Free I Know Who Did It (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) by Stephen Leather Page B

Nightingale decided to drive down to the boarding school
after lunch. He grabbed his raincoat and tossed it over his shoulder as he
walked to Jenny’s desk. ‘If Robbie calls, tell him to try my mobile.’
    ‘Have you got
your hands-free fixed up?’
    ‘Sort of.’
    ‘What does that
mean?’
    ‘I tuck it
between my neck and my shoulder. That counts as hands-free.’
    ‘You’ll lose your
licence, Jack. The cops don’t want you smoking and phoning while you drive.’
    ‘To be fair, I
don’t do both at the same time. Why not come with me?’
    She frowned up at
him. ‘Because?’
    ‘Because I’ll
need a cover story. A guy on his own might look a bit out of place, but we
could say we’re parents looking for a school for our kid.’
    Jenny’s eyes
narrowed. ‘Parents?’
    ‘It’s just a
cover story.’
    Her eyes narrowed
a bit more. ‘How old is our child?’
    Nightingale
shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Eight? Nine?’
    ‘You’d tell them
that I’m the mother of an eight-year-old?’
    ‘You married
young.’
    ‘You’re an idiot
sometimes. First, I doubt anyone would believe I was the mother of an
eight-year-old. I bloody hope not, anyway. And second, I really hope that no
one would believe for one minute that you and I were…’ She shuddered.
    ‘It was just an
idea,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘A better idea
would be for you to go on your own and say that your wife is overseas. You’re
looking at schools before she comes over with the kid.’ She flashed him a tight
smile. ‘That sounds a lot more realistic.’
    Nightingale
raised his hands in surrender. ‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘Can you
get me directions to Rushworth School?’
    ‘Why don’t you
get yourself a GPS?’ asked Jenny.
    ‘I don’t trust
them,’ he said.
    ‘But you trust a
computer printout?’ She shook her head in amazement and turned to her computer.
After a few minutes on the internet she printed out a map and gave it to him.
    ‘What about
running me out in the Audi?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I’ll pay for the petrol.’
    ‘As much as I’d
love to, I’ve got to file our VAT returns today and I’m still working my way
through the stack of receipts you gave me this morning.’
    Nightingale took
the map from her. The school was about sixty miles away. ‘Suppose I’d better
set off, then,’ he said.
    His MGB was in a
multi-storey a short walk from his office and five minutes later he was heading
west. Traffic was light and it took him just over ninety minutes to drive to
the school. It was a large grey stone building, two wings either side of a
columned entrance, with a grey-slated roof. Off to the left were tennis courts
and a hockey pitch.
    Nightingale
parked in the staff car park and went to reception where he told a stern-faced
woman the cover story that he’d been rehearsing on the drive down. He and his
wife Jenny were moving back to the UK from Australia and bringing their
nine-year-old daughter with them. Nightingale worked for a bank that meant he
had to travel a lot, and Jenny was a high-powered lawyer so they had decided
that Zoe would be best boarding. Nightingale actually felt quite sorry for the
hypothetical young girl for being saddled with parents who clearly didn’t give
a toss about her. The stern-faced woman gave him a glossy brochure and a print
out of the fees. He tried not to show surprise at the huge amounts being
charged and asked if it would be possible to speak to the headmaster.
    ‘Headmistress,’
said the woman, archly. She waved him to a line of wooden seats. ‘I’ll see if
Ms Cunningham is available.’
    Nightingale was
kept waiting for fifteen minutes but when Ms Cunningham did eventually arrive
she was very apologetic. She was in her early thirties, with shoulder length
blonde hair and bright red lipstick that matched her fingernails. She was
wearing a dark green suit with a skirt that ended just above the knee, and
matching green heels. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring