Free Dying to Write by Judith Cutler

no sign of Kate, I thought he’d be safer here. What are you going to do about Kate?’
    â€˜Nothing. Not yet.’
    â€˜She’s been gone twelve hours. Her rat was wandering around –’
    â€˜She probably went looking for it.’
    â€˜Him. And then –? She’s a professional woman, Chris. Here doing a job for which she’d get paid. She wouldn’t bunk off without letting at least Matt know what she was up to.’
    â€˜Hmm.’
    â€˜Do you intend to wait till something nasty happens to another woman? There are a lot of us on this course for someone to choose from.’
    He shook his head. Kindly. I could have hit him.
    â€˜Tell you what,’ he said at last, ‘if she doesn’t turn up for supper, I’ll reconsider. And I’ll have a word with everyone after you’ve eaten. Put them in the picture.’
    He got up to go, weariness in every movement. Even his smile was tired. I wished I could suggest we had a drink together. But there was no bar, he had work to do, and I had to face the others at supper. I followed him out of the room.
    Supper was a silent and unappetising affair. Mr Woodhouse had been teamed with the aspiring publisher and Jean, the third grey lady. Her menu reflected her experience as a school dinner lady in the days when they’d had them: cottage pie, diced carrot and mashed potato. Toad, who was improving the shining hour with a buttercup yellow T-shirt bearing a bilious green message that fur looked better on animals, left the meat in a greyish ring round the edge of his plate. I had to draw myself up short. Mostly I avoid red meat, and I wouldn’t dream of wearing fur; why should I find his behaviour objectionable? Perhaps it was his air of complacent ostentation that irritated me. Certainly it annoyed Gimson, who stared testily at him and seemed only to be searching for an opportunity to say something truly scathing.
    Rice pudding followed. Not, I’ll admit, your average school pud: she’d used golden syrup to sweeten it. Matt, despite his testy anxiety, scraped and ate the crusty bits from round the top. Toad and he had tossed for the golden-brown skin; Toad had won. Courtney did no more than push his food from side to side of his plate. He’d tied back his hair in a fashionable if miniscule pony-tail, but the style made him look not trendy but gaunt. I kept thinking about Chris. I wanted to talk about his experiences in India before he could bury them in the matchless police prose of the report he’d no doubt have to write. But all I’d done was talk about Nyree and Kate. At least the gloom on my face would match that on the others’.
    Would Chris make a grand entrance into the lounge after supper, or would he simply stand there waiting for us? I favoured the more theatrical option; so, it transpired, did he. His style was so good, one or two people started to their feet like punctilious third-formers. I caught his eye in approval. But I was sure the slight grin he flashed me included guilt.
    He didn’t need a cough, portentous or otherwise, to gain our attention.
    â€˜I know that in a group like this rumours gather and spread like colds,’ he began, with a smile to fetch the ducks off the water. ‘So I thought you all ought to know what few facts we’ve gathered. And if anyone has anything they think I ought to know, perhaps they’d reciprocate.
    â€˜First, as you all know, Mrs Compton – Nyree – died this morning. Mr Gimson examined her as soon as Shazia found her. That was at about nine. There was nothing anyone could have done. She’d been dead several hours by then. The cause of death was alcohol plus barbiturates.’
    Gimson, who had been casually inspecting his nails, was galvanised. ‘I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜Barbiturates.’
    â€˜Sleeping tablets,’ Jean explained kindly.
    â€˜As I said, she was a stupid woman,’ said