"Gill, B.M. - Death Drop" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gill B M)

Brannigan turned back to Fleming. At any other time he doubted if he would have interfered. He felt very much on the defensive and a slow anger burned in him. He had run this school for a number of years and he believed he had run it well. If the economic recession was killing it, then he was not to blame. Neither was he to blame for the death of this man's son. If Fleming was determined to pin the guilt on him, he was not going to stand quietly to attention and let him get on with it. Last night on the drive back from Heathrow to the school he had been strongly aware of Fleming's pain and had tried to give him what support he could, but Fleming's wall of animosity had separated them and grown higher as the night wore on.

He said, "I phoned The Lantern this morning -- about the time I expected you to have returned from the mortuary. I wanted to express my sympathy."

"Thank you." It was cold.

"I was told there was a reporter there."

"I got rid of him."

"I'm sorry he bothered you."

"He didn't. I told him there was no story until I had my facts. That's why I'm here now."

Brannigan took him through the main hall and into his study. The room, despite its red carpet and curtains, looked austere and felt cold. There were photographs of each school year since nineteen-fifty-seven on the walls. The fact that the school numbers had shrunk considerably was apparent by the size of the frames.

Brannigan took the chair behind the desk, hesitated and then got up again and went to sit on one of the leather chairs by the empty fireplace. He indicated the other leather chair facing him.

"Before we start, is there anything I can get you to drink Scotch, perhaps?"

"No, thank you." It was enemy territory again.

Brannigan decided to take the initiative. "I've made, and naturally will, continue to make, every allowance for your distress, but I'm quite sure that the school is blameless. If you think differently now is the time to thrash the matter out. Ask me any questions you like. I'll answer you honestly and help in any way I can to put your mind at rest."

Fleming said crisply, "I have a lot of questions to ask you, but first of all I want to see David's work. You've kept his exercise books, I suppose?"

Brannigan let his astonishment show. In the present circumstances it was the last request he would have expected "Yes, of course I have all his books."--The boy's clothe; and possessions were packed in his school trunk, but the contents of his desk had been put in a large cardboard folder and locked in the safe. He went to fetch the folder and took it over to his desk. "I suggest you sit over here if you want to go through them."

Fleming took the folder and opened it slowly. The school exercise books, were green with the crest stamped on the cover. Under the crest of the first book he removed was neatly written in David's small rather angular writing David John Fleming, Hammond's House, Class 4A History He opened it, but made no attempt to read what he saw. This was David alive, not David dead in the mortuary. Hi-hand on the written page was touching David's warm grubby, impatient hand. David John Fleming -- not just a name, but David's voice naming his name. A lively voice with some of Ruth's north country accent in it. He had a strong memory of David's arms around his neck as they had embraced in the car before he had left him at the station to catch the school train. A private embrace before the public handshake on the platform. Very reserved in company, very British stiff upper lip. A quiet "Good-bye, kiddo, I'll be thinking of you." An equally quiet "Telepathic message at nine o'clock spot on saying good night. Okay?"

"Okay." Then aloud, laconically. "Be seeing you, Dad."

"So long, David. Letters from India this time."

"Super!" Eyes too bright, but the word coming out without a tremor. "Super!"

A traitorous wave of emotion took Fleming unexpectedly and for a moment he couldn't hide it. Brannigan noticed the clenched muscles of his jaw before he turned his head away.

It was several minutes before he was able to return to the folder.

The next three books were on mathematics. They contained average problems set a twelve-year-old and were reasonably handled. The book of essays he wanted to take away with him and read in private. He didn't feel he could trust himself to read them in Brannigan's presence. They were the essence of David. Sentences -- echoes of David's voice -- whispered up from the page before he could close his eyes and mind to them. "My first jumbo jet flight was with my Dad to New York. There was a film show -- a Western -- not very good. For lunch we had samon and lettice in boxes with plastic knives and forks. A woman in the next seat was sick in a brown paper bag and I couldn't eat any more lunch after that." Dad had been scored out with a red pen and Father put in instead. Samon had been corrected, but lettice had got through.

And further on: "The best pet I ever had was a gerbil. I ╗ had it when we had a house with a long garden in the Cotswolds. It lived in a shed in the orchard. It was a long time ago when I was young. My mother didn't like it, but she didn't say she didn't like it because she knew I did. It got lost under the floorboards once but my Father found it with a torch. My mother said she was glad it had been found. That was not honest, but it was kind." Fleming turned back a page and saw that the essay was headed Honesty. He closed the book and put it on one side.

Honesty. "How are things with you at school, David?"

"All right, Dad."

"Any problems?"