Death Drop Page 3

  He said, "I phoned The Lantern this morning – about the time I expected you to have returned from the mortuary. I wanted to express my sympathy."

  "Thank you." It was cold.

  "I was told there was a reporter there."

  "I got rid of him."

  "I'm sorry he bothered you."

  "He didn't. I told him there was no story until I had my facts. That's why I'm here now."

  Brannigan took him through the main hall and into his study. The room, despite its red carpet and curtains, looked austere and felt cold. There were photographs of each school year since nineteen-fifty-seven on the walls. The fact that the school numbers had shrunk considerably was apparent by the size of the frames.

  Brannigan took the chair behind the desk, hesitated and then got up again and went to sit on one of the leather chairs by the empty fireplace. He indicated the other leather chair facing him.

  "Before we start, is there anything I can get you to drink Scotch, perhaps?"

  "No, thank you." It was enemy territory again.

  Brannigan decided to take the initiative. "I've made, and naturally will, continue to make, every allowance for your distress, but I'm quite sure that the school is blameless. If you think differently now is the time to thrash the matter out. Ask me any questions you like. I'll answer you honestly and help in any way I can to put your mind at rest."

  Fleming said crisply, "I have a lot of questions to ask you, but first of all I want to see David's work. You've kept his exercise books, I suppose?"

  Brannigan let his astonishment show. In the present circumstances it was the last request he would have expected "Yes, of course I have all his books."-The boy's clothe; and possessions were packed in his school trunk, but the contents of his desk had been put in a large cardboard folder and locked in the safe. He went to fetch the folder and took it over to his desk. "I suggest you sit over here if you want to go through them."

  Fleming took the folder and opened it slowly. The school exercise books, were green with the crest stamped on the cover. Under the crest of the first book he removed was neatly written in David's small rather angular writing David John Fleming, Hammond 's House, Class 4A History He opened it, but made no attempt to read what he saw. This was David alive, not David dead in the mortuary. Hi-hand on the written page was touching David's warm grubby, impatient hand. David John Fleming – not just a name, but David's voice naming his name. A lively voice with some of Ruth's north country accent in it. He had a strong memory of David's arms around his neck as they had embraced in the car before he had left him at the station to catch the school train. A private embrace before the public handshake on the platform. Very reserved in company, very British stiff upper lip. A quiet "Good-bye, kiddo, I'll be thinking of you." An equally quiet "Telepathic message at nine o'clock spot on saying good night. Okay?"

  "Okay." Then aloud, laconically. "Be seeing you, Dad."

  "So long, David. Letters from India this time."

  "Super!" Eyes too bright, but the word coming out without a tremor. "Super!"

  A traitorous wave of emotion took Fleming unexpectedly and for a moment he couldn't hide it. Brannigan noticed the clenched muscles of his jaw before he turned his head away.

  It was several minutes before he was able to return to the folder.

  The next three books were on mathematics. They contained average problems set a twelve-year-old and were reasonably handled. The book of essays he wanted to take away with him and read in private. He didn't feel he could trust himself to read them in Brannigan's presence. They were the essence of David. Sentences – echoes of David's voice – whispered up from the page before he could close his eyes and mind to them. "My first jumbo jet flight was with my Dad to New York. There was a film show – a Western – not very good. For lunch we had samon and lettice in boxes with plastic knives and forks. A woman in the next seat was sick in a brown paper bag and I couldn't eat any more lunch after that." Dad had been scored out with a red pen and Father put in instead. Samon had been corrected, but lettice had got through.

  And further on: "The best pet I ever had was a gerbil. I» had it when we had a house with a long garden in the Cotswolds. It lived in a shed in the orchard. It was a long time ago when I was young. My mother didn't like it, but she didn't say she didn't like it because she knew I did. It got lost under the floorboards once but my Father found it with a torch. My mother said she was glad it had been found. That was not honest, but it was kind." Fleming turned back a page and saw that the essay was headed Honesty. He closed the book and put it on one side.

  Honesty. "How are things with you at school, David?"

  "All right, Dad."

  "Any problems?"

  "No – not really."

  "You'd tell me if there were?"

  "Yes, of course."

  Had the inflection been right? Had he listened hard enough to find a note of doubt, of false brightness? Had he just hoped everything was all right and been too quick to accept David's word for it?

  Surely he had known his own son well enough to be aware that he was putting on one hell of a cover-up.

  As he must have been.

  But these books were normal.

  Inside the main folder was another smaller one with the words Project on Maritime History written carefully across it. There were drawings of Aegean Bronze Age vessels and Phoenician biremes. Then came a drawing on graph paper showing the measurements of a Viking ship. He had been given high marks for these and the written comment in red ballpoint: Good. You have done your research well. He turned to Brannigan. "How many times did David go to the Maritime Museum?"

  Brannigan noted that he had himself well in hand again. His voice was toneless and his eyes showed nothing.

  "The boys were taken on a preliminary visit before each section was written about. The section on cargo vessels was the fourth."

  "So it was on his fourth visit that he was killed?"

