Disclaimer

15. LATE SPRING 2013

Second day back at work and Catherine has regained focus. That’s what it looks like to her colleagues. The familiar sight of Catherine, upright in her chair, tapping at her computer, twisting her finger in a curl at the back of her head as she reads and makes notes. She is pulling something together, drawing threads into a story. Kim hovers over Catherine, but Catherine is absorbed in what she’s doing and Kim knows better than to disturb her when she’s like that. Instead she places a cup of coffee on the desk and moves away.

Catherine has found confirmation of Nancy Brigstocke’s death. Cancer. Dead. Ten years now. But her husband is alive. Stephen Brigstocke, BA. He is no longer dead husband with a question mark. He is retired teacher. Why the hell hadn’t she checked that before? Why hadn’t she used the same rigour she would use on any other story, on her own? It hadn’t occurred to her that Nancy would lie about the death of her husband. But she knows now. And she knows what he looks like too.

She’s had a phone call from the woman who bought their old home. She was angry. She accused Catherine of being high-handed, of not warning her that some creepy old man was going to turn up on her doorstep. Catherine had been full of apologies and told her that he was indeed her godfather but that she’d had no idea he would show up like that. She assured her that there really was nothing sinister going on and that, no, there would be no more unwanted visitors. Not to her anyway, Catherine thinks.

The call left her shaky. It is spreading. Oozing out. Ripples on a pond. She must get to him before he can do any real harm. Because he hasn’t harmed her yet. He has rattled her. And he has shown his malevolence in his extended poison pen letter, and by sending it to her son he has made it clear that he wants his poison to spread beyond her. What is at stake, for now, is her reputation, her integrity. She is a woman who is liked, admired, trusted, and loved by a few. That is what he threatens because once it is out there, once it has been said, there will be no taking it back. She will never again be the person they thought she was. He will have distorted their view. Nicholas has read it but he didn’t recognise her in it. Nothing chimed with him. Of course it didn’t. The woman in the book is not the mother he knows. And Nancy is dead. So who is to say that this perverted account of events is true? It is the product of a sick mind, the mind of a bitter old man. But the mind of a killer? Surely not. No, it is her reputation, not her life which she fears for most.

“Kim? Have you a got a minute? There’s something I’d like you to look into.”

Kim scoots her chair across, parking it next to Catherine’s, pen and pad in hand.

“Stephen Brigstocke. Retired teacher. Early seventies. London based. Probably taught in North London. Would you track down his last places of employment? Don’t make contact, I just want to know where he’s been over the last few years. And a home address if you can get it, and telephone number. Start with the teaching unions.” Catherine watches her write down the name: “Stephen Brigstocke,” then hesitate before adding the word “paedophile” in brackets with a question mark. Catherine doesn’t correct her. Why should she? She watches Kim scoot back to her desk and pick up the phone, zealous in her pursuit of a suspected child molester.

It takes less than an hour for Kim to come up with the school where Stephen Brigstocke last taught. Rathbone College. Catherine recognises the name. A private school in North London. One they almost sent Nicholas to. One where some of their friends sent their children. Before that, Sunnymeade Comprehensive. Many years there. Why the move from state to private? Catherine tries to read between the lines. Loss of principles? Cash driven? Retired in 2007 on a full pension.

“Quite old to still be teaching, wasn’t he?” Kim reads over Catherine’s shoulder. Catherine glances up the page: “born 1938.”

“I suppose, although private schools work by their own rules,” she says. “Have you got anywhere in finding contact details for him?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting to hear back. I’ll keep on it.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“So what’s the story?” It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Catherine hesitates.

“I’m not sure yet. It may be nothing. But you know…” And she entices her assistant with a smile to make her believe she will be the first to know if Catherine comes up with anything concrete. But she has no intention of letting Kim know too much about this investigation. Still, she is grateful for her help.

“Coffee?” Catherine asks, reversing their roles for good measure and neatly ending the conversation by taking their cups into the kitchen.

An hour later, and two cups of coffee down, Catherine has established that the present head of Rathbone College is distinctly uncomfortable when the subject of Stephen Brigstocke is raised. The previous head had retired soon after the former English teacher, and the current one’s reluctance to talk about him indicates to Catherine that something about Brigstocke’s departure was not quite right.

Brief calls to a couple of friends — quite a skill this to make contact with long-neglected friends, keeping the niceties short without causing offence, but still managing to get what you want from the call — and she finds her way to someone who is more than happy to open up on the subject of Stephen Brigstocke. A mother whose little boy was taught by him. A mother who prides herself on having led the campaign to remove him from the school.

A nasty man. A teacher who hated children. And what’s more, the school knew about it, trying to cover up his inadequacies: shunting him down to where they thought he could do least harm, away from the GCSE pupils, letting him loose on the youngest children in the school. There is no stopping this mother. She is still angry. All they were interested in was protecting their results and they gave no thought to the damage he would inflict on the minds and self-esteem of little seven-year-old boys. Disgusting. Altogether disgusting.

This mother remembers the first time she met Stephen Brigstocke, sitting on the other side of a table from him at a parents’ evening. He actually looked bored when he talked about her son. He was a man who didn’t seem to care what anyone thought or how he came across. Simply didn’t care. And that struck her as a dangerous thing. To simply not care. Well, it is, isn’t it? It’s more than just bad manners. Most people care, don’t they, on some level, about what other people think? But not him. Catherine agrees that it must have been very unsettling. And the mother was sure he had been drinking. She and her husband could smell it on him. Not just the usual small glass of white, but something stronger. Spirits. He gave all the signs of being a heavy drinker. There was something rotten in him, definitely rotten. Of course the school did their best to protect him. When the first few question marks arose about his teaching, they sent him on extended sick leave. They hinted at bereavement. His wife had died, and of course everyone tried to be understanding. And then he came back. He must have had some special relationship with the old head because, well, they should have got rid of him long before they did. And then when she read the filthy things he wrote on her son’s essay she was absolutely horrified. And not just her son. He had violated other children too.

“Violated?” Catherine cuts in. Oh yes. This mother is clear in her view that what her son suffered at the hands of Stephen Brigstocke was nothing less than a violation.

“He was not the sort of man you would want to leave your child alone with, of that I am perfectly sure.”

“But did he ever physically harm any of the children?” Catherine presses her. There’s a pause.

“Well… I did hear that the reason he left his previous school was that he became too attached to one of the boys. Let’s put it like that.”

“What do you mean?” Catherine needs more than this dainty word “attached.”

“It was a former pupil. Apparently he took an unhealthy interest in him once he’d left the school. I heard he was threatened with a restraining order. I only found out about it after he’d retired. But, well, to be honest, it didn’t surprise me.”

“So this was a pupil at his previous school. Sunnymead Comprehensive?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And how did you hear about it?” The mother tries to remember.

“A friend of mine. Her children went to Sunnymead.”

“Do you know the name of this pupil? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Well, no, but I could find out, I’m sure.”

“That would be incredibly helpful. Thank you. And thank you for taking the time to talk to me.” Well, of course she took the time. Catherine has a reputation, a string of socially conscious credits to her name. She is a woman of sound credentials, a woman who can be trusted to do the right thing. For the first time in weeks her head feels clear, uncluttered by shame. She is working up a story, gathering information, getting to know her enemy.