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‘Well, well, well.’ Clive practically drools as Kiera slams the door behind her. ‘Full marks for staff engagement . . .’

I cannot believe I’ve been so stupid. I try to gather my clothing and my dignity as he sits watching me from my desk.

‘Look, Clive,’ I start, in the vain hope that a little reason might make this go away, ‘I appreciate that this is an unfortunate situation, but I just want to assure you—’

‘Oh, spare me.’ He practically yawns. ‘Whatever sins of the flesh you and that adulterous little hussy get up to behind closed doors are no concern of mine. We’re all adults here.’

I breathe a silent sigh of relief, while wanting to lay him out for talking about Kiera like that.

‘Glad to hear it,’ I say, ‘but I am sorry – that was unprofessional. It won’t happen again.’

He fixes me with a narrow stare. ‘Yes, it will,’ he says plainly.

‘It really won’t,’ I insist. ‘We both got carried away and this is our place of work and—’

‘Yes. It will,’ he proclaims. ‘After all, it’s happened before.’

My chest tightens.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask him.

He leans in over the desk. ‘You know perfectly well what that means,’ he whispers. ‘I know all about your . . . indiscretion last year. Did you know she’s here tonight? I would have been less surprised to see you two having an . . . appraisal.’

Fuck. Double fuck. Double, triple fuck, fuck, fuck . . .

A penny the size of Penzance finally drops.

‘It’s you,’ I tell him. ‘You’re the one sending me the messages. You’re the blackmailer.’

‘And you’re fortunate I am,’ he says, not even bothering with the slightest hint of denial. ‘I honestly thought my demands were rather reasonable. Far cheaper than losing your entire career.’

‘That’s my private business,’ I remind him. ‘What I did was foolish. Nothing worse.’

‘Oh, I doubt our governors would agree,’ he says. ‘And, given that you’ve sent me twenty thousand pounds over recent weeks, I don’t think you really do either. Your wife certainly seemed to take a pretty dim view. And Claudia was positively outraged . . .’

Fuck. She told him. There is nothing to be said. He’s right. And he knows it.

He leans back in his chair and presses his finger pads together in an arch.

‘Claudia clearly rated you,’ he continues. ‘After all, she went to no small measures and expense to ensure you could remain here – a substantial pay-off, a watertight NDA . . . I always wondered why you turned down the job at Shottsford House, but now I know – Claudia bought you. She did so like to own people. And you were hers. You would have had to do whatever she wanted. For life. Her death must have been frightfully convenient for you . . .’

There’s little point in denying it. So I don’t.

‘But now, Headmaster, I own you. And I’ll be needing you to take care of a little something for me.’

‘What do you want?’ I ask darkly.

‘As you may be aware, prior to my appointment here, I worked in the city – I was an investment banker,’ he says. ‘An incredibly good one, in fact – made a great deal of money, although the thrill of the chase wore off after a while.’ His eyes twinkle. ‘You know a little of that.’

I say nothing in the hope it moves this along. I need to find Kiera. I need to make sure she’s okay.

And I really need to make sure she hasn’t said anything to anyone.

‘And so I moved down here into my big house and took this job to fill my days,’ he continues. ‘But once a money man, always a money man – and when I arrived here, I saw an . . . opportunity to utilise my skills again.’

I don’t think I want to know where this is going. And yet I absolutely have to.

‘Schools turn over vast sums of money – millions every year,’ he explains unnecessarily. ‘That kind of seed capital is very hard to come by. As soon as I saw the books, I knew I could put it to much better use.’

‘Better use for who?’

He leers.

‘For me. And it’s “for whom”.’

It’s been a while since I gave a man a good kicking. But this guy . . .

‘And so I began . . . rearranging . . . school funds into a savings account. I could use the funds for my own purposes, then recredit the school with the original amount plus interest before the year’s end. It was a win-win situation. The school made money too.’

‘Just not as much as you.’

He shrugs with a horrible smile.

‘Well, I was doing all the hard work,’ he says. ‘But, like I say, Claudia was a meticulous woman—’

‘And she found out,’ I say, putting the pieces together. ‘She was blackmailing you.’

A laugh emits from his nose, until it takes over his whole spindly body.

‘Blackmailing me? Claudia?’ he laughs. ‘Good Lord, no. Claudia didn’t want to punish me! She wanted in on the deals!’

FFS.

Of course she did, the miserly bitch.