  "Yes."

  Fleming closed the folder and then ran his fingers up and down the edges of it as if he were loath to part with anything that David had touched. At last he pushed it aside.

  "How would you rate his work?"

  Brannigan answered honestly. "Average. He could do very well indeed if he set his mind on it."

  "And you would expect this sort of work from a twelve-year-old?"

  "Yes. As I told you, he was average. Not brilliant -just a good, steady, middle-of-the-road ability. The sort that sometimes surges ahead in early adolescence."

  "Not the sort that drops back six years and regresses to the intellect of a child of six?"

  Brannigan was startled. "I don't understand you."

  Fleming took the sketch out of his wallet and handed it to him without a word.

  Brannigan looked at the drawing of the caterpillar and the unformed writing under it. WOLLY BEAR ON D'S BED.

  "What is this supposed to be? Some of David's early work from his kindergarten?"

  "Some of David's most recent work – during his period in the infirmary when he had mumps."

  "I don't believe it!" It came out explosively. What Brannigan saw as an attack from a totally unexpected quarter not only unnerved but astonished him. What the hell was Fleming playing at? This sketch he was holding was the work of an infant. It bore absolutely no resemblance to the books on the desk. And what was that about regression? To this? Fleming must be out of his mind if he thought he could con him that easily.

  He handed it back. "You've kept this a long time."

  "I've kept it a matter of hours. I saw it for the first time this afternoon. David drew it for Jenny a week or so ago on his last day in the infirmary. Jenny gave it to me."

  Brannigan felt the blood thrumming in his head. He saw a whole kaleidoscope of possibilities including one in which Jenny was in collusion with Fleming to the tune of whatever damages they managed to milk from the school. And then in he became calm again and dismissed them. He didn't understand and until he did understand
he would try and keep an open mind.

  He asked Fleming to explain the significance of the drawing and listened without interrupting while he did so.

  "And he hadn't drawn the caterpillar since he was – how old?"

  "I think the last nightmare-linked drawing was when he was seven and a half going on eight."

  "You took him to a psychiatrist?"

  "No. We – his mother and I – tore up the drawings. We sensed that was what he wanted and it worked."

  "You think he suffered some shock that pushed him back into this?"

  "Shock. Or a long period of unhappiness. I don't know. That's what I mean to find out."

  "And you believe that the state of his mind was disturbed – perhaps to the extent that the fall into the hold was suicidal – is that what you're saying?"

  "I think it's possible. And if it's proved true then God help you, the school, and everyone in it."

  Brannigan was suddenly aware of the coldness of the room. He repressed a shiver. The isolation of command was like a cloak of ice on his shoulders. His own conscience in the matter was clear, but ultimately he was answerable for his staff and the boys.

  "A little teasing – a caterpillar in David's bed – that's the easy and most likely explanation." He managed to say it quite smoothly, almost persuasively.

  "The caterpillar was linked with the terror of waking alone in a dark unfamiliar house – it's a symptom, not the disease."

  "And what do you believe the disease is in this particular instance?"

  Fleming answered flatly, "A prolonged period of bullying – perhaps sexual assault."

  He had expected Brannigan to flare up into a quick denial, but his answer when it came was measured and thoughtful. "The two old bogies of the system. It would be naive of me to discount either possibility. I'm prepared to investigate both. But unless either is proved you'd be wise to say nothing to anyone."

  "I shall say nothing provided the investigation is carried out without bias. I want to be around to see that it is."

  Brannigan stood up. "Very well, Mr. Fleming. You shall be around. It's my school and your child. There is common ground for concern."

  Three

  JENNY WAS IN the staffroom watching a film on television when Brannigan and Fleming came in. She could tell by their faces that the interview hadn't been a quiet pussyfooting over delicate areas of dissent. Swords had been out on both sides. If they were sheathed now it was an uneasy truce.

  Brannigan, relieved that Jenny was alone in the room, indicated the television. She went over and switched it off.

  "You've come to ask me about the sketch." Characteristically she plunged straight in. She wondered if Fleming would stay around to pick up the pieces. His eyes had warmed as their glances met, but now he was standing with his back to the window watching her and saying nothing.

  Brannigan sat on the arm of the nearest chair. He felt extremely tired as if he were battling through a force eight gale.

  "Yes – three questions. Did you actually see David drawing the caterpillar?"

  "Yes, in the infirmary – on the day he was due to go back into the main school. One day last week."

  "Did he have a shocking or frightening experience just before he drew it?"

  "No. To my almost certain knowledge – no. He was a bit quiet on the last day – but none of the boys like getting back to work. I thought he did the drawing-just a fun thing – to cheer himself up."

  "Why didn't you bring the drawing straight to me?"

  She smiled slightly. "Together with the rat's tail and the conkers and Milford Minor's valentine? Do you seriously expect me to gather up all the boys' offerings and pass them on to you?"

  Jenny's forthrightness occasionally sailed rather close to insolence, but Brannigan let it pass. "You regarded it with sufficient seriousness to give it to David's father."

