‘That’s interesting,’ said Liz. ‘Have you taken it any further?’
‘A little. Our child protection team did a bit of research on the place. Apparently, it was taken over about nine months ago, with the intention of setting it up as an international school – it’s not clear what that means exactly but they have been bringing in their teachers from abroad. We received a tip that some of them may not have any qualifications or have the proper documents to work here. I gather they’re not all EU citizens.’
‘Are you following that up?’
‘We will be, probably through the Home Office and possibly the Department for Education. But we need something a lot more solid first. Now it’s your turn. What’s your interest in the place?’
‘It’s even vaguer than yours, I’m afraid. It’s just that the name of the school came up in an investigation that seems to link in some way to that Illegals case we were both involved in last year – when you were in Manchester.’
‘Don’t tell me the Russians have penetrated rural Suffolk.’ He laughed. ‘Is it anything to do with our air bases?’
‘I doubt it, though it could be anything – or nothing – at this stage. I’m intending to go to the school myself in a few days. I’ll be a prospective parent and see whether my reception is similarly unwelcoming.’
Liz paused, wondering how to suggest that they might meet up as well. I am terribly out of practice, she thought. I can’t even ask a man for coffee.
‘If you’re coming this way, then let’s meet up,’ he said quickly. ‘We could have lunch or dinner, depending on what’s convenient. I’ll look forward to hearing your impressions of the place – and to seeing you, of course. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ said Liz firmly, pleased that he had taken the initiative. She hadn’t learned much more about Bartholomew Manor, but she was very glad she would be seeing Richard Pearson again.
20
‘This is our brand-new IT centre,’ Miss Girling announced. There was unconcealed pride in her voice. Liz could see why, since every other part of Bartholomew Manor College was thoroughly outdated and in need of a complete overhaul. What had once been a charming manor house, built of mellowed brick with a pair of fine Dutch gables, was now a rundown building that bore little resemblance to the photographs that appeared prominently in the school’s prospectus.
It had been a frustrating drive from London. Liz had left late enough in the morning to miss the rush hour and had made it to the M25 in only half an hour. The A12 had been clear, and she had sailed through Essex and circled Ipswich without any delay. But once she had started to follow her GPS through the smaller roads of rural Suffolk, everything slowed down: a tractor creeping along, a traffic light at roadworks that took forever to turn green, and a fork in the road where the GPS said no such fork existed. Inevitably, Liz chose the wrong branch, and five miles later had had to turn around and retrace her route, only to overshoot the small sign at the top of the lane that led to Bartholomew Manor. She thought she had left herself time to spare when she set out that morning, but by the time she turned into the gravel drive of the college and parked next to a smart new blue Mini she was twenty minutes late. Under the archway of the college’s entrance, the woman who turned out to be Miss Girling stood ostentatiously consulting her watch with an impatient look on her face.
Like the manor house itself, Miss Girling was not in her prime. Her hair was grey and thinning, her spectacles were of a little-old-lady sort, and she was dressed in a worn skirt of grey herringbone tweed and a thick woollen cardigan with large wood buttons. She explained to Liz that she was to show her around before her interview with the headmaster.
‘I understand your son is sixteen,’ she said.
‘Yes, George is sixteen,’ replied Liz. ‘And he’s not my son; he’s my stepson.’ She and Peggy had decided this was more plausible than pretending to be the boy’s mother, and it seemed to satisfy Miss Girling, who nodded. ‘Should we also expect a visit from the boy’s natural mother?’ she asked, with just a trace of cattiness.
Liz shook her head. ‘No,’ she said shortly. When Miss Girling seemed to expect more – perhaps an account of a bitter divorce? – Liz said mildly, ‘She died several years ago.’
To Liz’s satisfaction, Miss Girling looked rather embarrassed. ‘I am sorry,’ she said faintly.
Throughout the brief tour that followed, Miss Girling talked non-stop, as if from a memorised text and as though she had given this tour a hundred times before.
‘Where is everyone?’ asked Liz as they walked through the deserted corridors.
‘Term starts late this year,’ explained Miss Girling. ‘They’re all still at home.’
‘Even the foreign students?’
‘Yes. And the students don’t live here at the manor anyway. For those who board we have an accommodation block at a nearby estate.’
For all her chatter, Miss Girling could not disguise the sad state of the college’s classrooms. They contained rows of old-style wooden desks and mismatched chairs. One room was what Miss Girling referred to as ‘our language lab’, a series of wooden tables supporting large, antiquated tape recorders; another was ‘the science hall’, benches with sinks and old Bunsen burners, where clearly no science had been done for years. Miss Girling diligently showed each room to Liz, talking all the while and seemingly unaware of the impression the place was making on Liz. The occasional glimpse of an elegant cornice or a fireplace still with its ornate surround was the only evidence that this had once been a distinguished private house.
‘Now I’ll show you the IT block,’ said Miss Girling as they emerged from a door at the back of the main house. Behind the manor was a line of brick outbuildings on the far side of a courtyard – what had perhaps once been the stables. As they approached them, Liz could see signs that the old buildings had been recently restored.
‘Here we are,’ said Miss Girling, flinging open the door and standing back so Liz could get the full effect. It was totally unexpected. Striplighting suspended from the ceiling cast a pale glow over row upon row of smart new work stations, separated by low wooden dividers. Liz counted thirty places before giving up.
‘How long has this been ready?’ she asked. It all looked barely touched, like a showroom with no customers.
‘Just a few weeks.’
‘Will all the students get to use it?’
Miss Girling shifted uneasily. ‘Not at first. I believe it’s only meant for those taking advanced computing.’
‘Are there many of those?’
The older woman hesitated, then said, ‘I’m not sure. That’s something to discuss with the headmaster.’
‘I was wondering, too, how many of the students here are from abroad. The brochure wasn’t very clear.’
‘They used to be all English children, mainly from local Suffolk and Norfolk families,’ said Miss Girling, sounding slightly wistful.
‘And now?’
Miss Girling puffed out her cheeks, then took a deep breath. She seemed unsettled by the question, and Liz waited for whatever she was about to say. But she just looked at her watch and said, ‘I think it’s time I took you to the Head; he’ll be expecting you.’
21
Miss Girling led Liz back into the main house and into a small anteroom. As they came in a young man stood up from behind a half-sized partner’s desk. He was short, slim and athletic-looking, with close cropped black hair. He wore a black jacket, black jeans and a collarless black T-shirt. The outfit seemed more suitable for a trendy part of London than deepest Suffolk. His face was saturnine and expressionless.