She parked the car in the parking space next to Hammond 's which was still empty. She wondered where he had gone to and couldn't help feeling sympathy for him. He was a competent teacher – or so the others said, she didn't know much about the academic side of the school – and though he was a strict disciplinarian he was more tolerant in his attitude to the boys than some of the others. The word 'kind' summed him up as well as any other.
She tapped at Brannigan's door and he rose as she came in and drew out a chair for her.
"I'm sorry I was away so long." It was expected of her and had to be said.
"Not at all." He decided not to mention the phone call. "There's no limit on that sort of thing. Did you go into the mortuary with him?"
She found it very hard to speak about. There was a thickening in her throat again. "Yes."
He was aware of her distress and wondered just how bloody-mindedly Fleming had behaved towards her.
"Was it very difficult?"
"You mean distressing – yes."
He accepted the rebuke. There had been some sort of rapport between them. "He didn't mind your being there?"
"At the mortuary? He was scarcely aware of me. Sam Preston introduced me afterwards. I told him I'd drive him anywhere he wanted to go."
"And he agreed to that?"
"He hadn't a car of his own."
He wished she would be more forthcoming. He didn't want the interview to sound like an inquisition. "And where did he want to go?"
"Just driving around. We went up on the coast road. He wanted time to be quiet."
"Did he talk to you about David – about the school?"
"He had just seen David. He was very shaken and upset.' I had nursed David through mumps. I was – fond – of him. He sensed that. It helped."
"I see," Brannigan relaxed slightly. Jenny had been a wise choice. He tried to sum it up, "He accepted that you were well disposed to David and he therefore accepted you – would that be the situation?"
"Yes."
"So he was able to talk to you without rancour?"
"Yes."
"To what extent does he blame the school?"
Jenny said sharply, "I wasn't on reconnaissance in enemy lines, Mr. Brannigan. I'm sorry. I don't know."
Brannigan understood her distress and quenched his own flare of annoyance. She was young. She had been exposed to an emotional barrage. He would find out soon enough from Fleming how much he blamed the school.
Fleming's taxi drew up at the school house a few minutes before six. Brannigan came out to meet him as he paid off the driver.
"Did you get fixed up at The Lantern – or didn't it come up to your expectations? You're welcome to stay here with us as long as you wish."
"Thank you, but The Lantern is perfectly adequate." He had returned there after leaving Jenny. A reporter had waylaid him in the hall and he had given him short shrift. He might have a story for the paper later, he had told him brusquely, but until he had all the facts he had nothing to say.
The polite preliminaries over, Brannigan asked him if he would like to come into the school house for a drink, or would he prefer to go over to his study in the main building.
"Your study. This is not a social call."
"But I can persuade you to stay for dinner? My wife will be most disappointed if you don't."
"I'm sorry. No."
Brannigan imagined Alison's sigh of relief. So the gloves were still off. At least he would keep his own on as long as possible. There was nothing to be gained by belligerence.
The walk to the main building was past the playing fields and the tennis courts. Four of the senior boys were having a game on the court near the shrubbery and a couple of the younger boys were acting as ball boys.
Brannigan went over to the wire netting enclosure and called one of the older boys to him. "Have Eldridge and Macey permission to be out of prep?"
Lambton rubbed a sweaty hand across his forehead. "Yes, sir. They finished early, sir."
"And they're doing this voluntarily?"
"Oh yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Brannigan snapped, "It seems a singular waste of their time. It would be far more useful if you gave them some coaching in the game. But I suppose you intend to do that anyway." It was a command.
"Yes, sir. As soon as we've finished this set, sir."
"Which will be soon, I hope?"
"After two games, sir."
Brannigan turned back to Fleming. At any other time he doubted if he would have interfered. He felt very much on the defensive and a slow anger burned in him. He had run this school for a number of years and he believed he had run it well. If the economic recession was killing it, then he was not to blame. Neither was he to blame for the death of this man's son. If Fleming was determined to pin the guilt on him, he was not going to stand quietly to attention and let him get on with it. Last night on the drive back from Heathrow to the school he had been strongly aware of Fleming's pain and had tried to give him what support he could, but Fleming's wall of animosity had separated them and grown higher as the night wore on.
He said, "I phoned The Lantern this morning – about the time I expected you to have returned from the mortuary. I wanted to express my sympathy."
"Thank you." It was cold.
"I was told there was a reporter there."
"I got rid of him."
"I'm sorry he bothered you."
"He didn't. I told him there was no story until I had my facts. That's why I'm here now."
Brannigan took him through the main hall and into his study. The room, despite its red carpet and curtains, looked austere and felt cold. There were photographs of each school year since nineteen-fifty-seven on the walls. The fact that the school numbers had shrunk considerably was apparent by the size of the frames.
Brannigan took the chair behind the desk, hesitated and then got up again and went to sit on one of the leather chairs by the empty fireplace. He indicated the other leather chair facing him.
"Before we start, is there anything I can get you to drink Scotch, perhaps?"
"No, thank you." It was enemy territory again.
Brannigan decided to take the initiative. "I've made, and naturally will, continue to make, every allowance for your distress, but I'm quite sure that the school is blameless. If you think differently now is the time to thrash the matter out. Ask me any questions you like. I'll answer you honestly and help in any way I can to put your mind at rest."
Fleming said crisply, "I have a lot of questions to ask you, but first of all I want to see David's work. You've kept his exercise books, I suppose?"
Brannigan let his astonishment show. In the present circumstances it was the last request he would have expected "Yes, of course I have all his books."-The boy's clothe; and possessions were packed in his school trunk, but the contents of his desk had been put in a large cardboard folder and locked in the safe. He went to fetch the folder and took it over to his desk. "I suggest you sit over here if you want to go through them."
Fleming took the folder and opened it slowly. The school exercise books, were green with the crest stamped on the cover. Under the crest of the first book he removed was neatly written in David's small rather angular writing David John Fleming, Hammond 's House, Class 4A History He opened it, but made no attempt to read what he saw. This was David alive, not David dead in the mortuary. Hi-hand on the written page was touching David's warm grubby, impatient hand. David John Fleming – not just a name, but David's voice naming his name. A lively voice with some of Ruth's north country accent in it. He had a strong memory of David's arms around his neck as they had embraced in the car before he had left him at the station to catch the school train. A private embrace before the public handshake on the platform. Very reserved in company, very British stiff upper lip. A quiet "Good-bye, kiddo, I'll be thinking of you." An equally quiet "Telepathic message at nine o'clock spot on saying good night. Okay?"