Dying to Write by Judith Cutler

to see anything wrong with mine.
    â€˜Hi,’ I said, too brightly, as he stood irresolute on the threshold. ‘Come along and have a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you all about our murder.’
    At last, however, he managed to gather the shreds of protocol, and he said, his voice almost under control: ‘I think I ought to talk to the administrator first. And, of course, you realise the officer who came earlier thinks you’re wrong.’
    I smiled. ‘I hope I am wrong, Chris. Because if Nyree has been murdered, I might be one of the suspects.’
    I would use that as my exit line; it was time to fetch Shazia. I did no more than put my head round the lounge door to summon her. Then I introduced them briefly and watched them retire to her office. One of them shut the door quite firmly.
    Duty called me back to the lounge. I’d have to face them sooner or later. I slipped in quietly. And my ploy worked. I had ten uncomfortable minutes not enduring their questions, as I’d feared, but listening to their complaints about Kate and Matt. And I began to feel that they might after all have some justification. Now Shazia was no longer in the room to support them, they needed someone with some authority. Not me, as I reminded myself again. At least I had enough initiative to do something. Maybe if I rousted them out before an official deputation demanded they get up and teach, I’d defuse the situation. So I slipped out as quietly as I’d gone in, and headed for the staff corridor.
    As I crossed the hall I nearly collided with Matt, hurtling down the stairs.
    â€˜Where’s Kate?’ he demanded.
    â€˜Still asleep, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Matt, there’s been –’
    â€˜No, she isn’t. I’ve just checked her room.’
    â€˜But it was locked.’
    â€˜Still is, for all I know.’
    â€˜Then how –’
    â€˜The bathroom doors connect, and no one’s got round to finding a key. Found that out a couple of courses ago when I locked myself out. That was before Shazia’s time, of course – I can’t imagine ever having to tell her anything twice. Ah, here she is. Shazia, my love, I have something to confess!’
    Shazia was plainly concerned; but then she remembered something of much greater importance.
    I wondered if they both realised that Chris, from the office door, was listening and watching.
    â€˜Matt,’ she began, ‘something terrible has happened. To Nyree.’
    â€˜Got the DTs, has she? Delirium tremens,’ he added, as if Shazia might not understand the term. ‘Serve her bloody right.’
    â€˜Nyree’s dead, Matt,’ I said quickly. ‘Shazia couldn’t wake her this morning.’
    He stared at me and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘None of this is making sense,’ he said at last. ‘I need a coffee. Then perhaps you can start at the beginning and tell me what’s happening.’
    Chris stepped forward, nodding at Matt without apparent interest. Matt might have been deceived. I introduced them briefly. Neither seemed much impressed by the other.
    For some reason I led Chris not to my room but into the grounds. We soon found a bench where no one could overhear us. Perhaps it was the sun, now quite warm, but I couldn’t stop yawning; I felt as if I’d had a heavy night of it, but I counted back and couldn’t total more than a glass of wine and half a finger of Nyree’s cherished scotch. You wouldn’t call the air here relaxing, as if it were some genteel spa. It wasn’t any different from the air I always breathe, down the road in Harborne.
    Chris too seemed subdued.
    â€˜Jet lag,’ he said briefly when I showed concern. And then he half turned to me as if he were imparting bad news. ‘I really do think you’re overreacting, Sophie. I’ve spoken to young Speller, who’s nobody’s fool.’
    â€˜The PC, you