Free Fear No Evil by Debbie Johnson Page B

corner. There might have been a roof garden up there at one time, or an observation point for looking out over the Mersey.
    Students bustled in and out of the front doors, books tucked under their arms, backpacks hanging from their shoulders, all looking unfashionably earnest. This must be the Hall for Hard Workers, which might explain why I never lived here. I was firmly in the Hall for Slackers, where the heaviest thing we carried round was a four-pack of Stella and a bad attitude.
    There was a bike park to the left of the main entrance, and I noticed the residents using plastic swipe cards to get in and out of the building. The patch of grass outside was bald and faded, like a threadbare carpet, its only decoration a litter bin. The concrete path leading up to the grandiose double doors was clean apart from a few globs of chewing gum, and completely unmarked by the fact that only a few months ago, Joy Middlemas was lying there with her brains splattered all over the paving, bleeding out her last moments on earth.

    Dan had been quiet and moody on the drive over. The few times I asked him a question, he snapped back at me, so I gave up. I suppose reading the diary of a dead girl could make the jolliest of souls testy. I couldn’t complain – so far I’d wussed out of reading it at all.
    I snuck a look at him. The ‘something’ he’d needed to grab from his van turned out to be a black shirt and trousers and a dog collar, all of which he was now wearing.
    ‘Isn’t there some kind of law against that?’ I’d asked sarcastically when he emerged from the loo, transformed. ‘Impersonating a member of the priesthood?’
    ‘Possibly, but I assume you’d know,’ he said. ‘Personally I don’t care, and I don’t think God does – it helps me get in to places. Nobody likes to be rude to a priest.’
    I was about to prove him wrong on that point, but he’d pre-empted me by walking out of the door without another word. I consoled myself by being rude to a priest’s back, with two of my fingers.
    The security at Hart House wasn’t too bad at all. As well as the swipe card system, I could see CCTV cameras at strategic points, and there was a uniformed guard visible behind a small desk in the lobby. The car park off to the rear had another swipe card entry system, with a barrier that swung up and down on demand. Nothing that would stop anyone serious about their trade, but enough to deter a passing thief or pervert.
    ‘Come on,’ said Dan, striding ahead. I wasn’t sure if I was glad about the dog collar thing or not. On the one hand, it made it easier to think of him as Father Dan. On the other, it made me feel even more guilty that I was admiring the length of his legs as he disappeared off towards the door. It was a moral dilemma. Or potentially an immoral one.
    A girl came out of the door, about nineteen, pretty as a picture with flowing blonde hair and huge blue eyes. She was wearing bell bottom jeans and a fur-fringed suede jacket. Back to the seventies. She looked up as Dan approached, did a slight double take, then smiled at him. Dazzled by his priestly splendour, or maybe that one dimple of his, she held the door open for him. So much for the swipe cards. Security is only as secure as the idiot using it.

    ‘Thank you,’ I mumbled as she passed, although she clearly hadn’t even noticed I existed. I wasn’t sure I liked the way I was becoming invisible in the presence of the man in black.
    The guard glanced at us as we entered, and I saw his eyes clock the dog collar immediately. He was middle-aged and looked like his two favourite hobbies were drinking beer and watching telly.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ said Dan, confidently, walking past as though he had every right to be there.
    The guard nodded and smiled. ‘Afternoon, Father,’ he said, going back to his copy of the Daily Star .
    ‘Told you it worked,’ he said as we headed to the stairs. Smug bastard. I was sure I’d have got in somehow, probably