Free Return to Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan Page A

off the wall. Sanchez disappeared in a flurry of legs.
    The movie finished.
    ‘By remarkable coincidence,’ said the headmaster, once he’d got silence, ‘the High School coach telephoned me this afternoon.’ He unfolded a paper carefully and
cleared his throat. ‘First game of the season. Tuesday, three weeks hence, at eleven o’clock in the morning. Here at Ribblestrop.’
    ‘Quiet . . .’ said Routon.
    ‘We have a lot to do this term! Boys! Listen! Stay where you are!’
    There was no stopping them, though. Every child moved as one and the headmaster found that he was no longer standing on the podium. He was in a forest of hands, and those hands were lifting him
higher and carrying him. The school song rose again, the voices soaring. No choir could have matched that passion. It was a wonder the roof stayed on. There were harmonies. There were soaring
descants. Every voice was trumpeting:
    ‘Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;
    This is what I dream about and where . . .
    I want . . .
    To be . . .’
    The new term had started.

Chapter Nine
    Ribblestrop’s Inspector of Police, Percy Cuthbertson, had recently been promoted. According to the official report, he had shown exceptional courage in an undercover
situation . He had saved the day and been sung as a hero. A number of important people – for reasons far too complicated to go into here – had worked together to protect him from the
suggestion that he was, in fact, corrupt, dangerous, and motivated only by personal greed. He was now the county’s Deputy Chief Constable. He had been given a new uniform, with bright buttons
and extra-large epaulettes, and he had a fine office on the ninth floor of city headquarters. He had his own coffee machine, his own sofa, and mint-edition copies of Policeman’s
Weekly . He had a personal assistant in a sub-office outside who didn’t mind calling him Deputy Chief Constable every time she spoke.
    When you consider these triumphs, you might assume that D.C.C. Cuthbertson’s interest in Ribblestrop Towers would now be at an end. You might have thought that it would hold only painful
and embarrassing memories, and that he’d avoid the place.
    You’d have been wrong.
    D.C.C. Cuthbertson had, for a long time, known things about the school that he hoped would make him wealthy. He’d been researching its secrets for more than a year, noting the rumours and
filing reports. If Ribblestrop Towers was the honey-pot, then D.C.C. Cuthbertson was the desperate, dangerous wasp that would never stop circling it. Soon, he hoped to make another move.
    It was unfortunate that the officer had so little to do, and that his new title was simply a way of keeping him idle. He had time to imagine all kinds of revenge for the humiliations he’d
received, and he would sometimes sit at his desk smiling at the wall for ten or twelve minutes at a time. He’d refused to give up his old office at Ribblestrop Police Station, insisting that
one day he might need it again. As he was the only one with keys, there wasn’t much his underlings could do.
    On this particular Thursday morning, he was in private conference. He sat with his elbows on the desk, and in front of him, just as hunched – nursing chapped, swollen hands – sat an
elderly man disguised as a priest: Father O’Hanrahan. The two men had known each other for many years – policeman and convict.
    ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ growled Cuthbertson.
    ‘Then it might have been nice to receive warning,’ said the man opposite.
    ‘What I mean is, nothing surprises me. I’m not saying I predicted exactly what they’d do to you. There is nothing about that school or the fool who runs it that could
ever surprise me again. I learned the hard—’
    ‘I have also learned the hard way!’ said Father O’Hanrahan.
    Cuthbertson smiled. ‘My wife put her finger on it,’ he said. ‘She said, “You underestimated them, Percy,” and she was right. But I tell you