‘And why didn’t she say she did?’ said Pat. ‘I mean, why bother hiding something like that?’
‘Unless there’s a reason behind it that you want to keep hidden,’ said Thelma.
‘Also’ – Pat frowned, remembering the many, many walls she’d seen painted over the years – ‘where are the brushes? And the dust sheets? And come to think of it, why wear riding boots to do the painting in the first place? I mean, I know people wear old clothes, butriding boots?’
‘I’m just wondering about the paint on those boots,’ said Liz. ‘Is it even the same colour as the paint on the wall? Wasn’t the wall a lighter shade?’
It was now Thelma’s turn to take out her phone and they all scanned the images she’d taken of that yellow line on the back wall of the living room. In the streaming afternoon light, it looked pale, the colour of confectioner’s custard.
‘It’s the sun,’ said Pat dismissively. ‘Coming in the room from the left like that. It makes the wall look lighter. WhatIwant to know is what Jax Shally was doing looking in that kitchencupboard in the first place. You’re not telling me she thought she’d find her spare key stashed in amongst all the loo rolls.’
‘There was definitely something going on with her,’ agreed Liz. ‘An agenda of some description. Something I didn’t know about.’
‘There always is, knowing her,’ said Pat. ‘Ms Ulterior Motive.’
Thelma nodded in agreement. ‘I wonder what it was. Maybe something to do with whatever it was she was looking for?’ she mused.
Both Pat and Liz looked at her. ‘It stands to reason she’d have opened that cupboard for apurpose,’ explained Thelma. ‘So it seems logical that she was looking for something. Like when I was with her.’
‘Anyway.’ Pat drained her iced mochaccino. ‘Isn’t all this with Jax and Ffion and yellow boots a tad academic? Now that you’ve found this?’ Her hand gestured to the printout of the Ofsted report they’d all been looking at earlier. Liz picked up the document. She’d been so worked up with the tale of her confrontation with Ffion Hilton that she hadn’t paid as much attention to the Ofsted report as Pat had. She scanned the printed pages curiously. At first sight the phrases were warm, glowing even …pupils enjoy coming to this vibrant and welcoming school … ambitious curriculum … strong vision …good quality of teaching …But then, other phrases, decidedlyunglowing emerged …serious concerns … leaders unaware of weakness … significant failings …
In the previous inspection the school had been judged to be Outstanding, the highest grade possible, but in this latest report the Leadership and Management were graded Inadequate, the lowest of the four grades. Even though the other areas were found to be Good, it was that one key word Inadequate that stood out, stark and uncompromising. However you looked at it, it was a dramatic drop, one that would bring ice into the heart of any educational practitioner. Liz shook her head and put the report back on the table.
‘We were looking for a reason someone had it in for Neville,’ said Pat. ‘Well, here we are. Reading this report, I imagine there’d be a whole queue of people wanting to give him what for.’
‘Wearesure it’s connected with his death?’ said Liz.
‘Pity Me!’ pronounced Pat. ‘Shouted in his face by someone, just before he had a fatal heart attack. I’d say that was fairly conclusive.’
Thelma put the report in her bag. ‘I don’t want this on view when they get here,’ she said.
‘Who is this we’re meeting again?’ said Liz.
‘The Reverend Caro Miranda,’ said Thelma. Liz looked none the wiser.
‘She’s the chair of governors from Pity Me school,’ said Pat in her best ‘keep-up-at-the-back’ voice. ‘Who just happens to be a pal of the Reverend Mare.’
‘Who is in the same diocesan cluster as Mare,’ corrected Thelma. ‘I wouldn’t say they were pals, but they do know each other. Fortunately for us. Mare said Caro was only too pleased to talk to us.’ She thought back to the rapid sequence of events that had brought them to this Costa Coffee on the outskirts of Yarm: seeing the chair of governors’ name in the report, ringing the Reverend Mare on the off chance she knew this Reverend Miranda, Mare’s offer to reach out to her, and then, the almost startlingly rapid response, the phone call, the offer to meet. Why was this chair of governors so keen to meet them? Her eyes shifted across to the door of the coffee bar, and the two figures who had just appeared. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, I think this is them now,’ she said.
‘So, this is the Reverend Caroline Miranda! Or as she is more commonly known, the Reverend Caro!’ The Reverend Mare spoke with her trademark cheerfulness, sounding as if she were about to break into a cheer. In light of the hot weather, she’d swapped her usual sweater for a blue polo shirt, buttoned up to support the dog collar. She smiled encouragingly at the woman sitting next to her. Despite the laugh that punctuatedMare’s introduction, there was an air of restraint about her that revealed she wasn’t unaware of the circumstances that had led to this meeting.
The Reverend Caro Miranda regarded them from under a fringe of glossy grey hair, styled in a rather unbecoming curtain round her face. Her appearance did not live up to the flamboyance of her name: the hair, the rather pointy nose, the pale rather glittery eyes that slid from side to side like something from an Oliver Postgate cartoon.
Miss Mouse, thought Pat, unsure of whether she warmed to her or not.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see us,’ said Thelma.
Caro Miranda nodded appraisingly. There was a brief pause before she spoke, her voice surprisingly deep with a faint Irish lilt. ‘Mare tells me you knew Neville Hilton.’
‘We knew his first wife more,’ said Liz. Exactly how much they told this stranger about what they knew and what they wanted to find out was something they’d spent some time debating as Pat had driven them down the A19.
Again, Caro Miranda nodded.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘What I need to say from the get-go is this: forgiveness is something I’ve preached for nigh on thirty years, and it’s something I’ve never had much difficulty practising.’ The pale eyes slid from side to side, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Until now. I have to say in all honesty I am not sorry in any way, shape or form that that man is dead.’
After iced coffees had been brought, the Reverend Caro Miranda told her story. ‘Pity Me Infants school,’ she said, ‘or Pity Infants as it’s known locally – was a truly wonderful place to be a part of.’ A wistful smile lightened the mouse-like features. ‘The head teacher – Annie Golightly – was a wonderful, gifted person.Isa wonderful person I should say, though she’s very ill, poor woman. She’s a born teacher and at Pity Me she created somewhere thatwas … truly special. In my time in the church, I’ve been into a number of educational establishments, and Pity Infants – well, it stands out head and shoulders.’ Her face darkened. ‘Stood out,’ she corrected. She looked sadly out of the window at the cars whizzing past, sun blazing off their windscreens. ‘It’s hard to describe to someone who’s not been there … It’s a place shaped and driven by someone who loved young people and had a true vision of children’s education.
‘People used to come from all sorts of places to see the work Annie Golightly and her team were doing. I was only chair of governors, but I can say, hand on heart, it was a joy to be part of what was going on there.’
