Anotherding-buzzcame from Logan’s pocket, but he sagged against the wall instead.
Mr DirtyCuffs jerked a thumb at the toilets. ‘A police escort? She not a bit young for Public Enemy Number One?’
‘My daughter. Who spendswaytoo much time with her Aunty Roberta.’
‘Ah.’ A nod. ‘Enjoy it while you can. In six years’ time the hormones kick in and “Daddy’s Little Girl” turns into “Satan’s Gangly Monster.”’ He dug out a small tobacco tin and dropped the mangled butt inside, where it joined a row of roll-ups, awaiting their turn.
Logan pointed at the piddle-palace Portakabin. ‘Are you...?’
Because if not, hanging around outside a kids’ toilet might be consideredslightlysuspicious.
‘Humphrey Fordyce-Adams, to give the full Sunday School moniker. Art and Design. Oh.’ He offered the tin. ‘You smoke?’
‘Gave it up.’
‘Very wise.’ Sparking up a fresh one. ‘For a minute there, thought you might be here about Ruby.’
Logan whipped out his notebook. ‘Is one of the kids in trouble?’
‘Music teacher: Ruby Burrows, didn’t turn up for work last Monday. Thought maybe something bad had happened – youknow what they say, “stress, booze, and razorblades make uncomfortable bedfellows”. Shame, I liked her.’ He gave Logan the side-eye. ‘Not likethat.’ Then raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, maybe once. After the End-Of-Term-Piss-Up party.’ Grin. ‘But that’s teachers for you.’
‘Yeah.’ Logan looked back towards the classrooms. ‘I’ve certainly met some...interesting characters this evening.’
‘You mean Nichole?’
No idea.
Humphrey Fordyce-Adams – which was a ridiculous name for a man not currently wearing red trousers and a shooting waistcoat – tried again. ‘Mrs McIntosh: English?’ Miming a big frizzy helmet. ‘Hair. Dungers? Nah, she’s OK.’ He took a very non-blue-blooded draw on his fag. ‘Believe it or not, we’re all very nice here. Well, “Doctor” Buchan’s a bit of a prick, but there’s always one, isn’t there?’
‘Usually lucky if it’s only one.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s only subbing till Ruby gets back. Then he can sod off home to whatever rock he slithered out from under.’ Humphrey examined Logan through the smoke. ‘Don’t remember you from last year.’
‘Elizabeth’s a Cults Primary kid – temporarily assigned to—’
‘Thishellhole.’ A bitter laugh. ‘Oh, yeah: they’ll close and refurbish every school in the city before they finally get round to us.’ Flicking ash towards the main building. ‘Assuming they don’t just bulldoze the place, salt the earth, and erase all mention of Kirkenwell Academy for Weird Little—’
The toilet door thumped open and Elizabeth scuffed out, looking a lot happier than when she scurried in.
Humphrey hid his cigarette again. ‘Teeth back where they should be?’
‘Phew. That was close!’ She gave him a wave. ‘Sorry for notsaying hello, Mr Fordyce-Adams: but I had to see a man about a racehorse.’
Fartoo much time with her Aunty Roberta.
Logan peered. ‘Have you washed your hands, you filthy little horror?’
She held them out for inspection: front side, then back, before grabbing his in herslightlyclammy fingers.
Urgh...
He nodded at Humphrey. ‘Suppose we’ll see you inside.’
‘Mr Fordyce-Adams isfamous, Dad. He’s got a painting in the Royal Academy!’
A gracious, pantomime bow. ‘My Warhol-allotted fifteen minutes of fame.’ Followed by a grimace. ‘Turns out not everyone enjoys it.’
Very true.
