Lucy turned, the Dunk was still only halfway across the quad, one hand holding that stupid leather bunnet to his head, the other pinching his jacket’s neck shut as he scurried through the rain on those short little legs of his. ‘We probably better wait for him. Unaccompanied adult on school grounds and all that.’
A chuckle broke free, dark and patronizing. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it, Detective Sergeant. When we say our aim is to prepare our young academics for the world, we really mean it. Self-defence is one of the first classes anyone takes when they get here — it teaches discipline and self-control. Besides, you’re police officers. If we can’t trust you, whom can we trust?’
‘You’d be surprised how seldom we hear that.’ She stepped into a large open space, with a stone staircase on one side and a set of lift doors on the other. The whole scene promptly disappeared as her glasses misted up. Giving the lenses a polish revealed that the blurry wallpaper was really hundreds and hundreds of photographs, some black-and-white, some full colour, all head-and-shoulders portraits of middle-aged people wearing the familiar dark-grey suit and school tie. Most of the older photos were white men, but the more modern pics had a fairly even split of men and women from all ethnicities — the pictures squeezed in so tightly that there was barely an inch of wall on show. A big reception desk was manned by someone who seemed to have looked up ‘spinster’ in the dictionary and decided it’d be a good look for her. Poking away at a fancy new computer, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed behind her pointy glasses.
She looked up from the screen and smiled. ‘Headmaster. Mr McCaskill wanted you to know he’s on his way over now.’
‘Thank you, Vanessa. If you’ve got a moment, could you be a star and whip up some...’ He raised an eyebrow at Lucy. ‘It’s tea you police officers drink in all the crime novels, isn’t it? That or whisky.’ Back to Vanessa and her spinster cosplay. ‘Better find some doughnuts too; if we’re going for the cliché we might as well do it properly.’
‘It’s a kind offer, but Detective Constable Fraser and I will be fine.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Striding off towards the stairs.
Lucy followed him. Jerking a thumb at the photos on the way. ‘Ex-teachers?’
‘Oh goodness me, no.’ The headmaster paused, one foot on the bottom step. ‘These are our alumni. As we only accept thirteen new students every year, I think it’s nice to celebrate each and every one of them, don’t you?’
She leaned in and peered over the top of her glasses at the nearest one, so the nameplate was in focus. ‘JEREMY OLDHAM CBE ~ SCOTIA PETROLEUM PRODUCTS, CFO’. Your average puffed-up white bloke with squint teeth and an expensive haircut. Then a proud woman with hard eyes and skin the colour of burnt umber: ‘ADAKU IGWE CFR ~ GOVERNOR OF BAUCHI STATE’. Followed by, ‘PORSCHE FITZROY-SMYTHE OBE ~ BROADCASTER & COLUMNIST’, ‘ZHŌU XIÙYĪNG ~ SHENZHEN FÈNGHUÁNG DĀO TRADING CO. LTD., CHAIRWOMAN’, ‘BARONESS PHILLIPA MCKEEVER QC’...
Lucy straightened up again. ‘Never heard of any of them.’
The headmaster looked slightly pained at that. ‘My dear Detective Sergeant, you are surrounded by captains of industry, political movers-and-shakers, innovators, and leading academics from all across the globe.’ Sweeping an arm out to indicate the vast array of faces beaming out of their individual frames. ‘Entrepreneurs, philanthropists, influential thinkers, the very pinnacle of humanity. We take only the best, we mould them, we equip them for the world and they, in turn, mould the future.’
Bit up himself.
‘If it’s any consolation, I recognize this one.’ She pointed at the portrait of a man who clearly loved himself more than he’d ever love anyone else. Sharp features; hair swept back, greying at the temples; a smug smirk pulling one side of his face up; cold eyes. ‘PAUL RHYNIE ~ H.M. GOVERNMENT, BUSINESS SECRETARY’. Not exactly a success story, given all the scandals getting aired on the news right now. Probably best not to mention that, though.
‘Some of the most powerful people in the country have emerged through our doors.’ A sigh. ‘Which is why it’s such a shame you couldn’t join us. Still, onwards ever upwards.’ Taking the stairs two at a time, all the way to the next floor.
Thanks for rubbing it in.
Lucy took her time, following him at a slow climb. Frowning at all the double-barrelled posh people in their school robes. Industrialists; doctors; lawyers; members of parliament, both Scottish and Westminster; overseas politicians; foreign royalty; editors of right-wing newspapers; editors of left-wing newspapers; the people who owned those newspapers; the heads of massive media corporations...