Edwards, third in the History Department. And the milk was provided by Sally Greenhow, gazetted from Special Needs, on account of how they had a fridge in Special Needs.
It had to be said that Matilda Ratcliffe didn’t like the History Department using the library. After all, they had rooms of their own. But Paul Moss liked the ambience, the open spaces. Mildly claustrophobic, he’d been trying for three years to get off the first floor to grab the Modern Languages annexe for himself. The Head of Modern Languages, a rather reptilian creature with liver problems, had fought him off on rather spurious educational grounds.
They munched the Hob-nobs and sat around, loosely following Moss’s agenda.
‘Anthea,’ he said, ‘how did you find those new books?’
Anthea rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Is it me,’ she asked, ‘or are the junior schools sending us thicker kids every year? Did you have a hand in the setting, Paul?’
‘A rather furtive one, yes.’ Her Head of Department grinned. He was mid-thirties, ambitious, with a boyish look and a mop of fair hair. ‘But you know how it is. The English Department rules OK.’
‘Ah, you’ve been listening to Mr Smith again,’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘The English Department does nothing OK.’
‘I thought Geoffrey Smith was a friend of yours,’ Anthea said. Ever the literal one, she’d never really mastered the ancient art of cynicism. It would keep her third in a department for ever.
‘Oh, he is,’ Maxwell humoured her. ‘I’d go through the shredder for that man. But trust him to set the kids accurately? Or drive anywhere with him? I’d rather he set my broken arm.’
‘What were the police doing here this morning?’ Sally asked. They all looked at her. Sally Greenhow looked like a tall kid.
She still had the frizzy hair, round face and dimpled cheeks of a little girl – a sort of ten-year-old on stilts. Only the cigarette, endlessly twitching between her fingers, betrayed an adult’s neuroses.
‘They seemed to be checking the bike shed,’ Anthea said.
‘Why?’ Moss asked.
‘Don’t tell me we’ve had a theft already?’ Anthea poured herself a second cup of tea. It was quite stewed at the bottom by now.
‘No, it’s Jenny Hyde,’ Sally said as though the walls had ears. Matilda Ratcliffe had, and they pricked up now as she busied herself filing behind her counter.
‘What?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Well, they’re looking for the bike.’ Sally thought it was obvious.
‘What bike?’
‘They saw a bike parked outside the Red House on the day she … you know.’
‘How do you know that?’ Maxwell’s Hobnob plummeted into his tea, the victim of over-dunking.
‘I don’t know.’ Sally dragged deeply on her cigarette. ‘Somebody told me.’
‘I don’t know how you tell one bike from another,’ Moss shrugged.
‘They were looking for cars, too.’
All eyes turned to the voice from beyond. Matilda Ratcliffe was still filing, her face downcast, but the words had definitely come from her.
‘Did somebody come in?’ Maxwell looked at his fellow historians.
‘Oh?’ Moss thought he ought to try to coax the librarian back to life. ‘Were they?’
‘I went out to get my packed lunch,’ she told them, avoiding their gaze and suddenly hating the spotlight in which she found herself. ‘They were noting down registration numbers.’
‘Were they now?’ Maxwell muttered.
‘I thought it was the height of cheek, those reporters pestering kids this morning,’ Anthea said. ‘Did anybody see them go?’
‘I think the rain drove them away,’ Moss said. ‘Certainly they’d gone by the time I went out for my lunch.’
‘I’m afraid I talked to them,’ Anthea confessed, pausing in mid-nibble.
‘Really?’ Maxwell beamed. ‘I hope the Headmaster doesn’t get to hear of this, Mrs Edwards.’
He watched her neck mottle and her lips miss the crumbs.
‘You’re such an arsehole, Max,’ Sally scolded him. ‘The rumour is they’re
It had to be said that Matilda Ratcliffe didn’t like the History Department using the library. After all, they had rooms of their own. But Paul Moss liked the ambience, the open spaces. Mildly claustrophobic, he’d been trying for three years to get off the first floor to grab the Modern Languages annexe for himself. The Head of Modern Languages, a rather reptilian creature with liver problems, had fought him off on rather spurious educational grounds.
They munched the Hob-nobs and sat around, loosely following Moss’s agenda.
‘Anthea,’ he said, ‘how did you find those new books?’
Anthea rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Is it me,’ she asked, ‘or are the junior schools sending us thicker kids every year? Did you have a hand in the setting, Paul?’
‘A rather furtive one, yes.’ Her Head of Department grinned. He was mid-thirties, ambitious, with a boyish look and a mop of fair hair. ‘But you know how it is. The English Department rules OK.’
‘Ah, you’ve been listening to Mr Smith again,’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘The English Department does nothing OK.’
‘I thought Geoffrey Smith was a friend of yours,’ Anthea said. Ever the literal one, she’d never really mastered the ancient art of cynicism. It would keep her third in a department for ever.
‘Oh, he is,’ Maxwell humoured her. ‘I’d go through the shredder for that man. But trust him to set the kids accurately? Or drive anywhere with him? I’d rather he set my broken arm.’
‘What were the police doing here this morning?’ Sally asked. They all looked at her. Sally Greenhow looked like a tall kid.
She still had the frizzy hair, round face and dimpled cheeks of a little girl – a sort of ten-year-old on stilts. Only the cigarette, endlessly twitching between her fingers, betrayed an adult’s neuroses.
‘They seemed to be checking the bike shed,’ Anthea said.
‘Why?’ Moss asked.
‘Don’t tell me we’ve had a theft already?’ Anthea poured herself a second cup of tea. It was quite stewed at the bottom by now.
‘No, it’s Jenny Hyde,’ Sally said as though the walls had ears. Matilda Ratcliffe had, and they pricked up now as she busied herself filing behind her counter.
‘What?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Well, they’re looking for the bike.’ Sally thought it was obvious.
‘What bike?’
‘They saw a bike parked outside the Red House on the day she … you know.’
‘How do you know that?’ Maxwell’s Hobnob plummeted into his tea, the victim of over-dunking.
‘I don’t know.’ Sally dragged deeply on her cigarette. ‘Somebody told me.’
‘I don’t know how you tell one bike from another,’ Moss shrugged.
‘They were looking for cars, too.’
All eyes turned to the voice from beyond. Matilda Ratcliffe was still filing, her face downcast, but the words had definitely come from her.
‘Did somebody come in?’ Maxwell looked at his fellow historians.
‘Oh?’ Moss thought he ought to try to coax the librarian back to life. ‘Were they?’
‘I went out to get my packed lunch,’ she told them, avoiding their gaze and suddenly hating the spotlight in which she found herself. ‘They were noting down registration numbers.’
‘Were they now?’ Maxwell muttered.
‘I thought it was the height of cheek, those reporters pestering kids this morning,’ Anthea said. ‘Did anybody see them go?’
‘I think the rain drove them away,’ Moss said. ‘Certainly they’d gone by the time I went out for my lunch.’
‘I’m afraid I talked to them,’ Anthea confessed, pausing in mid-nibble.
‘Really?’ Maxwell beamed. ‘I hope the Headmaster doesn’t get to hear of this, Mrs Edwards.’
He watched her neck mottle and her lips miss the crumbs.
‘You’re such an arsehole, Max,’ Sally scolded him. ‘The rumour is they’re
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