Page 28

Hell’s teeth!

It’s like the bloody Shah o’ Persia’s coming to visit rather than a load of poxy inspectors!

We’ve only been back a couple of hours and everyone’s losing their ruddy minds. They’re cleaning and painting and decorating . . . as if bloomin’ Ofsted give a monkey’s uncle about the colour of the walls . . .

‘,’ pants Ben, running into my kitchen like a loon. ‘Do you have the week’s menus for me?’

‘Since when did I ever run my menus past—’

‘!’ he says in a tone I don’t care for. ‘Menus. Now.’

It’s a good job I’m in a good mood. Or he’d be in Thursday’s cottage pie.

I amble over to the side and pick up the menus – deliberately drop them twice, mind, you don’t speak to me like that – then wander back over.

‘Okay, okay,’ he says, scanning them. ‘Make sure we have a vegan option tomorrow as one of the inspectors is a flexitarian. And drop the chocolate sponge for something with fruit.’

He ain’t looking at me. But I’m giving him the look nonetheless.

‘Ben?’ says Karl, a big old pot of creosote in his hands. ‘I’ve been around the playground – shall I start on the front fence?’

‘Yes. Please,’ says Ben gratefully, his phone going off in his pocket. I wonder if it’s Kiera. I dunno what happened at Radford House, but it weren’t good. He takes a look, eyes the heavens, then shoves the phone back in his trousers.

‘You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack carrying on like this,’ I say hopefully. ‘Calm yourself down, man – it’s only a ruddy inspection.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ he says, before realising what an arsehat he’s just made of himself. ‘ – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. And when all this is over, I think we should take another look at the budget and see if we can’t—’

‘Oh, don’t you try to butter my biscuits,’ I huff, turning back to cleaning my surfaces.

‘Okay,’ he says distractedly as Marcia runs into the kitchen.

‘Ben – I’m inundated with calls from Tiger parents – it seems several of them are suffering from a stomach bug. Looks like they picked something up at Radford House?’

‘Fantastic,’ he sighs. ‘Should I . . . ?’

‘I’m handling it,’ she says. ‘Just wanted to clue you in.’

‘You’re a superstar,’ he says. And he’s right. Place’d fall down without Marcia – she’s a bloody goddess. Come a long way since being born into the circus.

Ben goes to leave, before pulling himself up short. He turns to me, all awkward like.

‘ . . . I know you don’t want to talk to me about it,’ he begins, ‘but I just need to know . . . is Kiera all right? I haven’t heard from her and I’m worried.’

I look at his face. I believe the daft sod. I just don’t trust him.

‘I don’t know,’ I tell him honestly. It’s Gracie’s interview at Shottsford House tomorrow – I’ll drop in on them after, see what’s what. I don’t want him anywhere near them. ‘But, if I know Kiera, no news is good news. So I’d worry about what’s going on here if I were you.’

His phone rings and he goes to cancel it. But something stops him.

‘Finn?’ he asks – that’s the name of his lad. ‘I know, I know what I said, but this is a super big deal for Daddy and you’re just going to have to—’

‘Ben,’ says Marcia, coming round the corner of the kitchen door again. ‘Ben – you’re needed at reception.’

Ben puts his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.

‘Marcia – I can’t right now. I’m right in the middle of—’

‘Ben,’ she says firmly. ‘You need to come. You too, .’

‘Me?’ I ask. ‘What in the blue blazes do you want with me?’

‘Finn – I have to go. But I’ll call you tonight, love you,’ says Ben, jabbing his finger on his phone.

‘What now?’ asks Ben. ‘More sickness?’

‘Yes,’ Marcia sighs. ‘Lots. But—’

‘I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to field the calls,’ snaps Ben. ‘I’ve still got the accounts to prepare, the lesson plans to finish and I haven’t even started on the safeguarding . . .’

‘Mr Andrews!’ she shouts over him in a tone that ain’t going nowhere soon. ‘You both have to come to the office now. PC Bob Alsorp is here. And he wants to talk to you both.’

