Dying on Principle by Judith Cutler

parapet was the height you could comfortably lean your elbows on. I oriented myself and headed for the corner nearest my house, its roof strangely small and unfamiliar and – now I looked more closely – missing a ridge tile. To celebrate being in the open on such a promising day and to prove I had my vertigo under control, I decided to complete a circuit. Someone had drawn expansive yellow chalk circles around suspect-looking roof felt, and a bucket of tar steamed ready. I dodged round it, and looked over each of the corners. One had an excellent view of the playing fields – fields in the plural when poor William Murdock hadn’t so much as a bit of tarmac for kicking a ball on. The last corner was the one nearest the area occupied by the maintenance staff. I looked down at a little shed with a motor mower half out, the canteen bins and a rubbish skip.
    On top of the skip were some tar drums, some broken chairs, and a discarded life-size model from the art room. The thoughts came painfully slowly. How enlightened to use a black model. They had posed it clothed. A black young woman. And I knew, as I ran down the stairs two and three at a time, that it wasn’t a model.
    I could simply have dialled 999. I supposed I should have told someone in authority and let them do it for me: hierarchies clearly operated at George Muntz. But logic deserted me, and I ran all the way to my own office to make the call. Chris, of course. DCI Chris Groom.
    His voice was calm and efficient. ‘You’re sure it’s her?’
    â€˜Without going closer and having a look—’
    â€˜No, don’t do that. No point in upsetting yourself, Sophie. And you might just – you know – disturb something. Have you told anyone?’
    â€˜No. And I’ve an idea I should have. But Chris, I couldn’t just invite you over here to look at the view, could I?’
    â€˜Hardly. Go and tell someone, and tell them you panicked. If it really is Melina, surely they’ll have more important things to do than worry about protocol!’ He waited for me to say something. ‘Come on, Sophie, you’re not usually so shy and retiring.’
    â€˜It’s being new here, Chris. And – look, shouldn’t you be putting your underpants outside your trousers and leaping into action? We can talk about my hang-ups later.’
    â€˜OK. But I shall need to talk to you officially, mind, so don’t worry if you find yourself getting sent for. Take care.’
    There was another word, which he choked off. Poor Chris.
    And come to think of it, poor Sophie. Now I had time to look, something radical had happened to my room: the arrival of another chair and several boxes of someone else’s papers. And an ashtray, heavily used.
    First things first, however: whom ought I to tell? The principal, I suppose, or, failing him the less than charming Mr Curtis. On the whole, since Peggy had described him as a gentleman and he’d been charm personified at the meeting that brought me here, I’d try Mr Blake.
    When I reached the foyer it was in chaos: piles of the sort of timber I associate with other people’s home extensions, and raucous young men in overalls milling round, much to Peggy’s tight-lipped irritation. I smiled wanly at her and headed down the short corridor leading to the principal’s study. A desk impeded my progress, occupied, according to the gold-printed wooden block, by Mrs I. M. Cavendish, Secretary to the Chief Executive.
    She was speaking into the phone when I arrived and chose to continue without acknowledging me: ‘I hear what you are saying, Mrs Jeffreys. Yes. I do hear. But I cannot imagine that—’ At this point she rolled her eyes heavenwards; I too was invited to condemn her unheard interlocutor. ‘Mrs Jeffreys: you are taking antibiotics. You are teaching only a floor from the ladies’ lavatory. Surely it isn’t too much for Mr Blake to