  "Had it been any other item in my duffel bag given me by David I would have given it to his father. It happened to be a sketch of a caterpillar."

  "You couldn't tell by the nature of the drawing and the writing that the child was seriously disturbed?"

  "No, I couldn't. It was a babyish drawing and babyish writing. I thought he'd done it that way for fun."

  Brannigan looked at Fleming. "Have you anything to ask Nurse Renshaw yourself?"

  There was one question he hadn't thought of asking her earlier. "Had you any other patients at that particular time – anyone who could have got at David and worried him in some way?"

  "Three other boys had mumps. Two were the Rillman twins and the other was Peter Sellick."

  Brannigan said, "Seven-year-olds. Not averse to putting a caterpillar in a bed – but nothing more sinister."

  He suggested that Fleming should go along to see Mrs. Robbins. "She's a housemother for want of a better word. Her flat is near the Hammond House dormitory." It was policy that all housemasters should be married, but when Hammond 's wife had left him at the end of the autumn term he could hardly request Hammond to leave too. Mrs. Robbins, a widowed sister of Laxby, the music master, was standing in temporarily. Dwindling numbers had made it possible to convert two small dormitories into a self-contained unit for her.

  He asked Jenny if she were in.

  "She was watching the early news here. She left when the film started. She isn't due to see the boys to bed until later, but she wouldn't have time to leave the premises."

  Mollie Robbins didn't hear Brannigan's knock on her door. She was listening through her headphones to Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunaire. It was a recording that Laxby had given her and he had promised to come around later that evening to discuss Schoenberg's twelve-note theory. She had been researching the music of the Second Viennese School and hoped to get some facts down on her typewriter just as soon as she had seen the little horrors to bed.

  Fleming's first impression of her, when Brannigan after his second unanswered knock opened the door, was of a huge blousy woman in headphones who looked at them with a dazedly beatific expression which quickly turned to annoyance. She switched off the recording and removed the headphones.

  Brannigan introduced Fleming.

  The last hazy notes of the music drifted from her memory as she looked at him. She saw a tall, gaunt, tired-looking man who was looking back at her as if he were trying to probe the recesses of her mind.

  She looked away nervously. The disruption of her musical interlude was annoyance enough – God knew she needed the refreshment of it if she were to carry on her duties – without having to put up with what threatened to be a distressing and embarrassing interview with the dead child's father.

  Brannigan asked if they might sit down.

  "Of course." She uttered a few polite words of sympathy to Fleming which he acknowledged with a slight nod of the head.

  Physically she appalled him. He tried to resist forming a prejudice. How she looked didn't matter.

  Brannigan had sketched in a brief outline of her duties on the walk over to her flat and he left it now to Fleming to take the initiative.

  "Mr. Fleming wants to ask you some questions about David. He understands about your dormitory duties and so on. Answer him as fully as you can."

  "Of course." She folded her hands in her lap, uncomfortably aware of her bitten nails. Resentment burned in her. This was her own time. One of her escape periods into a world made civilised- by music. In her young days she had hoped to become a concert pianist. A severed nerve in her right hand had put paid to that. What did he think she was – a lump of lard? An intellectual moron with rampaging flesh? Had he ever felt his spirit dance and laugh with Rossini? Did he think she was physically locked inside herself with an immovable ball and chain?

  Their eyes met and held.

  Fleming, aware of an antagonism equal to his own, knew he would have to soften her defences if he were to make any headway with her at all.

  "As housemother you've probably formed quite a close relationship with the boys. If they were troubled by anything they wou
ld come to you?"

  She was not to be quickly mollified. "Housemothers function in orphanages and approved schools. Here, the housemaster's wife is referred to as Mrs. whatever it is. I came to stand in for Mrs. Hammond when she left. The boys call me Mrs. Robbins to my face and Mary Lou behind my back."

  Fleming wondered if Mrs. Hammond were away permanently and, if so, why. It couldn't at this stage be asked.

  He achieved a bleak smile. "A nickname can be a sign of affection."

  "All the staff have nicknames. In my case it's to rhyme with a line of doggerel – not particularly affectionate."

  Fleming stopped trying to win her. "So – if there was any trouble the boys would cope as best they could themselves."

  She caught a glimpse of Brannigan's expression out of the corner of her eye and knew she had to stop hazarding her position. Truth was a luxury she couldn't afford.

  She climbed down. "No – they'd bring their troubles to me – naturally – and I'd do my best to help. Are you trying to tell me that something was troubling David?"

  He acknowledged the breach in her armour but felt that it had been made too quickly. Her antagonism had been honest. She had switched it off like a light.

  "I think he might have been having nightmares. Would you have been aware of it if he had been?"

  She looked at him blandly. "The dormitory is just down the corridor. I very rarely go out of an evening. Of course I would have been aware of it."

  Fleming looked at the hi-fi equipment and the headphones. Through God knew how many decibels of a military march?

  She understood what he was thinking. A good solid wall of sound was the one thing in this place that kept her sane.