‘What the bloody hell’s all this about, Bob?’ I say with no small irritation as we sit down in the Tigers’ classroom. ‘Can’t you see it’s bloody chaos round here?’

‘I know, Hats. Last thing I want to be doing too – I was on me way home, and Nora’s made beef bourguignon. Saw that bloke off The Apprentice make it on Saturday Kitchen , reckon it’s a blinder too—’

‘Bob!’ I snap at him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Oh, it’s just one of them daft things I’ve got to fill out on a form,’ he says. ‘Won’t take a minute, but I need to dot the t’s and cross the i’s. You know how it is . . .’

‘Well, get on with it, then, man,’ I huff. ‘I’ve got a flexitarian to cook for.’

‘Well, you should have a look at Saturday Kitchen . I tell you, they get up to all sorts on there – made a brownie outta beetroot the other week. I never seen anything like it . . .’

‘BOB!’

‘Sorry, Hats – me mouth don’t know where me mind’s at . . . So we’ve had a call – anonymous, probably some bloody loony what’s seen it all on the news . . .’

‘Seen what?’

‘This bloody Clive Baxendale business,’ he sighs, rubbing his forehead. ‘A shooting brings out all the whackos, I tell you . . . But, as this mentioned you by name, I have to follow it up. Nothing personal, you understand. It’s just—’

‘My name?’ I say, me old heart quickening. ‘Why my name?’

‘Well,’ says Bob, taking the long route to the point. ‘This nutjob says that they saw you.’

‘Hardly need to bother Crimewatch with that bombshell, Bob . . .’

‘Mind your lip, missy,’ he laughs. ‘Nah – this bloke – it were a bloke, took the call meself, Northern lad, sounded like one of them pop singers what used to wear their anoraks in all weathers – he says he saw you. Round Clive’s. Around the time of the shooting.’

Bugger. Bloody Andy. Thought I’d taken care of him.

My mind races. All right. Thing is, truth be told, I was there. Thought I’d been careful. But Andy mightn’t be the only one who saw – others could come forward and then I’ll be right in the soup. Best place to hide a lie is in the truth. Think carefully, . Play safe.

‘So all’s I need to know is where you were around 11pm on the twenty-fifth of November.’

Yes.

I think that’ll work.

‘Well, I can tell you,’ I start, slowly. ‘I was at Clive Baxendale’s house.’

‘You were?’ he says, startling.

‘Yes I was,’ I confirm, settling back in my chair. ‘Before it all kicked off, mind – he’d left his wallet at school. Being the good Samaritan what I am, I went to drop it back round to him – he’s on me way home. But there was no one there – he musta taken the scenic route. Place was locked up tighter than Fort Knox, so I popped it through the letterbox and went on me merry way.

‘Can anyone confirm this?’ he asks, making a note on his pad.

‘Yes, you bloody Herbert,’ I point out. ‘Your “anonymous” source. And I suppose you boys keep a record of what you found there – I’ll bet you a pound to a penny, Clive’s wallet weren’t in his pocket.’

‘I’ll check it out tomorrow,’ he says, folding his pad, ‘but that all sounds good to me. Sorry to have bothered you, Hats. Knew it would amount to a whole heap of nothing.’

He rises to leave and I feel my fingers unfurl from the fist I never knew I was making.

‘No bother, Bob,’ I say cheerily. ‘If anyone gets in touch linking me to Shergar and JFK, you know where to find me.’

‘Will do,’ he chortles. ‘Oh – one more thing, save me some time. I need to talk to old slick out there.’

‘Andrews?’

‘The same,’ he says. ‘I’ve heard tell there was an altercation between Ben and Clive the night Clive died. Apparently punches were thrown? The body . . . er, Clive . . . was sporting a shiner, but we’d assumed that was from his attacker. Was there a bit of fisticuffs here that night?’

Oh, what the blazes to do now? Much as I’d love to chuck Ben Andrews right under the bus, the dirty bastard, the best thing for all concerned is to get the blue lights off St Nonn’s for five bloody minutes. Priya and Tanya were there . . . But Priya were half-cut and – God forgive me – I can cast shade on Tanya’s memory. Everyone knows she’s been struggling. And Bob’ll listen to me – we go way back . . .