‘It was wonderful – with her on board, it was so much easier to move the money around!’ he says gleefully. ‘You should never invest your own money – but we were on to such a sure thing that I started taking capital from my home, as did she. We put all the money into a joint account so we could each take it out without incurring tax or suspicion. Before she died, there was over a million pounds in it! We were going to be rich!’

‘So what happened?’ I asked.

His face goes dark.

‘The night of her death, Claudia called me into her office and told me that she had withdrawn all the funds. In cash,’ he growls. ‘She never trusted banks – she was an under-the-bed kind of a girl. “There’s no honour among thieves,” she told me without a hint of apology. She’d taken all of the money. Including what we’d borrowed from the school, leaving me twenty thousand pounds out of pocket with a fifty-thousand-pound hole in the books.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘What could I do?’ he says.

‘You could kill her,’ I point out, clutching at one of my few straws.

He grins at me.

‘We both know I didn’t do that,’ he says. ‘But Claudia knew I couldn’t report her anywhere – I’d only implicate myself. She saw it as just desserts for my sins and in that regard, at least, she was right.’

I shake my head. This place . . .

‘Why are you telling me this?’ I ask. ‘You know that Ofsted are going to be crawling all over our accounts at some point – how on Earth are we going to explain that kind of shortfall?’

He smiles horribly.

‘We’re not going to have to,’ he says. ‘Because you’re going to fill it.’

I’m taking a sip of water and I nearly choke.

‘How?’ I say. ‘How the fuck do you think I’m going to find fifty grand? I’ve given you everything I have!’

‘Well, the good news is that as of this evening,’ he leers, ‘that has ceased to be my problem.’

We both know what he’s saying. He’s holding two smoking guns. I can at least try to disarm one.

‘There’s no law against having a relationship with a colleague,’ I attempt.

‘I don’t think her husband’s going to care about the legal implications, do you?’ he retorts. ‘I can’t think you want to put your little Jezebel in that position? And, even if you do, there’s still the . . . other matter. Perhaps I should go out there now and have a word with her . . .’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

‘There’s no law against that either,’ I point out.

He spits an unpleasant laugh.

‘Do you think that’s how everyone here will see it?’ he sneers. ‘Or any future employer? You might not face the Courts of Justice. But the Court of Public Opinion would condemn you in a heartbeat. And, like you said, it’s a terribly good motive for murder . . . which reminds me, however did that bottle of nut oil get inside that statue? It was in your office that night, was it not?’

He grins triumphantly at me. But I have one card to play.

‘You’re right – they’re still investigating Stitchwell’s death,’ I say, ‘and if you throw me under the bus, pal, you’re coming with me.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ he laughs.

I stand up. I’m a big bugger and I don’t like to throw my weight around, but I’ll make an exception for this wee prick.

‘Aye,’ I say. ‘I am.’

He stops laughing. Good.

‘I’m glad we’ve reached a mutual understanding,’ he says as he stands to leave. ‘If you need me, I’ll be in my office. I take it all back. Quiz Night is providing all manner of answers . . .’

I stay there, stone-faced, until he leaves. The door shuts, my bravado collapses . . . And I punch the wall.

‘FUCK!’ I roar, not caring for a moment who can hear me. How could I have let this happen? How could I have been so stupid? How could I—

A knock at the door stops my ravings. I rush over to open it. Kiera must have come back and . . .

‘Mr Andrews?’ says the visitor.

‘Hattie?’ I say, confused to see her. ‘Er . . . how may I help you?’

‘May I come in?’ she asks, barging past me. ‘It’s a bit delicate, see.’

Oh Christ. I’m too late. Kiera’s told her – I know they’re close . . .

She sits down uninvited.

‘Now I’m not one for tittle tattle,’ says one of the bigger gossips in Flatford, nay, the planet. ‘But when I see something that just ain’t right, I need to speak up.’

‘Okay,’ I say nervously.

‘Cos it’s not on, not in a place like this what God’s watching over,’ she continues. ‘And I know you ain’t gonna wanna hear it, but I’m gonna say it no mind.’

‘I see.’ I brace myself.

She lets out a deep huff.

‘That Andy’s a rotten, dirty thief.’

It takes me a moment to untangle her actual words from my predicted ones.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I know – everyone thinks the sun shines outta his bumhole,’ she says, crossing her arms. ‘But I’ve had my suspicions for a while and now I’m sure. There’s stuff’s been going missing from the kiddie’s lunchboxes . . .’

Oh, thank Christ. A simple criminal allegation against one of my staff. This I can handle.

