the main building and the visitors’ car park. Ahead of them was a once-magnificent estate, now a very prestigious school.
‘Great place,’ said Mann.
‘It’s a former stately home, parts of it dating back to the sixteenth century. It stands in a hundred acres.’
‘Let’s just drive around first. Are there any other exits by car?’
‘No. All traffic comes in one way and goes out thesame way. Behind the school are the playing fields. You can only exit there on foot.’
‘Let’s see how many other car park options there are.’
They drove past the visitors’ allotted spaces and through a narrow section that opened out to a small lawn area and two large boarding houses. It was rush hour—eight-thirty lessons were about to start and there was the inevitable panic to make it to class on time. They waited whilst the last of the children dropped books, tucked shirts in and scrambled past on their way to lessons. Past the houses, at the end of the road on the right, was a larger overflow car park for teachers and match days. They turned the car round and headed back to the visitors’ area at the side of the main entrance, parked and sat. A sudden stillness had descended on the place as the frantic rush to lessons on time was over. There was not a child to be seen. A teacher, dressed in a tracksuit with a whistle around his neck, passed and smiled in at them. Becky smiled back and whispered under her breath.
‘Like I said, this place isn’t exactly a fortress. Nobody has asked us who we are or what we’re doing here.’
‘It would have been really easy for him to check this place out first. All he needed to do was come at rush hour, like we have.’ They watched the sports teacher disappear up a few steps and into a side entrance. ‘There’s not even any need to use the main entrance. All the action seems to come and go from over there.’ He gestured towards the disappearing teacher. ‘You ready? Let’s go.’
They left the car and walked around to the front of the building, up the impressive sweep of granite steps and through a carved arched doorway. Then they followed the signs to reception. A charming receptionist—beautifully spoken, impeccably polite—asked them to sit whilst she went to find the headmaster’s secretary. Two minutes later both women reappeared and the detectives were led to the headmaster’s suite to wait. They skimmed through the usual literature about the school, the current glossy magazine full of sixth-formers’ excursions to South America and poems by a six-year-old genius.
‘Anything of Amy Tang’s in here?’ asked Becky.
The room was filled with the sound of the secretary’s rustling skirt as she came bustling around from behind her desk. ‘I’m not actually sure. Let me see. Amy is a fourth-former and I know she loves art.’ She flicked through the magazine till she reached the photos of the art exhibition. She scanned the page. ‘No. She doesn’t appear to have any work in this issue. But I know she helped with these.’ She went over to a tabletop covered in various items: raffia bags, string baskets, and macramé jewellery. ‘The children learned how to make these wonderful things from a Fair Trade organisation that came over from the Philippines. They were here a few months ago. I know that Amy attended every class and produced some lovely pieces. She is such a nice little girl, quiet, thoughtful,
resilient.
The whole school is in shock. We just can’t believe…’
The door opened and the headmaster floated in, hisblack gown billowing out around him. He introduced himself as Mr Roberts.
Shit!
thought Mann.
He’s about the same age as me!
Headmasters are supposed to be old and crusty. When
did this happen?
They all went into his study. Mr Roberts closed the doors behind him and asked them to sit. They declined his offer. The headmaster went to stand by the fireplace. It was obviously his favourite posing place. Behind him there were numerous photos
‘Great place,’ said Mann.
‘It’s a former stately home, parts of it dating back to the sixteenth century. It stands in a hundred acres.’
‘Let’s just drive around first. Are there any other exits by car?’
‘No. All traffic comes in one way and goes out thesame way. Behind the school are the playing fields. You can only exit there on foot.’
‘Let’s see how many other car park options there are.’
They drove past the visitors’ allotted spaces and through a narrow section that opened out to a small lawn area and two large boarding houses. It was rush hour—eight-thirty lessons were about to start and there was the inevitable panic to make it to class on time. They waited whilst the last of the children dropped books, tucked shirts in and scrambled past on their way to lessons. Past the houses, at the end of the road on the right, was a larger overflow car park for teachers and match days. They turned the car round and headed back to the visitors’ area at the side of the main entrance, parked and sat. A sudden stillness had descended on the place as the frantic rush to lessons on time was over. There was not a child to be seen. A teacher, dressed in a tracksuit with a whistle around his neck, passed and smiled in at them. Becky smiled back and whispered under her breath.
‘Like I said, this place isn’t exactly a fortress. Nobody has asked us who we are or what we’re doing here.’
‘It would have been really easy for him to check this place out first. All he needed to do was come at rush hour, like we have.’ They watched the sports teacher disappear up a few steps and into a side entrance. ‘There’s not even any need to use the main entrance. All the action seems to come and go from over there.’ He gestured towards the disappearing teacher. ‘You ready? Let’s go.’
They left the car and walked around to the front of the building, up the impressive sweep of granite steps and through a carved arched doorway. Then they followed the signs to reception. A charming receptionist—beautifully spoken, impeccably polite—asked them to sit whilst she went to find the headmaster’s secretary. Two minutes later both women reappeared and the detectives were led to the headmaster’s suite to wait. They skimmed through the usual literature about the school, the current glossy magazine full of sixth-formers’ excursions to South America and poems by a six-year-old genius.
‘Anything of Amy Tang’s in here?’ asked Becky.
The room was filled with the sound of the secretary’s rustling skirt as she came bustling around from behind her desk. ‘I’m not actually sure. Let me see. Amy is a fourth-former and I know she loves art.’ She flicked through the magazine till she reached the photos of the art exhibition. She scanned the page. ‘No. She doesn’t appear to have any work in this issue. But I know she helped with these.’ She went over to a tabletop covered in various items: raffia bags, string baskets, and macramé jewellery. ‘The children learned how to make these wonderful things from a Fair Trade organisation that came over from the Philippines. They were here a few months ago. I know that Amy attended every class and produced some lovely pieces. She is such a nice little girl, quiet, thoughtful,
resilient.
The whole school is in shock. We just can’t believe…’
The door opened and the headmaster floated in, hisblack gown billowing out around him. He introduced himself as Mr Roberts.
Shit!
thought Mann.
He’s about the same age as me!
Headmasters are supposed to be old and crusty. When
did this happen?
They all went into his study. Mr Roberts closed the doors behind him and asked them to sit. They declined his offer. The headmaster went to stand by the fireplace. It was obviously his favourite posing place. Behind him there were numerous photos
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