I see Tor ahead in the queue and wave. She sees me but doesn’t wave back. I don’t even get a smile, which is quite rude considering I saved her from ruin. Admittedly, she must feel aggrieved that I’ve leveraged her mistake, but if friends don’t pounce on your errors, then others will, and what would you prefer, a headline in the tabloids or a place on the waiting list? Objectively speaking, she’s a winner here.
As they dispatch their dear daughters into the first phase of a long and expensive premium sausage factory, the relatively few fathers give manly bear-hugs and the mothers engage in face-touching, forehead kissing and shoulder squeezing. Calls of ‘Good luck!’ tumble through the cast iron railings as the hopefuls disappear inside.
Sophie arrives even later than we did, which is impressive. She is breathless and Ellie is bright-faced and steely-eyed, a picture of determination and desire.
‘Good luck,’ I say. ‘She looks the part.’
‘She’s so desperate for this,’ says Sophie. ‘Been practising non-stop. I don’t even have to ask.’
‘Same with Nelly,’ I say, remembering the practice papers that I found clogging up the toilet.
‘Why is she wearing an Adams uniform?’ asks Sophie.
‘Positive psychology,’ I say. Sophie nods without a further word. Jealous, I imagine.
As we reach the gate, Nelly tells me triumphantly that she’s not got any pens. I open my handbag and produce her transparent pencil case, which I found hidden in the Rice Krispies box. Nelly scowls, takes the pencil case and heads for the school. No hugs, no tearful goodbyes, no kissing of cheeks. Feet stomping on cold paving stones is our poignant farewell.
‘Remember not to write your name anywhere on the paper, darling,’ I call out as she disappears inside the glossy black door.
I head off feeling satisfied, but only for half a second as I see DS Birch and DC Mattoo on the other side of the road. This feels like a vendetta against the innocent. I try ignoring them and walk directly to my car. By the time they catch up with me, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, and they tap on the window.
‘What now?’ I say. ‘Or are you lost?’
‘It’s good news, actually,’ says Birch.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ I say.
‘We’ve found the origin of the £150,000 payments made to you. It came from a Bitcoin account and it’s not linked to Jason Mercer.’
‘I thought cryptocurrency was untraceable,’ I say.
‘Not if they use an exchange. That requires a verified identity. This payment was linked to the name David Bunting. Do you know this name?’
‘He’s an old friend,’ I say as I presume this is Zac Estall’s not quite as glamorous or sexy real name.
‘And he just gave you the money?’
‘We were good friends,’ I say. ‘And, as it has nothing to do with your case, it’s none of your business either.’
‘We did find several payments to Jason Mercer, however, in another name.’
‘Not my husband’s presumably.’
‘No. They came from an account under the name Matthew Hollis. It’s an offshore account so we can’t access any more info. Do you know that name?’ says DS Birch.
I shake my head. I’m disappointed that Hollis didn’t hide his connection with Mercer at all effectively, and I feel goosebumps on my arm as I realize that Hollis has to disappear before the police get to him, or he’ll tell them what Mercer was doing.
‘No, I thought not.’
‘As your mystery doesn’t involve me, can you stop harassing me now?’
‘Just doing our job, Mrs Rook,’ says DS Birch.
‘And so invasively too,’ I say, and click the window button. The glass rises, until Birch’s fingers suddenly intervene, and stop the window halfway.
‘One more thing,’ she says.
I should be used to this by now, but I still sigh.