‘A few parents have spoken to me about this,’ I start, trying to calm my heart and breathe, ‘but there’s no actual proof, Hattie . . .’

‘But tonight I’ve been working that bar with him,’ she says, ‘and he’s been pocketing tenners all night.’

Relieved as I am we’re having this particular conversation, I could really do without this right now.

‘That’s a very serious accusation, Hattie – are you sure?’

‘Does the pope shit in the woods?’

Oh Christ. I don’t have the energy for this . . .

‘I’ll talk to him on Monday – he has a right to put his side of the story across . . .’

‘Well, that’s just brilliant, innit?’ she says. ‘Give him time to nick all the PTA money and do a bunk with it! How are you going to prove it then, you great melon . . . ?’

‘Hattie, I—’

‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘You need to catch him red-handed. With his hand in the cookie jar. You need to confront him now. Tonight.’

I rub my sore knuckles. Andy seems like a decent guy to me. I don’t want to embarrass him. This smacks to me of middle-class prejudice. Lord knows I’ve seen that in action before . . . But, then again, if he is the honest bloke I think he is, it might just make it all go away . . .

‘Fine,’ I say, standing up. ‘Let’s get this sorted once and for all.’

I open the door for her and we head down the corridor. The quiz is in full swing when we reach the hall – Hattie’s punch has been doing its worst and many of the parents are absolutely rat-arsed. I look around the quizzers and my heart thumps.

Clive’s right.

She’s here.

I look away before I can meet her eyes. She’s done enough damage already.

I take a breath and steel myself for the next shit shower. Andy’s behind the bar chucking bottles around like a pro – how is a guy this talented in so many things living rough? This is going to be hideous. But this is the job.

I tap him on the shoulder.

‘Andy mate,’ I say quietly, ‘could I have a quick word?’

‘Sure thing, chief,’ he says, flipping a bottle and whipping off the cap on the table, much to the delight of Sharon Dooley, who looks like she could swallow him whole.

‘I got this,’ says Hattie, practically elbowing him out of the way to get to the bar. ‘What can I get you, love?’

Andy grabs his rucksack – he never leaves it unattended, I’ve noted – and saunters out into the corridor.

‘What can I do for you, mate?’ he asks cheerfully.

On a night where I don’t exactly feel great about myself, I’ve never felt like more of an arse.

‘Andy – I’m really sorry to ask,’ I begin, ‘but we’ve had a spate of items going missing from children’s bags . . .’

His sunny faces clouds over. It’s not a look of anger. It’s worse than that. It’s . . . it’s defeat.

‘So it’s gotta be the dodgy homeless geezer, right?’

‘That’s not how I think of you,’ I say. ‘And I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong.’

‘Pretty words, boss,’ he says. ‘But the fact we’re having this little tête-à-tête tells me different.’

I look pleadingly at him. But there’s only one thing to do.

‘An allegation has reached me tonight about money being taken behind the bar,’ I say. ‘I don’t give it any credence, but the easiest way to resolve it, is . . .’

‘Whaddya need?’ he says with a heavy sigh. ‘Turn out me pockets like the kids?’

He spares me having to ask him to do exactly that, by turning his pockets inside out. There is nothing there.

‘Happy?’ he says, now starting to look angry.

My eyes flick to his trusty bag.

‘You’re not serious,’ he says. ‘You gonna do a cavity search and all?’

‘Andy, I’m so sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I really don’t want to have to . . .’

‘Aw – just do it,’ he says. ‘It’s you or the bizzies.’

He throws the bag to me and I hesitate. This feels so intrusive.

‘Go on,’ he says, leaning against the wall. ‘You ain’t the first. You won’t be the last.’

I open it up. The few contents are neatly arranged. I pull out a book. It’s Wuthering Heights .

‘Me mam’s,’ he explains. ‘Fancied being an author. Thought it were written by Kate Bush, though, which weren’t a great start.’

I put it gently to one side with an apologetic smile. I quickly go through the rest. A rolled-up sleeping bag. Some tea. A shabby hot water bottle. Gloves. Two changes of clothes. A well-thumbed crossword book. Three biros. A library card. It’s not much to show for a life. And yet it is everything.

Enough already.

I start putting it all back, furious with myself that I’ve let these people get in my head. This man’s just trying to make his way, as are we all.

‘Andy, I’m so sorry,’ I begin, trying to stuff the sleeping bag back in the rucksack. ‘This has been . . .’

I accidentally drop the sleeping bag. It slowly unrolls.

And inside are two mobile phones, a games console and about ￡200 in cash.