‘I wouldn’t give too much weight to nothing anyone told you about that night. They were all rat-arsed on me punch,’ I laugh. ‘And Ben Andrews? He couldn’t hit a bull’s arse with a shovel! Might damage his manicure!’

I hold me breath. Bob’s a smashing bloke. But he’s a lousy copper. I just need to sow enough doubt in his mind.

‘That’s what I figured,’ he laughs eventually. ‘And your bloody punch would get the Archbishop o’ Canterbury brawling! But, y’know . . .’

‘Procedure,’ I sigh. ‘I wouldn’t do your job for all the tea in China . . .’

‘Oooh – speaking of tea, let’s hurry this along, I can feel a storm coming . . . Send him in, would you, Hats – Nora says her sauce is perfectly thickened. And you know how I like a thick sauce . . .’

‘No bother,’ I tell him. ‘See you tomorrow night down the Crown?’

‘First one’s on me,’ he says. ‘And thanks for the iced buns down the cop shop – always welcome.’

‘Always happy to take care of you boys in blue,’ I say. ‘See you shortly.’

‘See you, Hats,’ he says, squinting at a picture of a snowman that don’t half look like a todger. ‘And don’t pay this nutter no mind. It’s all a nonsense. I know you no more did for Clive than you did for Claudia, God rest her soul. It’s like I said back along, when we first spoke of it. You’re the last person in the frame. After all, it’s not like you’re gonna kill off your own kin, is it . . .?’

Robocoppers

Priya, Al, Tanya

Weds 30 Nov

17.38

Tanya

How you feeling, Al?

Priya

And what was it you wanted to tell us?

Oh yeah.

And what Tanya said.

Al

Urgh.

You’ll be investigating my death next.

Tanya

Oh lovely.

I’m so sorry.

Priya

Me too.

Now really.

What were you going to tell us?

I’m guessing the police have the results of Tanya’s cake.

And the fingerprints on the oil bottle.

Bob’s interviewing people left and right.

Al

Your concern is touching.

I have solved the mystery of the missing EpiPen.

Or one of them.

It was .

She had her own allergic reaction that night.

She used the EpiPen in the office.

Tanya

What?

’s allergic? I never knew that?

Well at least that explains it.

wasn’t up to no good.

Priya

Not necessarily.

Al

Right on cue.

Tanya

Oh dear.

What now?

Priya

So even if ’s telling the truth

A) bit convenient and

B) what about the other pen?

Al

She reckons Clive just missed it.

Tanya

Or, like you said, Pri – it could have been Clive.

His death doesn’t prove his innocence.

Priya

No.

But it might prove someone else’s guilt.

I think Clive knew something. Too much something.

There’s also the cake.

If that wasn’t what killed Stitchwell, it had to be one of the drinks that Clive, Kiera or Ben delivered.

Tanya

Do you still think Ben could be the Stitchwell Love Child?

Feels a bit elaborate for him to get to Stitchwell.

Get a job at the school etc etc.

Priya

Murderers often play the long game.

And it would give him a huge motive.

Al

He was in a right state on the trip, poor thing.

Priya

How?

Al

Dunno.

But before Ofsted, he was heading straight up to Scotland.

Priya

Just as the police are closing in?

Al

I don’t think he knew that, to be fair.

I think this was a domestic drama.

Tanya

Poor guy.

He’s such a doting dad.

I can’t believe Elena took Finn so far away.

Priya

Makes me wonder why. . .

Al

Of course it does.

Oh shit. Gtgs.gfdjslgsjklsl

Priya

Easy for you to say. . .

Tanya

Al?

You okay?

Priya

I think the only calls he’s making are on the great white telephone.

Has Verity escaped the lurgy?

Tanya

Seems to have got it out the way the other week.

Priya

I’m poised with the bleach.

Anya is a champion puker.

She goes off like the Exorcist child. . .

Tanya

Good luck!

And Al, if you read this – get well soon.

Priya

And if you do happen to think of anything else. . .

Tanya

PRIYA!

Priya

Just asking the question. . .