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

She understood that he didn't want to go directly to The Lantern. He didn't want to meet anyone and neither did she. The cliff road was fairly empty at this time of day. She drove fast and dangerously. When she was less emotional she slowed down.

He wasn't as she had expected him to be. He didn't look like David.

She halted the car on a farm track leading off the main road.

"He was like his mother, then?"

"Yes. Small-boned. Fair."

She wondered what words she could use to take the pain out of the silence and couldn't think of any. David's mother had died over a year ago. It had been less than tactful to mention her.

"Why did Brannigan send you?"

She nearly said, "To entice you back to the school," but stopped herself in time. "To provide transport until you make your own arrangements."

To put an electric fence around the tiger, she thought, and keep him safe from the local Press. There had been a staff meeting before morning school during which Hammond had been persuaded to take a day away from the premises. Brannigan had told him to steer clear of Fleming until Fleming was in a more rational frame of mind. "He's too shocked and grieved to make sound judgments. He's out for blood -- mine -- but yours, too, as you were in charge of the lads." Hammond had retorted explosively that his conscience was perfectly clear. "Agreed. You know it. I know it. In time Fleming will know it, too. Express your sympathy and make your explanations when he's ready to hear them. Not today."

They had gone on to talk about legal representation at the inquest. There was to be a governors' meeting during which a plan of action would be drawn up. The school, already shaky in an economic climate that eroded its foundations, needed the strongest support it could get.

A hanging judge, Alison Brannigan, the head's wife, had described Fleming. Tread softly -- softly.

A child is dead, Jenny had thought as she listened to them, and you're all so frightened of the consequences that you're getting your priorities wrong. And yet Brannigan himself had integrity and was compassionate. He didn't use the word pity, though. Perhaps the word was too mild.

She said roughly to Fleming, "David -- his dying. It's such a waste."

There was a tremor in her voice again and he saw that she was clenching her jaw. He couldn't talk about it and looked away from her. There were sheep in the adjoining field. Wisps of wool had become entangled in a briar bush. Their bleating was a low accompaniment to the sound of the wind. The sea across the headland was getting rougher. It could be blowing up to a storm. It was mid-June and felt more like December. He was aware of everything in far-off, yet minute, detail as if he were an observer from a distance.

She said, "You're very cold, aren't you?"

"I suppose so. I've stopped noticing it."

"Are you ready to move on?"

"Where?"

"Somewhere where there isn't anyone -- like this -- only indoors with a fire going and some whisky."

"Your place?"

"My parents' flat in Nelson Street. They're away for a month in Spain. It's a bolt-hole from the school when I get time off."

He hesitated, but couldn't think of anywhere else to go. A bolt-hole from the school implied that she wasn't likely to put up an impassioned defence of the school. She might speak with some truth of it. Truth, as yet, was virgin ground.

The flat, high-ceilinged and shabbily elegant, was furnished with well-chosen Victoriana. The fire was already laid in the grey marble fireplace and she put her lighter to the slivers of wood. "Sit down over there near the heater. I'll switch it on until the fire burns up. Could you eat anything if I make you a meal ?"

"No, not now -- but you go ahead."

"I couldn't either -- a drink, though, that's different."