'Presumably. I suppose the police will find out.'
The Principal finished the rest of the gin. 'When did this happen?'
'About an hour ago.'
'An hour ago? I was still in my office an hour ago. Why the hell wasn't I told?'
'The caretaker thought she was drunk first of all and fetched Mrs Ruckner. She was taking an ethnic needlework class with Home Economics in the Morris block and'
'Never mind about that now,' snapped the Principal. A girl's dead on the premises and you have to go on about Mrs Ruckner and ethnic needlework.'
'I'm not going on about Mrs Ruckner,' said the Vice-Principal, driven to some defiance, 'I'm merely trying to explain.'
'Oh, all right, I've heard you. So what have you done with her?'
'Who? Mrs Ruckner?'
'No, the damned girl, for God's sake. There's no need to be flippant.'
'If you're going to adopt that tone of voice, you'd better come here and see for yourself,' said the Vice-Principal and put the phone down.
'You bloody shit,' said the Principal, unintentionally addressing his wife who had just entered the room.
At Ipford Police Station the atmosphere was fairly acrimonious too. 'Don't give me that,' said Flint who had returned from a fruitless visit to the Mental Hospital to interview a patient who had confessed (quite falsely) to being the Phantom Flasher. 'Give it to Hodge. He's drugs and I've had my fill of the bloody Tech.'
'Inspector Hodge is out,' said the Sergeant, 'and they specially asked for you. Personally.'
'Pull the other one,' said Flint. 'Someone's hoaxing you. The last person they want to see is me. And it's mutual.'
'No hoax, sir. It was the Vice-Principal himself. Name of Avon. My lad goes there so I know.'
Flint stared at him incredulously. 'Your son goes to that hell-hole? And you let him? You must be out of your mind. I wouldn't let a son of mine within a mile of the place.'
'Possibly not,' said the Sergeant, tactfully avoiding the observation that since Flint's son was doing a five-year stretch, he wasn't likely to be going any place. All the same, he's an apprentice plumber. Got day-release classes and he can't opt out of them. There's a law about it.'
'You want my opinion, there ought to be a law stopping youngsters having anything to do with the sods who teach there. When I think of Wilt...' He shook his head in despair.
'Mr Avon said something about your discreet approach being needed,' the Sergeant went on, 'and anyway, they don't know how she died. I mean, it doesn't have to be an overdose.'
Flint perked up. 'Discreet approach my arse,' he muttered. 'Still, a genuine murder there makes a change.' He lumbered to his feet and went down to the car pool and drove down to Nott Road and the Tech. A patrol car was parked outside the gates. Flint swept past it and parked deliberately in the space reserved for the Bursar. Then with the diminished confidence he always felt when returning to the Tech, he entered the building. The Vice-Principal was waiting for him by the Enquiries Desk. 'Ah, Inspector, I'm so glad you could come.'
Flint regarded him suspiciously. His previous visits hadn't been welcomed. 'All right, where's the body?' he said abruptly and was pleased to see the Vice-Principal wince.
'Er...in the boiler-room,' he said. 'But first there's the question of discretion. If we can avoid a great deal of publicity it would really be most helpful.'
Inspector Flint cheered up. When the sods started squealing about publicity and the need for discretion, things had got to be bad. On the other hand, he'd had enough lousy publicity from the Tech himself. 'If it's anything to do with Wilt...' he began, but the Vice-Principal shook his
