‘His death from a heart attack,’ said Annie mildly, but very definitely.
‘A heart attack that could well have been brought on by that confrontation.’ Thelma held firm.
Annie nodded slowly, considering. The wide grey eyes regarded Thelma thoughtfully. ‘Go on,’ she said.
Concisely, calmly, Thelma outlined the facts as she knew them. Annie did not interrupt, merely listened, her gaze unwavering, and Thelma knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that every word was being taken in and assessed by a calm, deliberate mind.
After Thelma finished, Annie regarded her, obviously turning things over.
‘You think it was someone from my school who came to confront Mr Hill that night?’
Thelma nodded. ‘Someone angry enough to shout the words “Pity Me” at him,’ she said.
‘But surely you can’t be sure of that?’ said Annie. ‘And this wall, the wall with the yellow line. You think thathad something to do with whatever happened?’
Thelma nodded. ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘Though what exactly I don’t know.’
‘It couldn’t be, just as the police said, something Mr Hilton maybe did himself?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Another pause. ‘And you want to find out what happened that night?’ said Annie.
‘Yes,’ said Thelma.
‘Why?’ The question was rapped out firmly and deliberately. Almost instinctively Thelma found herself sitting up. ‘What can it possibly achieve?’ said Annie Golightly. ‘Neville Hilton’s death was natural. Why go into it at all?’
Thelma found her mind echoing Annie’s question – and as it did an image came to her, a frightened girl with a puffy, tear-stained face.
‘Chelsey,’ she said simply. ‘She’s the girl who found him. She’s been very, very shaken by the event, to the extent of not working anymore. She feels that maybe in some way she’s to blame. Knowing exactly what happened might help put the poor soul’s mind at rest.’
Annie Golightly nodded. ‘Poor lass,’ she said. For a moment she was silent, again considering. When she spoke again her voice was calm. ‘You’ve heard, no doubt, that Neville Hilton was the devil incarnate – excuse the phrase.’ She smiled across at Teddy, who bowed his head. ‘And I’ve no doubt that he was a very foolish, narrow-minded man who did a great deal of damage. But even so, I refuse to consider the fact that any of my staff had anything to do with his death.’ She nodded firmly and turned to look out of the window across to the distant drowsing mound of Roseberry Topping. All at once she seemed tired and Thelma found herself remembering Nurse Oorja’s words.
‘I often look at that hill these days,’ said Annie almost to herself. ‘It’s been there millions of years and will be there for millions of years more, long after me, my school – even Ofsted – have gone. I find that an increasing comfort. Nothing lasts.’ She turned back to face them. ‘It makes me smile; all these ridiculous hoops teachers have to jump through nowadays – targets, data profiles, rolling programmes …’ She shook her head. ‘I taught in Mombasa for a while – there were none of these straitjackets. It was all about connecting with the children.’ She sighed a deep sigh and glanced at the clock. ‘You know today is the last day of term? As of thirty minutes ago, Pity Me Infants school is no more.’
‘I am very sorry,’ said Thelma. ‘It must be hard to hear your school has closed.’
Annie smiled. ‘That’s just it,’ she said. ‘It isn’t my school; hasn’t been since that day I came home ill. And’ – a faint but wickedgrin stole across her face – ‘and truth be told, the egoist in me doesn’t want to think of the place going on without me. In all of this, there’s only one thing that really preys on my mind.’ She reached, with noticeable awkwardness, across to a nearby small table and picked up a framed photo, which she regarded sadly. ‘Davey Fletcher,’ she said softly. ‘He’s the one who comes to me when I can’t sleep at nights.’
She handed the picture to Thelma, who found herself looking back into a happier, simpler past, a time that positively radiated hope and life and energy. Annie, a fuller, more vibrant Annie, and Davey Fletcher, alight with a smile and a gloriously yellow shirt with rich purple braces.
‘Yellow.’ Annie smiled sadly. ‘Davey Fletcher’s signature colour.’ She deliberately and carefully took that picture, as if treasuring a thing of fragility, and replaced it on the table. ‘When he was interviewed for the deputy headship,’ she said, ‘I honestly thought he was going to pass out, he was so nervous. But then when he was in front of a class …’ She smiled at the photo. ‘He had such connection with the children. Something I’ve only seen very rarely.’
Thelma nodded, thinking of Sam Bowker at St Barney’s: gangly, awkward and yet able to hold a whole class mesmerised.
‘Of course, he was totally unsuited to management,’ said Annie. ‘I could see that from day one, not that that mattered to me; I could do all the managing necessary!’ She smiled, then the smile faded. ‘So, when I was off sick – I know how he must have struggled. And when Ofsted came, I can only imagine how he panicked when Mr Hilton started working his way down his tick sheet.’ She shook her head. ‘Despite what everyone said, including me, he blamed himself for that Ofsted report.’ She sighed. ‘That’s what I feel so terrible about. There were things I knowingly overlooked, which came back to bite us.’
Thelma frowned slightly. What was she referring to?
Annie looked at Thelma. ‘So, going back to what you weresaying,’ she said, ‘You really believe one of my staff came round to Neville Hilton’s house the night he died?’
Again, as a question, it was expertly pitched; again Thelma found herself nodding. ‘It does seem likely,’ she said.
‘And what night was this exactly?’ asked Annie.
‘Friday June 13th,’ said Thelma.
Annie frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Are you one hundred per cent sure of that?’
