The Hiding Place(18)

I start to gather my books and stuff them into my satchel. A familiar dark head pokes around the classroom door.

“Hey!”

“Hi.”

Beth saunters in—Nirvana T-shirt, ripped jeans and Vans today—and perches on the edge of my desk.

“So, I hear someone threw a brick through your window last night?”

“News travels fast in Arnhill.”

“Yeah, but it never leaves.”

I chuckle. “Who told you?”

“One of the teaching assistants’ cousins works part-time with a woman whose brother works for the police.”

“Whoa. Better sources than CNN.”

“More accurate, usually.”

She cocks an eyebrow, which I presume is my cue to confirm or deny reports.

I shrug. “I guess someone didn’t like my lesson plans.”

“You think it was one of the kids here?”

“It seems most likely.”

“You have a prime suspect?”

“You could say that.” I hesitate. “Jeremy Hurst.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“St. Jeremy? No. I heard you had a run-in.”

“You really do have great hearing. If you ever hear what the winning lottery numbers are…”

She grins. “Like I’d tell you.”

“So what do you know about—”

There’s a knock on the half-open door. We both look up. A slightly overweight girl with streaked blond hair and too much makeup for a school day peers in. “This Mr. Anderson’s class?”

“No, next door,” Beth says.

“Right.” She huffs and storms off.

“You’re welcome!” Beth shouts after her. She looks back at me. “Why don’t we take this conversation out of the classroom? I believe it’s lunchtime.”

“The cafeteria?”

“Screw that. I was thinking more like the pub.”


—



The worn chairs and benches are gone. The migraine-inducing multicolored carpet has been replaced by shiny wooden floorboards. Tasteful lamps are arranged on the windowsills and an array of fine wines and bourbons are available at the bar. There’s also an exciting new “gastropub” menu.

Actually, none of that is true.

The Fox hasn’t changed at all, not since the last time I was in here, twenty-five years ago. The same old jukebox sits in the corner, probably stacked with the same old tunes. Even some of the patrons don’t look as if they have changed, or moved, since the last century.

“I know,” Beth says, catching me surveying the pub. “I take you to all the best places.”

“Actually, I was just thinking that you can probably still smell my vomit in the toilets.”

“Nice. I forgot you grew up here. Well, not literally in here.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“So, this was your local?”

“Kind of. Officially, I wasn’t old enough to drink. Unofficially…the landlord wasn’t too stringent about that sort of thing.”

I turn to the bar. I half expect to see Gypsy still serving behind it, but instead a young woman with huge hooped earrings and hair in a ponytail so tight her eyebrows look like they are being held against their will scowls invitingly at me.

“Getcha?”

I look at Beth.

“Just a Diet Coke, thanks.”

I glance longingly at the whiskey, then say reluctantly, “Two Diet Cokes, please. Oh, and a menu.”

“Cheese bap, ham bap, pork pie or chips.”

“Heston Blumenthal is quaking in his loafers.”

She stares at me and chews her gum.

“Chips and a cheese bap, please,” Beth says.

“Same, thanks.”

“Ten pounds sixty.”

Say what you like about her attitude, her mental arithmetic isn’t bad.

Beth starts to fumble in her bag.

“No, don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll get these.” I reach in my pocket and frown. “Shit. I’ve left my wallet at home.”

“No worries,” Beth says. “It’s hardly going to break the bank.”

I smile, feeling a little guilty. But only a little.

We pay and find a seat—not too difficult—in a corner near one of the windows.

“So,” I say to Beth as she sips her Diet Coke, “you were going to tell me about Hurst?”

“Right. Well, there’s probably not that much to tell. The boy is smart, athletic, good-looking and a sadistic little shit. And he gets away with it because of his dad.”

“Stephen Hurst.”

“You know him?”

“We went to school together.”

“Ah, right.”

“I hear he’s on the council now?”

“Yeah. And you know the sort of people that end up being councillors—”

“People that genuinely want to help their community?”

“And arseholes that get off on being in a position of power and use it to further their own ends.”

“Gosh, I can’t think which Stephen Hurst could be.”

“Yeah, he’s a piece of work. But then you probably already know that. You’ve heard about the plans for the old colliery?”