The Red Herring by Sally Spencer Page A

and Scary Hollow. As the military bus had conveyed her to the military school, she had pretended it was a rattling old
country
bus, which only managed to struggle through another day because all the children were so fond of it. Now she lived near the
real
countryside, but she never saw it because her father was far too busy to ever give her the gift of his time.
    Though there was no wind to speak of, she saw one of the bushes on the edge of the park move, and knew that someone was watching her. She was not afraid – her father had taught her that fear, like all other forms of human weakness, was to be despised. But she was curious.
    Who was hiding? And
why
was he hiding – because she was sure it
was
a he. Was he watching her because she was Helen Dunn, the squadron leader’s daughter, or simply because she was the only girl standing at the very edge of the playground?
    She turned around to see if the teacher on yard duty was close by, but there was no sign of him. And it suddenly seemed to her as if fate was – finally! – pointing her towards an adventure. She glanced over her shoulder once more, then stepped quickly through the gate and out on to the street.
    Woodend, Rutter and Paniatowski were sitting at a corner table in the crowded lunchtime public bar of the Wheatsheaf, a pub which owed its popularity more to its proximity to the police station than it did to its thin beer and cardboard-tasting Cornish pasties.
    â€˜I know it’s early days yet, but I still wish I’d already started to build up a clearer picture of the victim,’ Woodend said. ‘What was she? A saint, or a sinner? From what Bob’s said, her landlady seems to regard her as little better than a prostitute, though, to be fair, Mrs Hoddleston doesn’t sound like the most open-minded of women.’
    â€˜Maybe not, but Verity Beale had had sex a couple of hours before she died,’ Bob Rutter pointed out.
    Monika Paniatowski’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘And that means she was a loose woman, does it, sir?’
    â€˜No, but it doesn’t exactly qualify her for the title of Miss Purity 1962, either,’ Rutter countered, stung.
    â€˜Simon Barnes sees her as a woman in search of religion – an’ as a born teacher who loved passin’ her knowledge on to other people,’ Woodend continued. ‘Then there’s the headmaster an’ his deputy. What did you make of the pair of them, Monika?’
    â€˜I got the distinct impression, when we were talking to the headmaster, that there were things about Verity Beale he would much rather we didn’t find out,’ Paniatowski said.
    â€˜So did I,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Now why should that be?’
    â€˜The headmaster’s main job is to protect the reputation of the school,’ Bob Rutter said, rather primly. ‘Grammar schools always place great store on their reputation.’
    â€˜Aye, well you’d know more about that than I would,’ Woodend said. ‘But what exactly do they want to protect their precious reputation
from
?’ He paused to light up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘Tell me about your phone call to London again, Bob.’
    â€˜The inspector I talked to seemed very willing to help us at first, then he suddenly clammed up on me.’
    â€˜Do you think that’s because you somehow managed to rub him up the wrong way?’
    â€˜No. Far from it. I played it perfectly – all joviality and brother-officer, making sure we were soon on first name terms. But despite that, I obviously said something which put him on his guard.’
    â€˜Like mentionin’ Verity Beale?’ Woodend suggested.
    â€˜Yes, I think it had to be that. Don’t you?’
    Woodend took a thoughtful sip of his pint. ‘We’re not missin’ somethin’ here, are we?’ he asked. ‘There hasn’t been some big scandal involvin’ our Miss Beale which has somehow