Teddy shook his head. ‘I’ll just keep on thinking about all the parcels,’ he said. ‘And feeling guilty. Let people strive for perfection tomorrow.’
Thelma smiled. ‘Talking of striving for perfection,’ she said,‘Liz was in St Barney’s – apparently it’s poised in a constant state of excellence, waiting for Ofsted, even though it’s the end of term.’
Teddy smiled. ‘That’s the thing about perfection,’ he said, ‘it’s so utterly exhausting to maintain. Especially in hot weather.’
As he went indoors, Thelma had a strong feeling of missed opportunity. She fingered the letter in her bag. She needed to tell him; it wasn’t like her to ignore an issue. In a way there was a parallel to be drawn with St Barnabus – they hadn’t ignored the possibility of Ofsted arriving, even though it was the end of term.
She paused, frowned. St Barnabus!
Of course!
When Teddy emerged some fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and changed, his wife was pink in the face and stabbing at her phone almost frantically.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Has something happened?’
‘It’s just come to me.’ Thelma looked up, her eyes wide and unfocused. ‘I know where I’ve seen that symbol before.’
Teddy regarded his wife.
‘It’sOfsted,’ she said. ‘It’s the Ofsted symbol. That’s why it was so familiar. And that phrase Judy Bestall heard. It wasn’t having pity or for pity’s sake or anything like that – it was Pity Me!’
Teddy frowned. ‘Isn’t that a place near Durham?’ he said.
Thelma nodded. ‘It’s a village,’ she said. ‘On the outskirts. A village with a school. And Neville Hilton led the last inspection.’
Part Two
Pity Me
Chapter Eleven
Monday 21st July
Met Office pollen count:
Grass pollen on the rise. Nettle, dock and plantain too. Spores: a little Alternaria and medium Cladosporium when warm.
‘I wanted the ground to swallow me up!’ said Liz fretfully, shaking her head. Even though a weekend had passed, the memory of being found by Ffion Hilton was still painfully sharp. Her gaze ranged round the Costa Coffee, as if expecting the various customers sipping their iced drinks to give her looks of justifiable condemnation. It was relatively new, this branch, and thankfully had air-conditioning.
‘If you will go listening to Jax Shally …’ said Pat, not really trying to keep any trace of ‘I told you so’ out of her voice.
‘I was mortified,’ said Liz, vexedly clutching her tea. ‘Mortified! To be threatened with the police!’
Pat smiled but Thelma did not. Indeed, a fleeting wince crossed her features, as though she were suddenly assailed by a stab of toothache. Infinitesimal the look may have been, but Liz clocked it all the same.
‘All I can say,’ said Pat, ‘is Ms Jax Shally better not try getting me to go round there.’
‘I’ve blocked her number,’ said Liz adamantly. ‘And I won’t be unblocking her any time soon.’
‘Can you show me those boots again?’ asked Thelma. Obediently Liz took out her phone and showed the photo of the two paint-splattered boots in their nest of toilet rolls.
‘Definitely riding boots,’ said Pat. ‘And a fine old mess the Black Widow’s made of them. The paint goes all the way up the shank.’
‘If they are Ffion’s boots,’ said Thelma.
‘Who else’s would they be?’ said Liz. ‘They were hidden in her kitchen cupboard.’
‘In which case,’ said Thelma, ‘why did she paint that line down the wall?’
