all high, ornate ceilings and dark, polished wainscoting. Susan’s footsteps echoed as they walked. It was certainly a far cry from the institutional gloom of Eastvale Comprehensive, or from Banks’s old redbrick school in Peterborough, for that matter.
They walked along the narrow corridor, noting the gilt-framed paintings of past heads on the walls. Most of them were men. When they reached the door marked “Dr JS Green: Principal,” Banks knocked sharply.
Expecting to be asked into an anteroom and vetted by a secretary first, Banks was surprised when he and Susan found themselves in the head’s office. Like the rest of the building, it had a high ceiling with elaborate cornices, but there its ancient character ended.
The wainscoting, if there had been any, had been removed and the walls were papered in an attractive Laura Ashley print. A shaded electric light hung from the old chandelier fixture, and several gun-metal filing cabinets stood against the wall. The bay window dominated the room, its window seat scattered with cushions that matched the wallpaper. The view through the trees to the river, Banks noticed, was magnificent, even on a drizzly November morning. Across the river was St Mary’s Park, with its pond, trees, benches and children’s playground.
“What do you think?” Dr Green asked, after they had introduced themselves and shaken hands.
“Pardon?” said Banks.
She took their raincoats and hung them on a rack in the corner. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were ‘casing the joint’ as they say,” she said.
“Hardly,” said Banks. “That’s what the bad guys do.”
She blushed slightly. “Oh, dear. My gaffe. I suppose criminal parlance is not my forte.”
Banks smiled. “Just as well. Anyway, it’s very nice.”
The tall, elegant Dr Julia Green looked every bit as Laura Ashley as her walls. The skirt and waistcoat she wore over her white blouse were made of heavy cloth; earth colours dominated, browns and greens, mixed with the odd flash of muted pink or yellow, like wildflowers poking their way through the undergrowth.
Her ash-blonde hair lay neatly piled and curled on her head, with only one or two loose strands. She had a narrow face, high cheekbones and a small nose. There was also a remote, unattainable quality about her that intrigued Banks. She might be one of the pale and distant beauties, but there was no mistaking the sharp glint of intelligence in her apple-green eyes. Right now, they also looked red from crying.
“This is a terrible business,” she said. “Though I suppose you have to deal with it all the time.”
“Not often,” said Banks. “And you never get used to it.” “Please, sit down.”
Banks and Susan sat in the two chairs opposite the small, solid desk. Susan took her notebook out.
“I don’t know how I can help you,” Dr Green went on, “but I’ll do my best.”
“Maybe you could start by telling us what kind of a girl Deborah was.”
She rested her hands on the desk, tapered fingers laced together. “I can’t tell you very much,” she said. “Deborah is … was … a day-girl. Do you know how the system works?”
“I don’t know much about public schools at all.”
“ Independent school,” she corrected him. “Public school sounds so Victorian, don’t you think? Well, you see, we have a mix of day-girls and boarders. The actual balance changes slightly from year to year, but at the moment, we have 65 day-pupils and 286 boarding. When I say that Deborah was a day-girl I don’t describe her status in any way, just note the simple fact that she came and went each day, so one didn’t develop any special relationship with her.”
“Relationship?”
“Yes. Well, when you live in such close proximity to the pupils, you’re bound to get to know more about them, aren’t you?”
“In what way?”
“In any number of ways. Whether it be the crisis of Elizabeth’s first period, Meredith’s parents’ divorce or
They walked along the narrow corridor, noting the gilt-framed paintings of past heads on the walls. Most of them were men. When they reached the door marked “Dr JS Green: Principal,” Banks knocked sharply.
Expecting to be asked into an anteroom and vetted by a secretary first, Banks was surprised when he and Susan found themselves in the head’s office. Like the rest of the building, it had a high ceiling with elaborate cornices, but there its ancient character ended.
The wainscoting, if there had been any, had been removed and the walls were papered in an attractive Laura Ashley print. A shaded electric light hung from the old chandelier fixture, and several gun-metal filing cabinets stood against the wall. The bay window dominated the room, its window seat scattered with cushions that matched the wallpaper. The view through the trees to the river, Banks noticed, was magnificent, even on a drizzly November morning. Across the river was St Mary’s Park, with its pond, trees, benches and children’s playground.
“What do you think?” Dr Green asked, after they had introduced themselves and shaken hands.
“Pardon?” said Banks.
She took their raincoats and hung them on a rack in the corner. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were ‘casing the joint’ as they say,” she said.
“Hardly,” said Banks. “That’s what the bad guys do.”
She blushed slightly. “Oh, dear. My gaffe. I suppose criminal parlance is not my forte.”
Banks smiled. “Just as well. Anyway, it’s very nice.”
The tall, elegant Dr Julia Green looked every bit as Laura Ashley as her walls. The skirt and waistcoat she wore over her white blouse were made of heavy cloth; earth colours dominated, browns and greens, mixed with the odd flash of muted pink or yellow, like wildflowers poking their way through the undergrowth.
Her ash-blonde hair lay neatly piled and curled on her head, with only one or two loose strands. She had a narrow face, high cheekbones and a small nose. There was also a remote, unattainable quality about her that intrigued Banks. She might be one of the pale and distant beauties, but there was no mistaking the sharp glint of intelligence in her apple-green eyes. Right now, they also looked red from crying.
“This is a terrible business,” she said. “Though I suppose you have to deal with it all the time.”
“Not often,” said Banks. “And you never get used to it.” “Please, sit down.”
Banks and Susan sat in the two chairs opposite the small, solid desk. Susan took her notebook out.
“I don’t know how I can help you,” Dr Green went on, “but I’ll do my best.”
“Maybe you could start by telling us what kind of a girl Deborah was.”
She rested her hands on the desk, tapered fingers laced together. “I can’t tell you very much,” she said. “Deborah is … was … a day-girl. Do you know how the system works?”
“I don’t know much about public schools at all.”
“ Independent school,” she corrected him. “Public school sounds so Victorian, don’t you think? Well, you see, we have a mix of day-girls and boarders. The actual balance changes slightly from year to year, but at the moment, we have 65 day-pupils and 286 boarding. When I say that Deborah was a day-girl I don’t describe her status in any way, just note the simple fact that she came and went each day, so one didn’t develop any special relationship with her.”
“Relationship?”
“Yes. Well, when you live in such close proximity to the pupils, you’re bound to get to know more about them, aren’t you?”
“In what way?”
“In any number of ways. Whether it be the crisis of Elizabeth’s first period, Meredith’s parents’ divorce or
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