Part 20 (2/2)

'I'm sorry,' I said.

'It wasn't your fault. Besides--' she stood up with a sudden briskness that was all School Secretary. 'Being sorry won't bring Leon back, will it? Now it's Pat who needs my help.'

'He's a lucky man,1 I said, and I meant it. 'Do you think he'd object if I asked you out? Just for a drink, of course--' I said, 'but it is my birthday, and you look as if you could do with something a little more substantial than tea.'

I like to think I haven't lost my touch. We agreed to an hour, no more, and left Pat with instructions to lie down and read his book. We walked the mile or so to my house; it was dark by then, and already the night smelt of gunpowder.

A few early fireworks popped over the Abbey Road estate; the air was misty and surprisingly mild. At home there was gingerbread and sweet mulled wine; I lit the fire in the parlour and brought out the two cups that matched. It was warm and comfortable; by the light of the fire my old armchairs looked less shabby than usual, and the carpet less threadbare; and around us, on every wall, my lost boys watched with the grinning optimism of the forever young.

'So many boys,' said Marlene softly.

'My gallery of ghosts,' I said, then, seeing her face; 'I'm sorry, Marlene. That was tactless.'

'Don't worry,' she said, smiling. 'I'm not as sensitive as I used to be. That's why I took this job, you know. Of course in those days I was sure there was a conspiracy to hide the truth; and that some day I'd actually see him, walking down some corridor with his gym bag, those little gla.s.ses slipping down his nose . . . But I never did. I let him go. And if Mr Keane hadn't brought it up again, after all these years--'

'Mr Keane?' I said.

'Oh, yes. We talked it over. He's very interested in School history, you know. I think he's planning to write a book.'

I nodded. 'I knew he'd been taking an interest. He had notes, pictures--'

'You mean this?' Out of her wallet Marlene drew a small picture, clearly scissored from a School photograph. I recognized it at once - in Keane's book it had been a poor reproduction, barely visible, where he'd circled a face in red crayon.

But this time I recognized the boy, too; that wan little face, owlishly bespectacled, racc.o.o.n-like, the school cap crammed down over the floppy fringe.

'That's Pinchbeck?'

She nodded. 'It's not the best likeness, but I'd know him anywhere. Besides, I've been over that picture a thousand times, matching names to faces. Everyone's accounted for. Everyone but him. Whoever he was, Roy, he wasn't one of ours. But he was there. Why?1 Once more, that feeling of dejd vu; the sensation of something slipping, not quite easily, into place. But it was dim. Dim. And there was something about the small unformed face that troubled me. Somet hing familiar.

'Why didn't you show the police the photo at the time?' I asked.

'It was too late.' Marlene shrugged. 'John Snyde was dead.'

'But the boy was a witness.'

'Roy. I had a job to do. There was Pat to think of. It was over.'

Over? Perhaps it was. But something about that wretched affair had always felt unfinished. I don't know where the connection had come from - why it had returned to mind after so many years - but now it had, and it wouldn't leave me alone.

'Pinchbeck.' The dictionary gives its meaning as (of jewellery) flashy, tawdry, counterfeit. A fake. 'A made-up name, if ever there was one.'

She nodded. 'I know. It still makes me feel funny, thinking of him in his St Oswald's school uniform, walking long the corridors with the other boys, talking to them, even being photographed with them, for G.o.d's sake. I can't believe no one noticed--'

I could. After all, why should they? A thousand boys, all in uniform; who would suspect he was an outsider? Besides, it was ridiculous. Why should a boy attempt such an imposture? 'The challenge,' I said. 'Just for the thrill of it. To see if it could be done.'

He would be fifteen years older now, of course. Twenty eight or thereabouts. He would have grown, of course. He'd be tall now, well-built. He might be wearing contact lenses. But it was possible, wasn't it? Wasn't it possible7.

Helplessly I shook my head. I hadn't realized until that moment how much hope I had placed on Knight - and only Knight -- being responsible for the recent mischief that has plagued us. Knight was the culprit; the sender of emails; the malicious surfer (if that's the word) of internet filth. Knight had accused Bishop and the others; Knight had burnt the Gatehouse; I'd even half-convinced myself that Knight had been behind those articles signed Mole.

Now I saw the dangerous illusions for what they were. These crimes against St Oswald's went much further than simple mischief. No boy could have committed them. This insider - whoever he was - was prepared to take his game as far as it went.

I thought of Grachvogel, hiding in his closet.

I thought of Tapi, locked in the Bell Tower.

Of Jimmy (like Snyde), who took the blame.

Of Fallow, whose secret was revealed.

Of Pearman and Kitty, ditto.

Of Knight; Anderton'Pullitt; the graffiti; the Gatehouse; the thefts; the Mont Blanc pen; the small acts of localized disruption and the final bouquet - Bishop, Devine, Light, Grachvogel and Roach - firing off one after another like rockets into the flaming sky ...

And once again I thought of Chris Keane, with his clever face and dark fringe; and of Julian Pinchbeck, the pale boy who at twelve or thirteen had already dared an imposture so brazen that for fifteen years no one had believed it possible.

Could Keane be Pinchbeck? Keane, for G.o.ds' sakes?

It was an astonis.h.i.+ng leap of illogic or intuition; and yet, I saw how he could have done it. St Oswald's has a rather idiosyncratic policy on application, based on personal impressions rather than on paper references. It was just conceivable that someone -- someone clever - might be able to slip through the network of checks that exist to filter out the undesirables (in the private sector, of course, police checks are not required). Besides, the mere thought of such an imposture is beyond us. We are like the guards at a friendly outpost, all comic-opera uniforms and silly walks, falling by the dozen beneath unexpected sniper fire. We never expected an attack. That was our mistake. And now someone was picking us off like flies.

'Keane?' said Marlene, just as I would have done if our positions had been reversed. 'That nice young man?'

In a few words, I filled her in on the nice young man.

The notebook. The computer pa.s.swords. And through it all, his subtle air of mockery, of arrogance; as if teaching were simply an amusing game.

'But what about Knight?' said Marlene.

I'd been thinking about that. The case against Bishop was built on Knight; the text messages from Knight's phone to his; maintaining the illusion that Knight had run away, perhaps from fear of further abuse . . .

But if Knight was not the culprit, then where was he?

I considered it. Without the calls from Knight's phone, without the incident at the Gatehouse and the messages from his e-mail address, what then would we have a.s.sumed and feared?

'I think Knight's dead,' I told her, frowning. 'It's the only conclusion that makes any sense.'

'But why kill Knight?'

'To raise the stakes,' I said slowly. 'To make sure Pat and the others were well and truly implicated.'

Marlene stared at me, pale as pastry. 'Not Keane,' she said. 'He seems so charming. He even got you that cake--'

G.o.ds.'

That cake. Till then I'd forgotten all about it. Likewise I had forgotten Dianne's invitation; to see the fireworks, to have a drink, to celebrate-- Had something alerted Keane to her? Had she read his notebook? Had she let something slip? I thought of her eyes, bright with enjoyment in her vivid young face. I thought of her saying, in that teasing voice: Tell me, are you a professional spy or is it just a hobby?

I stood up too fast, and felt the invisible finger poke at my chest, insistently, as if advising me to sit down again. I ignored it. 'Marlene,' I said. 'We have to go. Quick. To the park.'

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