He had just got things back in place when he heard Irma coming up the stairs; he looked around wildly, trying to control his panic. He grabbed a book from the bookshelves and sat down heavily in the room’s only armchair, doing his best to breathe normally.
‘Dieter,’ Irma called out as she came down the corridor and stopped at the bedroom door. Not finding him there, the footsteps restarted, until they reached the doorway of the study, where Irma saw him apparently sitting quietly, engrossed in a chapter of Buddenbrooks, a book he had read at school and not enjoyed.
‘What are you doing?’ Irma demanded as he looked up from his book, trying to stay calm.
‘What does it look like?’ he said with a broad smile, holding the book up.
‘You never read in here,’ she said accusingly.
‘Sometimes I do,’ he said weakly. ‘When you’re out.’
She stared at him for a second, seeming to weigh things up. Then she snorted. ‘Honestly, Dieter, if you want to sit in my study you only have to ask.’ But he could see there was suspicion in her eyes – as if, like him, she had seized on something plausible to say, something at odds with what she was really thinking.
19
Several days later, Liz was sitting with Peggy as rain lashed the windows of her Thames House office. There was a lot to follow up. She had briefed Peggy on her meeting with Mischa and his sudden disappearance; they had heard nothing from him since. In Liz’s absence, a note had come from Geoffrey Fane, relaying a message from Peter Burnside in Brussels about a school in Suffolk named Bartholomew Manor. It seemed that Irma Nimitz may have been in touch with it.
Now Liz was thinking how best to divide the tasks. Peggy said, ‘I’ll be happy to go and look round this school in Suffolk, if you like. We didn’t get much more than its name from the MI6 Station in Brussels, but I’ve done a little research.’
‘Actually, I was thinking you should go to Germany. It would be good for you to get some experience abroad.’
‘Really?’ said Peggy, looking pleased.
‘Yes,’ said Liz firmly. Peggy wouldn’t have any credible reason to visit Bartholomew Manor College, since she was far too young to pose as a prospective parent. Liz reckoned she herself could just about get away with it. ‘I’ll take Suffolk. What have you found out about the place?’
‘Not a lot, frankly. It used to be a private residence, then twenty years ago it was bought by some local people and run as a sixth-form college. It catered mainly to middle-class children who needed A Levels but were struggling in their normal schools.’
‘Like these tutorial colleges in London. Little Jonny mucks up his GCSEs, the independent school wants him out because his A Levels will drag their ratings down, so off he goes for cramming to an expensive sixth-form college.’
‘If you’re saying that the clientele was rich and stupid,’ Peggy said with a smile, ‘you’re probably right. But…’
‘Yes?’
‘Something’s changed. Either the school was bought or the owners changed tack – either way, they’ve got a new Head and a new admissions policy. They are actively recruiting overseas students to come and specialise in IT. It sounds as if they only want the clever ones now – there’s an entrance exam. There’s a prospectus on their website; the fees look exorbitant to me.’
‘Do we know how many foreign pupils they’ve got? The proportion of British to foreign?’
Peggy shook her head. ‘There’s nothing in the prospectus about that.’
Liz thought for a moment. ‘I know somebody who might be able to give us a lead. You remember the Chief Constable of Manchester – Richard Pearson? He’s moved to Suffolk now. I’m going to ring him.’ She reached for the phone on her desk.
Peggy asked, ‘Do you want me to stick around?’
‘No need,’ said Liz. ‘But come back later, will you? You can help me with my cover story for this college.’
Even in busy Manchester he had often answered his own phone, so Liz was not surprised when Chief Constable Pearson picked up at once. ‘Hello. Pearson speaking.’
‘Good morning, Richard. It’s Liz here. Liz Carlyle. I’m sorry to be slow replying to your message. Work has just been frantic recently. How is life in Suffolk?’
‘Hello, Liz,’ he said warmly. ‘How nice to hear your voice. It’s surprisingly busy, actually. It’s not the holiday camp you might imagine. But I’m starting to get used to the odd ways of East Anglia. And I love the countryside, especially the coast.’
‘Where are you based?’ She remembered passing a large, ugly police building somewhere outside Ipswich.
‘For the moment I’m renting a cottage in Bury St Edmunds. I couldn’t find anywhere I wanted to live in Ipswich. What’s the point of coming to a rural area if you’re going to live in a big town? So I’ve set up my office in the police station in Bury. It’s caused a bit of eyebrow-raising but it suits me.’
‘Good,’ said Liz. Pearson was easy-going but always seemed to know his own mind.
He went on, ‘At the moment I’m still finding out about the county so I’m travelling around a lot, visiting the different areas. There’s some lovely coast in this county. How do you fancy coming down some time? I’ve found a first-rate boatyard and I’m thinking of commissioning a small boat.’
Liz smiled to herself at his enthusiasm, remembering that he had told her how he would go out at weekends with his brother-in-law, a commercial fisherman. It had been a sort of escape; he’d take his phone with him, knowing that after a short time he’d be too far from shore to receive any calls. Hearing him talk now, Liz remembered how much she enjoyed his company. She realised that she’d actually wanted to ring him after he’d left his message weeks before; she wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t. But now she was glad to have found a work excuse to get in touch.
Pearson went on: ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? I have to say I was giving up ever hearing from you again.’
‘I’d better warn you it’s business,’ said Liz, and she heard Pearson sigh. ‘Well, only partly,’ she added. ‘Something’s come up in an investigation that seems to connect to a college in your patch. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it. It’s a sixth-form college about ten miles west of Southwold called Bartholomew Manor.’
There was a pause, then Pearson said, ‘Now, that is really interesting. I don’t think it can be a coincidence. This college has crossed our radar here, and just a few days ago. I’d love to know what your interest in it is – if you can tell me.’
‘I will,’ said Liz, ‘but you go first.’
‘I was talking to one of my senior colleagues the other day and he mentioned it. A friend of his wife had gone to look round. Her husband is being posted to the Middle East for a couple of years and they want to leave their sixteen-year-old son in Britain to take his A Levels. So she went to look round a couple of boarding schools – one in Southwold, and Bartholomew Manor College. She found it so strange that she told my colleague about it. She thought the place was positively sinister, and she got the clear impression that they didn’t want her boy there and couldn’t wait to get rid of her. To tell you the truth, she wondered if it had something to do with child exploitation – she mentioned paedophilia. My colleague thought she was being overdramatic. But it certainly sounded odd. Most of these places are only too keen to welcome parents – and their cash.’