uncertainty.
‘What you are suggesting is impossible,’ he says. ‘My daughter couldn’t have sent any emails.’
‘Why?’
‘She died three months ago; she and my granddaughter drowned in Greece.’
Suddenly the room isn’t big enough to hide the awkwardness of the moment. The air has become cloying and harsh. Ruiz looks at me, unable to respond.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell them. I don’t know what else to say. ‘We had no idea.’
Bryan Chambers isn’t interested in apologies or explanations.
‘They died in a ferry accident,’ says Mrs Chambers, still sitting upright on the edge of the sofa. ‘It sank in a storm.’
I remember the story. It was late in the summer, a freak storm in the Aegean. Ships were damaged and yachts destroyed. Some of the holiday resorts had to be evacuated and a passenger ferry sank off one of the islands. Dozens of tourists were rescued. Passengers died.
I glance around the room, looking at the photographs. The Chambers have created a shrine to their dead granddaughter.
‘Please leave now,’ says Bryan Chambers.
Skipper emphasises the demand, by holding open the door. I’m still looking at the images of a blonde-haired, clear-skinned granddaughter, missing a front tooth, holding a balloon, blowing out birthday candles…
‘We’re very sorry to have troubled you,’ I say. ‘And for your loss.’
Ruiz dips his head. ‘Thank you for the tea, ma’am.’
Neither Bryan nor Claudia respond.
Skipper escorts us outside and stands sentry at the door, still with his right hand inside his oilskin jacket. Bryan Chambers appears beside him.
Ruiz has started the Merc. My door is open. I turn back.
‘Mr Chambers, who did you think sent us?’
‘Goodbye,’ he says.
‘Is someone threatening you?’
‘Drive carefully.’
36
We emerge out of the wooded drive and swing right, taking the back road as far as Trowbridge. The Merc floats over the dips. Sinatra has been turned down.
‘That’s one fucking crazy family,’ mutters Ruiz. ‘The wheels are spinning but the hamster’s dead. Did you see Chambers’ face? I thought he was having a heart attack.’
‘He’s frightened of something.’
‘What? World War III?’
Ruiz begins listing the security measures- the cameras, motion sensors and alarms. Skipper could have come straight from SAS central casting.
‘A guy like that earns five grand a week as a bodyguard in Baghdad- what’s he doing here?’
‘Wiltshire is safer.’
‘Maybe Chambers has been doing business with the wrong sort of people. That’s the problem with those big corporations- it’s like Friday night at the movies. Someone is always trying to get a handful of tit or a finger in the pie.’
‘Colourful analogy.’
‘Think so?’
‘My daughters are never going to the cinema.’
‘Just you wait.’
We take the A363 through Bradford-on-Avon and skirt the top of Bathampton Down. We crest a hill. Bath Spa is there before us, nestled sedately in a valley. A billboard announces: Your Dream Retirement Lies Just Ahead. Ruiz thinks it sums up Bath, which has that sulphurous reek of old age and money.
I can’t get a single question out of my head: how did a dead woman send emails organising a night out with friends? Someone sent the messages. Whoever sent the messages must have had access to Helen Chambers’ computer or her login details. Either that or they stole her identity and set up a new account. If so, why? It makes no sense. What possible interest would someone have in getting four old friends together?
It could have been the killer. He may have drawn them together and then followed them home. It certainly would explain how he scoped his victims- learning where they lived and worked, discovering the rhythm of their lives. It still doesn’t explain how Helen Chambers is linked to this.
‘We have to talk Maureen Bracken,’ I say. ‘She’s the only person who turned up at that reunion who’s still alive.’
Ruiz doesn’t say a word but I know he’s thinking the same thing. Someone has to warn her.
Oldfield School is set amid trees and muddy sporting fields, overlooking the Avon Valley. A sign in the car park tells all visitors to report to the office.
A lone student is sitting in reception, swinging her legs beneath a plastic chair. She is dressed in a blue skirt, white blouse and dark blue jumper with a swan motif. She glances up briefly and resumes her wait.
A school secretary appears behind a sliding glass window. Behind her a colour-coded timetable covers the wall; a feat of logic and organisation that encompasses 850 students, thirty-four classrooms and fifteen subjects. Running a school is like being an air traffic controller without a radar screen.
The secretary runs her finger down the timetable, tapping the board twice. ‘Mrs Bracken is teaching English in the annex. Room 2b.’ She glances at the clock. ‘It’s almost lunchtime. You can wait for her in the corridor or in the staffroom. It’s up the stairs- to the right. Jacquie will show you.’
The schoolgirl raises her head and looks relieved. Judgement for whatever she’s done has been postponed.
‘This way,’ she says, pushing through the doors and quickly climbing the stairs, pausing at the landing for us to catch up. A notice board advertises a design competition, photography class and Oldfield’s anti-bullying policy.
‘So what did you do?’ asks Ruiz.
Jacquie glances at him sheepishly. ‘Got kicked out of class.’
‘What for?’
‘You’re not one of the governors, are you?’
‘Do I look like a school governor?’
‘No,’ she admits. ‘I accused my drama teacher of raging mediocrity.’
Ruiz laughs. ‘Not just any mediocrity then?’
‘No.’
A bell rings. Bodies fill the corridors, flooding around us. There are peals of laughter and cries of, ‘Don’t run! Don’t run!’
Jacquie has reached the classroom. She knocks on the door. ‘Visitors to see you, miss.’
‘Thank you.’
Maureen Bracken is wearing a knee-length dark green dress with a brown leather belt and court shoes that show off her solid calves. Her hair is pinned back and minimal make-up colours her lips and eyelids.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks immediately. Her fingers are spotted with black marker pen.
‘It might be nothing,’ I say, trying to reassure her.
Ruiz has picked up a toy from her desk- a fluffy animal stuck on the end of a pen.
‘Confiscated,’ she explains. ‘You should see my collection.’
She straightens a stack of essays and tucks them inside a folder. I look around. ‘You’re teaching at your old school.’
‘Who would have thought?’ she says. ‘I was a complete tear-away at school. Not as bad as Sylvie, mind you.
