fat girl from Austen House confided, but what did she know, the lads silently asked themselves.
‘I heard it was Tubbsy.’
‘Never!’
‘He wouldn’t have the nerve.’
‘There’s only one of ’em in the clear,’ the ginger nut participated. ‘Mr Graham. He was the only one not here.’
‘What about … him?’ the fat girl’s breasts were oozing out over the table as she leaned low to Whisper. Her thumb shot out in Maxwell’s direction.
‘Who the fuck is he?’ the sage hissed. And the question had barely left his lips when Maxwell was hovering over them all.
‘I’m your worst night mare,’ he smiled. ‘A teacher with twenty-twenty hearing and eyes in my arse. Does that answer your question, young man?’
And suddenly, for the whole table, Geography landforms, open on their books before them, had never seemed so fascinating.
At Grimond’s front gates, between the pillars with their stone gargoyle lions, the Horatius that was George Sheffield stood squarely in front of the invading hordes that were the Fourth Estate To his right, Mervyn Larson, his Deputy, stood like Herminius. And to his left, the Lartius of the Grimond three was Anthony Graham, hot foot from Leighford to the sunny south-east. He had taken his leave of Sylvia over a grabbed breakfast, dashed in to Legs Diamond’s office as a courtesy and had driven north-west.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ Sheffield raised both hands for quiet. All three had left their gowns on their hooks, lest they inflamed the more Leftie tabloids, their politics bristling with envy. All would have been well for the Mail and the Telegraph , but the Guardian was there and the Independent . Readers of the Sun and the Mirror would have assumed they were wearing fancy dress. The blokes from the Daily Sport were skirting the hedge, trying to get photos of the girlies in a netball match.
‘I’m sorry, but I have no intention of letting you in,’ the Headmaster was saying. ‘There are over five hundred children in this school and they are all in my care.’
‘What about the dead man, Dr Sheffield?’ a journalist asked between the popping of the camera flashes.
‘I have been instructed by the police to say nothing to you,’ the Headmaster went on, clearly irritated by the lights and the booms pushed under his nose.
‘Is Superintendent Mason calling a press conference?’ another asked.
‘I have no idea. This whole thing is a tragic accident. Can we please leave it at that?’
He turned away from another barrage of questions, then turned back. ‘Just one thing more,’ he bellowed, the veins in his neck standing out. ‘I will not tolerate any of my staff or my pupils being pestered by you people. Rest assured, I shall be straight on to the Press Complaints Commission the instant I get wind of anything like that.’
And he marched off, leaving Larson and Graham to swing the iron gates to and lock them.
‘How do they find out about these things, Mervyn?’ a bewildered Sheffield asked his Number Two as the man joined him, their feet crunching in time on the gravel.
‘Blood.’ From nowhere, Peter Maxwell was with them. No one had seen him striding out across the Grimond grass. ‘They smell it, like sharks in the water. Hello, Tony.’ He nodded at Graham.
‘Have you some experience of this sort of thing, Maxwell?’ Sheffield asked.
‘Some,’ Maxwell nodded, tilting back his tweed hat. ‘Who’s your newest recruit?’
‘Staffwise?’ Sheffield pondered. ‘Tim Robinson. Games and Physical Education. Been with us since the start of term.’
‘That’s who they’ll go for.’
‘Mr Maxwell,’ Larson smiled, unconvinced ‘You sound like an old pro.’ The Deputy Head master had met the Head of Sixth briefly at lunch the previous day. He was a tall man with chiselled features and iron grey hair, immaculately groomed.
‘Earning my last five bob,’ Maxwell winked at him. ‘Trust me, gentlemen.’ He turned to face them where the
‘I heard it was Tubbsy.’
‘Never!’
‘He wouldn’t have the nerve.’
‘There’s only one of ’em in the clear,’ the ginger nut participated. ‘Mr Graham. He was the only one not here.’
‘What about … him?’ the fat girl’s breasts were oozing out over the table as she leaned low to Whisper. Her thumb shot out in Maxwell’s direction.
‘Who the fuck is he?’ the sage hissed. And the question had barely left his lips when Maxwell was hovering over them all.
‘I’m your worst night mare,’ he smiled. ‘A teacher with twenty-twenty hearing and eyes in my arse. Does that answer your question, young man?’
And suddenly, for the whole table, Geography landforms, open on their books before them, had never seemed so fascinating.
At Grimond’s front gates, between the pillars with their stone gargoyle lions, the Horatius that was George Sheffield stood squarely in front of the invading hordes that were the Fourth Estate To his right, Mervyn Larson, his Deputy, stood like Herminius. And to his left, the Lartius of the Grimond three was Anthony Graham, hot foot from Leighford to the sunny south-east. He had taken his leave of Sylvia over a grabbed breakfast, dashed in to Legs Diamond’s office as a courtesy and had driven north-west.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ Sheffield raised both hands for quiet. All three had left their gowns on their hooks, lest they inflamed the more Leftie tabloids, their politics bristling with envy. All would have been well for the Mail and the Telegraph , but the Guardian was there and the Independent . Readers of the Sun and the Mirror would have assumed they were wearing fancy dress. The blokes from the Daily Sport were skirting the hedge, trying to get photos of the girlies in a netball match.
‘I’m sorry, but I have no intention of letting you in,’ the Headmaster was saying. ‘There are over five hundred children in this school and they are all in my care.’
‘What about the dead man, Dr Sheffield?’ a journalist asked between the popping of the camera flashes.
‘I have been instructed by the police to say nothing to you,’ the Headmaster went on, clearly irritated by the lights and the booms pushed under his nose.
‘Is Superintendent Mason calling a press conference?’ another asked.
‘I have no idea. This whole thing is a tragic accident. Can we please leave it at that?’
He turned away from another barrage of questions, then turned back. ‘Just one thing more,’ he bellowed, the veins in his neck standing out. ‘I will not tolerate any of my staff or my pupils being pestered by you people. Rest assured, I shall be straight on to the Press Complaints Commission the instant I get wind of anything like that.’
And he marched off, leaving Larson and Graham to swing the iron gates to and lock them.
‘How do they find out about these things, Mervyn?’ a bewildered Sheffield asked his Number Two as the man joined him, their feet crunching in time on the gravel.
‘Blood.’ From nowhere, Peter Maxwell was with them. No one had seen him striding out across the Grimond grass. ‘They smell it, like sharks in the water. Hello, Tony.’ He nodded at Graham.
‘Have you some experience of this sort of thing, Maxwell?’ Sheffield asked.
‘Some,’ Maxwell nodded, tilting back his tweed hat. ‘Who’s your newest recruit?’
‘Staffwise?’ Sheffield pondered. ‘Tim Robinson. Games and Physical Education. Been with us since the start of term.’
‘That’s who they’ll go for.’
‘Mr Maxwell,’ Larson smiled, unconvinced ‘You sound like an old pro.’ The Deputy Head master had met the Head of Sixth briefly at lunch the previous day. He was a tall man with chiselled features and iron grey hair, immaculately groomed.
‘Earning my last five bob,’ Maxwell winked at him. ‘Trust me, gentlemen.’ He turned to face them where the
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