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Authors: Patricia Hall
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firmly.
‘The family’s off limits?’
‘Exactly so.’
‘So, in the public domain, then. He runs his academies as faith schools?’
‘Of course,’ Sanderson said. ‘Very much so. That’s the whole point. If you have heard the good news, you’re duty-bound to pass it on.’
‘Do you think the parents at the schools he takes over are aware of the way their character will change?’ Laura asked, doubtfully.
‘They are aware of how dramatically the schools will improve,’ Sanderson said. ‘This is about improvement, Miss Ackroyd, physical, academic and spiritual improvement. It’s a wonderful thing we are involved in, believe me. One would hope that in future all schools will take the same path. Sir David sees himself as a torch-bearer, leading the way where others can follow. There is not enough philanthropy in the world, and certainly not enough Christian philanthropy. Bradfield is indeed blessed in gaining a Murgatroyd academy. I think that should be the thrust of your article.’
Laura drove back to Bradfield deep in thought. There had been nothing unpleasant or overbearing about Winston Sanderson, but the interview had still left her uneasy and dissatisfied. He had refused point-blank to arrange an interview with David Murgatroyd himself, claiming that he was out of the country. There had been no obvious reason to disbelieve him but Laura was still left wondering why the house had been opened up, heated and evidently staffed – although she had seen no physical sign of the supposed tea maker while she was there – if Sanderson himself was about to go back to London and his boss was abroad. It felt to her much more likely that the master, like some Jane Austen gentleman returning to the country for the shooting season, was about to come home, if he had not already done so. ButSanderson had effectively kept the gate tightly closed, which was no doubt his job.
Glancing at her watch as she pulled into the Gazette ’s car park, she decided to follow Bob Baker to the press conference that was about to begin at police HQ. She had been deeply upset by the recent case of domestic violence she had been involved in and would have to give evidence about it in court. She could not help hoping that this latest disappearance of a married woman was not another variation on the same dreadful theme.
The uniformed constable opened the door to the conference room for her and she slipped unobtrusively into a seat on the back row, with a partial view past a handful of reporters and photographers and the paraphernalia of local TV and radio news that clogged the area in front of the conference table. There were three people at the table: DCI Michael Thackeray, who caught her eye only briefly, and with absolute neutrality, as she quietly took her seat; a woman in a smart black suit, whom she recognised as a press officer from county police HQ; and a nondescript, heavily built man in a blue sports shirt, his broad face pale and stressed, his hands fiddling compulsively on the table in front of him, but oozing aggression nonetheless. This must be the husband, she thought, and she could not help feeling sorry for him as the TV crew switched on some powerful lights that almost immediately made Terry Bastable sweat. Behind him, on a board, was a blown-up and slightly blurred photograph of a pale-faced woman with a head of auburn curls, not a beauty exactly, but striking enough, Laura thought with some fellow feeling for someone of her own colouring, to stand out in a crowd.
There was a brief, dispassionate introduction fromThackeray, setting out the facts of Karen Bastable’s disappearance, and the search that had been launched for her. At this stage he chose not to reveal all the police knew about her reasons for heading to Bently Forest, and his private conviction that she was dead, preferring to let the husband make his appeal for her to make contact, on the off chance that she still might do just that. He turned to
‘The family’s off limits?’
‘Exactly so.’
‘So, in the public domain, then. He runs his academies as faith schools?’
‘Of course,’ Sanderson said. ‘Very much so. That’s the whole point. If you have heard the good news, you’re duty-bound to pass it on.’
‘Do you think the parents at the schools he takes over are aware of the way their character will change?’ Laura asked, doubtfully.
‘They are aware of how dramatically the schools will improve,’ Sanderson said. ‘This is about improvement, Miss Ackroyd, physical, academic and spiritual improvement. It’s a wonderful thing we are involved in, believe me. One would hope that in future all schools will take the same path. Sir David sees himself as a torch-bearer, leading the way where others can follow. There is not enough philanthropy in the world, and certainly not enough Christian philanthropy. Bradfield is indeed blessed in gaining a Murgatroyd academy. I think that should be the thrust of your article.’
Laura drove back to Bradfield deep in thought. There had been nothing unpleasant or overbearing about Winston Sanderson, but the interview had still left her uneasy and dissatisfied. He had refused point-blank to arrange an interview with David Murgatroyd himself, claiming that he was out of the country. There had been no obvious reason to disbelieve him but Laura was still left wondering why the house had been opened up, heated and evidently staffed – although she had seen no physical sign of the supposed tea maker while she was there – if Sanderson himself was about to go back to London and his boss was abroad. It felt to her much more likely that the master, like some Jane Austen gentleman returning to the country for the shooting season, was about to come home, if he had not already done so. ButSanderson had effectively kept the gate tightly closed, which was no doubt his job.
Glancing at her watch as she pulled into the Gazette ’s car park, she decided to follow Bob Baker to the press conference that was about to begin at police HQ. She had been deeply upset by the recent case of domestic violence she had been involved in and would have to give evidence about it in court. She could not help hoping that this latest disappearance of a married woman was not another variation on the same dreadful theme.
The uniformed constable opened the door to the conference room for her and she slipped unobtrusively into a seat on the back row, with a partial view past a handful of reporters and photographers and the paraphernalia of local TV and radio news that clogged the area in front of the conference table. There were three people at the table: DCI Michael Thackeray, who caught her eye only briefly, and with absolute neutrality, as she quietly took her seat; a woman in a smart black suit, whom she recognised as a press officer from county police HQ; and a nondescript, heavily built man in a blue sports shirt, his broad face pale and stressed, his hands fiddling compulsively on the table in front of him, but oozing aggression nonetheless. This must be the husband, she thought, and she could not help feeling sorry for him as the TV crew switched on some powerful lights that almost immediately made Terry Bastable sweat. Behind him, on a board, was a blown-up and slightly blurred photograph of a pale-faced woman with a head of auburn curls, not a beauty exactly, but striking enough, Laura thought with some fellow feeling for someone of her own colouring, to stand out in a crowd.
There was a brief, dispassionate introduction fromThackeray, setting out the facts of Karen Bastable’s disappearance, and the search that had been launched for her. At this stage he chose not to reveal all the police knew about her reasons for heading to Bently Forest, and his private conviction that she was dead, preferring to let the husband make his appeal for her to make contact, on the off chance that she still might do just that. He turned to
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