The headmaster wasn’t kidding when he said they were powerful.
‘Gah...’ The Dunk squelched through the main door and stood there, dripping on the flagstones in all his short-and-squishy glory.
‘Serves you right for being a slowcoach.’ She went back to full speed, leaving him struggling to catch up, yet again.
The first floor was less impressive than the ground. Still lined with photos, but it was little more than a wood-panelled corridor with four or five doors leading off from it.
The headmaster’s feet pounded ever upwards.
Second floor had a small landing with a single door: ‘RECORDS R — Z ~ STAFF ONLY’.
Third floor was M to Q; fourth: G to L; and fifth: A to F.
The sound of the Dunk puffing and wheezing echoed up the stone staircase. Sounded as if he’d swallowed a set of leaky bagpipes.
The sixth floor had a much grander landing than the ones below, complete with pot plants and a trio of padded leather armchairs arranged around a coffee table. On a sideboard in the corner, a pair of crystal decanters and matching set of glasses glittered on their silver tray. More photos.
Four doors this time: the lift, one marked ‘BURSAR’, one ‘ASSISTANT HEADMASTER’, and one lying wide open. That would be the headmaster’s, then. Lucy stuck her hands in her pockets and wandered through it, doing her best nonchalant, not-impressed-by-this-in-the-slightest act.
His office wasn’t quite as big as the one Operation Maypole had been given, but it wasn’t that far off it. Only instead of cubicles, whiteboards, and filing cabinets, this one was like a very rich family’s sitting room. It stretched the whole width of the tower: dark, wooden panelling, hung with oil paintings; display cabinets laden with school trophies; matching leather couches and armchairs; spectacular antique Persian carpets in rich tones of gold and burgundy; shelves upon shelves of books; and a huge, ornate wooden desk. The windows weren’t large, but the views out over the surrounding countryside were quite something, even in the drowning rain.
‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’ The headmaster poured himself something from a small crystal decanter.
‘I don’t. But thank you.’
‘Very wise. It’s a terrible habit.’ Then he took a sip, smiled, and lowered himself onto the edge of the desk. ‘But so good for the soul, don’t you think?’
She wandered over to the north-facing windows. Between here and Holburn Forest lay an array of playing fields that put Bellside School for Girls’ to shame, complete with tennis courts, a walled garden, and what looked like a covered swimming pool. Another quadrangle sat behind the main one, separated from the school buildings by a small orchard. That would be the dormitories. Though, going by the rest of the place, you could bet the kids weren’t sleeping in big draughty rooms on rows of hard metal-framed beds. With only thirteen new students a year, the overprivileged little sods probably had their own luxury suites. They must be rattling about in a school this size.
‘Do you think I would’ve liked it here?’
‘Of course you would. We don’t believe in the sackcloth-and-ashes approach to boarding school; we keep numbers low so we can really look after our students. No crowded classrooms and underfunded, under-resourced teaching here: every single young person matters.’ Another sip, followed by a faux-modest tilt of the head. ‘That might be why our alumni are so very generous to us when they find success in their chosen careers.’
Here’s what you could’ve won...
A knock on the doorframe. ‘Headmaster?’
Lucy turned.
The newcomer was mid-thirties — maybe early forties? — with a strong jaw and big brown eyes. One of those floppy haircuts only posh blokes could carry off. Wearing the standard-issue dark-grey suit and burgundy tie, but his academic robe was midnight-blue edged with silver. He strode into the room and cranked his boyish smile up to full beam, bringing with him the antiquated musty scent of sandalwood aftershave. Sticking out his hand. ‘Hello, you must be the Detective Sergeant that Skye was so excited about.’
She ignored the proffered hand. ‘You didn’t see a detective constable on your way up, did you? Only I’ve lost one.’
‘Ah, the sweaty, wheezing chap in the 1950s counter-culture getup? We may have to send a St Bernard to revive him with a tot of brandy.’ The assistant head must’ve realized he was still proffering his hand, because he cleared his throat and used it to brush that floppy fringe out of his eyes instead. Smooth. Then turned to the headmaster. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of collecting Allegra from Organisational Politics; she’s outside.’
‘Excellent, thank you, Argyll. Can you keep DS McVeigh company while she talks to Allegra? Not that we suspect you of ulterior motives, Detective Sergeant, but there are policies and procedures for these sorts of things.’
‘That’s fine. I wasn’t expecting to interview her without a responsible adult present. Policies and procedures.’
‘Policies and procedures.’ He toasted her with his glass, drank, then placed it on a coaster. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a rummage on the third floor. See what I can dig up.’ Rubbing his hands together. ‘Do check in when you’re finished, Detective Sergeant; I’d feel very guilty if you left before I could say goodbye.’ And he was off.
Lucy tilted her head to one side. ‘Argyll. You’re Skye’s older brother.’
‘Much, much older, for my sins. Now, why don’t you get settled in’ — pointing at one of the couches — ‘and I’ll fetch Allegra?’
A huffing, wheezing, sweaty lump lurched into the office. The Dunk. He’d unzipped his soggy leather jacket, bunnet clutched in one hand as he bent double. Back heaving. Face the colour of strawberry ice cream. ‘...stairs... God... stitch...’
Lucy settled into the leather sofa — much more comfortable than the ones at home — pulled out the two printouts they’d been showing round town that morning and placed them on the coffee table.
The Dunk staggered over, collapsing into an armchair, arms dangling, head hanging over the back of the chair, peching and heeching. ‘...dying...’
She placed her phone on the coffee table too, bringing up the voice memo recorder, because given his current state, there was no way the Dunk would be much use on the note-taking front. ‘How did you ever pass the bleep test this year?’
‘...why so... why so many... bleeding... stairs?’
‘Allegra, this is Detective Sergeant McVeigh.’ The assistant headmaster was back, bringing a young girl with him. ‘She needs to ask you a few questions.’
Allegra was dressed in the same school uniform, but her academic gown had the two white epaulettes marking her out as a new girl. Long red hair, pulled back in a shiny ponytail. Freckles standing out against her pale skin. Blue eyes. Pretty, in a conventional kind of way.
Lucy nodded in the direction of the panting sweaty lump in the armchair — which probably wasn’t the best of looks when it came to interviewing little girls. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Fraser.’ Just in case she thought he was as sketchy as he looked.
Allegra skipped over there, as if the Dunk was a lovely puppy, instead of the kind of man Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t let within a hundred feet of their delicate princess. Her voice was soft and saccharine. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ She did a cute kind of curtsey and shook his hand. Sneakily wiping it on the back of her academic robe when he wasn’t looking.