Murder Club - Mark Pearson [54]
‘Thanks, darling.’
‘Your cold does seem to be getting worse, Geoffrey.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m worried about you, that’s all. What with your asthma.’
‘Like I say, I’m fine. I’ve got my sprays and my inhalers.’
The classical music finished on the radio and the presenter announced that the news would be following the adverts.
Patricia crossed over to the small, occasional table where the radio stood and turned it off.
‘I was listening to that, darling,’ Geoffrey said.
‘I know you were, but we need to talk.’
‘I wanted to catch the news!’
‘Later, Geoffrey, this is important.’
‘What is it?’
Patricia sat down next to him. ‘You know we were always talking about moving away. To Spain. To Barcelona.’
‘A pipe-dream. We’re too old now.’
‘Rubbish! But we are getting older. There is no denying that, and this climate here does nothing for your lungs.’
‘What’s put this in your mind all of a sudden?’
‘It’s your chest, and this damned cold. And now there’s this snow and goodness knows when it will end.’
‘If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind.’
‘That’s all very well for Shelley, darling, but he didn’t live in Queen’s Park.’
‘Well we can certainly think about it. Turn the radio back on.’
‘But that’s all we ever do, Geoffrey. Think about it, let’s seize the horn right now, today!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been on the computer …’
‘Again!’
‘Yes, and I’ve found some really cheap flights to Barcelona.’
‘For when?’
‘For tomorrow, Geoffrey. Why don’t we go and spend Christmas in Spain and see what we think?’
Geoffrey coughed into his handkerchief again. ‘I know what I think?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think you’ve finally lost your marbles,’ he said. ‘And we’ve no chance of making a quick sale, what with the housing market as it is. Let’s wait till the market picks up and then we’ll talk about it.’
‘It might be too late by then.’
‘There’s nothing to connect us, Patricia. Nobody will know who he is now, even if he does turn up.’
Patricia nodded, close to tears. ‘I just worry about what’s to become of us.’
Geoffrey took her hand and patted it. ‘I promised you I’d take care of everything, didn’t I?’
She nodded, blinking back the tears. ‘Yes.’
‘And I will, darling,’ he said, his eyes suddenly clear and focused. ‘I will!’
38.
JACK DELANEY PARKED his car at the Harrow School theatre. Built in 1994, the Ryan Theatre had cost more than four million pounds, and was worth more than many professional theatres. Then again, the school charged pupils thirty grand a year to attend. Getting on for a quarter of a million pounds for their time at school, and with approximately 850 pupils in attendance, they could pretty much afford it. Pretty much afford anything! Most of the land and the buildings on the Hill were owned by the school. They had invented the game of squash and Harrow’s old-boy honours list contained eight former prime ministers, amongst many other luminaries.
Delaney was not surprised, therefore, as he slammed shut the passenger door of his battered old Saab, to see an outraged figure with curly hair strolling from the theatre towards him.
‘You can’t park there!’ the man said.
‘And you’d be?’ replied Delaney.
‘I’d be the technical manager. And this is school property.’
‘We won’t be long,’ said Sally Cartwright, smiling sweetly at him. ‘We’ve got a quick meeting at The Castle.’
The technical manager looked across at her and beamed. ‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘Take as long as you like. Tell them I sent you.’
‘Cheers,’ she said and walked out of the car park with Delaney. ‘See, sir, didn’t even have to flash my warrant card.’
‘Not your warrant card, no, Sally,’ said Delaney.
‘Sir!’ Sally replied in mock-outrage.
They walked up to the main road and down towards The Castle. ‘They do a nice drop of ale here apparently, Sally.’
‘Bit early for me, boss.’
Delaney looked at his watch. ‘Past lunchtime, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe a cheese and onion roll.’
They turned right out of the car park