‘We’re not from Wearside Academy,’ said Liz, voice muffled through a balsam tissue.
‘We’re acquaintances of Caro Miranda,’ said Thelma.
Chloe frowned, her face dark and stormy. ‘So why are you here then?’ she said suspiciously. ‘I were told some people from Wearside Academy were coming over.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Thelma. ‘But we were asked here by Reverend Miranda.’
‘Why?’
Liz and Thelma exchanged glances without actually appearing to do so, in the way that comes naturally to most primary school teachers. The simplest thing – perhaps the most sensible thing – would be to make up some excuse. But tempting as that was, Thelma realised it wouldn’t help them in the purpose if their visit. She felt Liz tense beside her and knew her friend was reluctantly coming to the same conclusion.
‘We’re here,’ said Thelma, ‘because we’re friends of Neville Hilton’s first wife.’
Chloe frowned at them uncomprehendingly. ‘Neville?’
‘The man who ran your school’s inspection last November,’ said Thelma. She couldn’t see Liz but knew her friend’s hands would be clenched in a tight, nervous ball.
‘Neville Hilton.’ Chloe stared at them. Her face was blank but, in that blankness, both Liz and Thelma could sense a whole lava flow of emotion.
‘He died suddenly,’ said Liz nervously.
‘Good.’ The word was hoarse, almost a whisper, but behind it was an anger that was white-hot and frightening. ‘Good.’ She turned to go, but paused, frowning. ‘Wait a minute – you think someone from herekilledhim?’
‘The police are very clear that he died of natural causes,’ said Thelma.
‘So why are you here?’
Again. Liz and Thelma exchanged that look that wasn’t a look. ‘We think,’ said Liz, ‘maybe someone from here saw him before he died. And wondered if they could maybe tell us a bit about how he died.’
‘Slowly and painfully, I hope,’ said Chloe sharply. She turned on her heel and walked back into the school.
‘As a system Ofsted isn’t at all bad – ninety-nine times out of a hundred.’ Pete Powell spoke in clipped, energetic tones, as he spooned coffee into a chippedDoctor Whomug. Pat, mindful of her thirty-mile drive back home, had refused his offer. ‘You need some system of accountability – some of the shitshows I’ve seen going on, you wouldn’t believe.’ They had relocated to a side room marked ‘Office’ which seemed to contain little beyond coffee-making equipment and an inordinate number of plastic bags.
‘But it’s a blunt tool.’ Peter poured water into the mug. ‘A hefty blunt tool. The proverbial sledgehammer to crack the nut.And, granted, sometimes you need that sledgehammer, but in most cases a tap from a fingernail will do.’ He turned and fixed her with those piercing blue eyes in a way that made her want to adjust her top. Maybe ‘dreamy’ wasn’t so far from the mark after all …
‘You mean Pity Me school?’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t detect any sort of blush on her face.
Peter nodded. ‘What you have to remember about Ofsted,’ he said, ‘is that it’s a series of guidelines – not a list of rules. Prompts for conversations, if you like. Only of course in practice they’re treated exactly as a list of rules – especially by less experienced inspectors.’
‘Like Neville Hilton?’ said Pat.
‘He was your prime culprit. To the Neville Hiltons of this world, the guidelines are a list of things to be ticked or crossed – no conversational prompts going on in any shape or form.’
At that moment the door opened firmly, pushed by a determined bottom and an elderly woman in a sari, the most gorgeous shade of sky blue, advanced towards Peter Powell with a cup and plate.
‘Coffee, Mr Peter,’ she said firmly, totally ignoring Pat.
‘I have one thanks, Tania.’
Tania took one look at the strong brew, tutted in despair and tipped it down the sink, replacing it with one the colour of pale caramel. ‘Cake,’ she said setting down the plate with an unassailable clatter. On it sat two, glistening lokma fritters. ‘You eat this, make sure you do. I shall look in the bins and ask the other ladies.’
‘Bless you, Tania,’ said Peter Powell, giving her a brilliant smile. Pat decided to have this man turning up in her classroom in search of conversational prompts would actually be no bad thing.
‘God love her,’ said Peter after the sky-blue figure had retreated. ‘My diabetic consultant would have me sectioned if I so much as sniffed that. Where were we?’
‘Neville Hilton and Ofsted guidelines,’ said Pat.
Peter Powell nodded. ‘With Nev, guidelines were rules – and he couldn’t see beyond those rules. And with that school, Pity Me Infants, there were some pretty amazing things going on. Okay, there were some things wrong with the place – as there are in most places – but ultimately it was the sort of school consultants like Bun Widdup or Alison Phillipson would send people to as a model of good practice. But that said – thereweresome safeguarding concerns and Nev was absolutely right to raise them. There’s some right evil bastards out there and you have gottobe one hundred per cent watertight.’
