The Hiding Place(89)
“Me neither.”
“Should we hug?”
“Do you want to?”
Beth gives me a look. “Not really.”
“Me neither.”
“You know what people say about hugs?” she says.
“What?”
“Just an excuse to hide your face.”
“Well, for some people, that’s probably a good thing.”
“Screw you.”
“Missed your chance.”
“I’ll get over it.”
“And I thought you were drowning your sorrows.”
Beth raises her glass toward me. “Cheers.”
I click my Coke against her pint.
“And don’t think, just because you are pissing off and leaving me to deal with the fallout, that I am buying all night,” she says.
“By ‘the fallout,’ I presume you mean your new position as deputy head?”
“Yeah, well, you know—tomayto, tomahto.”
“Tomahto.”
She gives me the finger.
Harry resigned a few days ago, along with Simon Saunders. I can’t be sure, but I think it probably has something to do with some emails the police found on Stephen Hurst’s computer that showed evidence of bribery and corruption. Undue influence upon Harry and payments to Simon Saunders in exchange for doctoring his son’s course work. All very unfortunate.
Miss Hardy (Susan, history) has taken the role of acting head and she has appointed Beth as her deputy. I think they will make a good team. In fact, if I were an optimist I might go even further and say that I think they could really turn Arnhill Academy around, especially as it looks likely that one of its major problems—Jeremy Hurst—will not be returning.
Currently, he is living with foster parents and being counseled by a psychiatrist. He is in shock after the sudden, violent deaths of his parents. I would like to say that I feel sorry for Jeremy. But then I remember Benjamin Morton.
I’ll never know for certain, but I believe Jeremy took him to the cave. Maybe a joke, maybe an “initiation.” Whatever. Something happened to Ben down there. Something bad. And maybe he wasn’t the first. I think about Beth’s niece, Emily. Another child who changed. Another life cut tragically short.
And Jeremy didn’t tell anyone. Except, maybe, his mother.
Hurst’s and Marie’s bodies were found on the old colliery site. Police are still investigating the circumstances of their deaths. Hurst had some questionable associates and more than his fair share of enemies, not to mention a holdall containing a bloodstained crowbar in his trunk, so getting to the bottom of it all may take some time. I have a feeling, without any further information, they may never really solve this one.
The sinkhole is due to be filled in very soon. The country-park scheme is under review. Houses will never be built on the land. No council would ever approve it.
The police came to talk to me, of course. PC Taylor and another, large—very large—sergeant, DC Gary Barnes. They could place me in Hurst’s car, which I admitted—I told them he had given me a lift home one night. However, once that had been ticked off, the questions seemed perfunctory.
“So I’m not under suspicion?” I asked as they left.
Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “Not for this.”
The large sergeant guffawed. Police humor.
“This looks like a professional job,” he said. “I don’t have you down as the hit-man type.”
I could have told them that there are all types of hit men (and women). But I didn’t. I smiled.
“The pen is mightier,” I said.
He stared at me. Teacher humor.
—
Beth eyes my Coke suspiciously. “D’you really need to leave today? It’s not much of a goodbye drink. We could order a bottle of wine. Make an afternoon of it?”
I stare at her. I’m going to miss staring at her. And I’m glad we have made our amends. I told her that the reason I came back to Arnhill was that I blamed Hurst for Chris’s suicide. I needed to lay some ghosts to rest. Partly true. Most lies are. Sometimes, it’s enough.
“Appealing as that is,” I say, “I have to go. Anyway, it’s the company that’s important.”
She pulls a face. “Smooth. I’m going for a wee.”
She sashays away from the table. I watch her slim figure depart. She is clad in black skinny jeans, DMs and a baggy striped sweater riddled with holes (which I presume is a fashion statement and not the work of overenthusiastic moths). I feel a small tug of regret. I like Beth. A lot. And I could almost dare to entertain the notion that she likes me back. She’s a good person. But I am not. Which is why I am leaving and getting as far away from her as possible.
“Bowl of chips to share.”
I glance up. Lauren plonks an overflowing bowl down on the table.
I smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Not just for the chips.”
She stares at me.
“I remember,” I say. “It was you who found me, up at the pit that night.”
The moment stretches. Just when I think she’s going to remain silent, she says: “I was taking the dog for his last walk.”
An old dog, I think. Her mum’s. A dog with a chunk of fur missing from around its neck. And a tendency to bite.