The Moscow Sleepers

19

Several days later, Liz was sitting with Peggy as rain lashed the windows of her Thames House office. There was a lot to follow up. She had briefed Peggy on her meeting with Mischa and his sudden disappearance; they had heard nothing from him since. In Liz’s absence, a note had come from Geoffrey Fane, relaying a message from Peter Burnside in Brussels about a school in Suffolk named Bartholomew Manor. It seemed that Irma Nimitz may have been in touch with it.

Now Liz was thinking how best to divide the tasks. Peggy said, ‘I’ll be happy to go and look round this school in Suffolk, if you like. We didn’t get much more than its name from the MI6 Station in Brussels, but I’ve done a little research.’

‘Actually, I was thinking you should go to Germany. It would be good for you to get some experience abroad.’

‘Really?’ said Peggy, looking pleased.

‘Yes,’ said Liz firmly. Peggy wouldn’t have any credible reason to visit Bartholomew Manor College, since she was far too young to pose as a prospective parent. Liz reckoned she herself could just about get away with it. ‘I’ll take Suffolk. What have you found out about the place?’

‘Not a lot, frankly. It used to be a private residence, then twenty years ago it was bought by some local people and run as a sixth-form college. It catered mainly to middle-class children who needed A Levels but were struggling in their normal schools.’

‘Like these tutorial colleges in London. Little Jonny mucks up his GCSEs, the independent school wants him out because his A Levels will drag their ratings down, so off he goes for cramming to an expensive sixth-form college.’

‘If you’re saying that the clientele was rich and stupid,’ Peggy said with a smile, ‘you’re probably right. But…’

‘Yes?’

‘Something’s changed. Either the school was bought or the owners changed tack – either way, they’ve got a new Head and a new admissions policy. They are actively recruiting overseas students to come and specialise in IT. It sounds as if they only want the clever ones now – there’s an entrance exam. There’s a prospectus on their website; the fees look exorbitant to me.’

‘Do we know how many foreign pupils they’ve got? The proportion of British to foreign?’

Peggy shook her head. ‘There’s nothing in the prospectus about that.’

Liz thought for a moment. ‘I know somebody who might be able to give us a lead. You remember the Chief Constable of Manchester – Richard Pearson? He’s moved to Suffolk now. I’m going to ring him.’ She reached for the phone on her desk.

Peggy asked, ‘Do you want me to stick around?’

‘No need,’ said Liz. ‘But come back later, will you? You can help me with my cover story for this college.’

Even in busy Manchester he had often answered his own phone, so Liz was not surprised when Chief Constable Pearson picked up at once. ‘Hello. Pearson speaking.’

‘Good morning, Richard. It’s Liz here. Liz Carlyle. I’m sorry to be slow replying to your message. Work has just been frantic recently. How is life in Suffolk?’

‘Hello, Liz,’ he said warmly. ‘How nice to hear your voice. It’s surprisingly busy, actually. It’s not the holiday camp you might imagine. But I’m starting to get used to the odd ways of East Anglia. And I love the countryside, especially the coast.’

‘Where are you based?’ She remembered passing a large, ugly police building somewhere outside Ipswich.

‘For the moment I’m renting a cottage in Bury St Edmunds. I couldn’t find anywhere I wanted to live in Ipswich. What’s the point of coming to a rural area if you’re going to live in a big town? So I’ve set up my office in the police station in Bury. It’s caused a bit of eyebrow-raising but it suits me.’

‘Good,’ said Liz. Pearson was easy-going but always seemed to know his own mind.

He went on, ‘At the moment I’m still finding out about the county so I’m travelling around a lot, visiting the different areas. There’s some lovely coast in this county. How do you fancy coming down some time? I’ve found a first-rate boatyard and I’m thinking of commissioning a small boat.’

Liz smiled to herself at his enthusiasm, remembering that he had told her how he would go out at weekends with his brother-in-law, a commercial fisherman. It had been a sort of escape; he’d take his phone with him, knowing that after a short time he’d be too far from shore to receive any calls. Hearing him talk now, Liz remembered how much she enjoyed his company. She realised that she’d actually wanted to ring him after he’d left his message weeks before; she wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t. But now she was glad to have found a work excuse to get in touch.

Pearson went on: ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? I have to say I was giving up ever hearing from you again.’

‘I’d better warn you it’s business,’ said Liz, and she heard Pearson sigh. ‘Well, only partly,’ she added. ‘Something’s come up in an investigation that seems to connect to a college in your patch. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it. It’s a sixth-form college about ten miles west of Southwold called Bartholomew Manor.’

There was a pause, then Pearson said, ‘Now, that is really interesting. I don’t think it can be a coincidence. This college has crossed our radar here, and just a few days ago. I’d love to know what your interest in it is – if you can tell me.’

‘I will,’ said Liz, ‘but you go first.’

‘I was talking to one of my senior colleagues the other day and he mentioned it. A friend of his wife had gone to look round. Her husband is being posted to the Middle East for a couple of years and they want to leave their sixteen-year-old son in Britain to take his A Levels. So she went to look round a couple of boarding schools – one in Southwold, and Bartholomew Manor College. She found it so strange that she told my colleague about it. She thought the place was positively sinister, and she got the clear impression that they didn’t want her boy there and couldn’t wait to get rid of her. To tell you the truth, she wondered if it had something to do with child exploitation – she mentioned paedophilia. My colleague thought she was being overdramatic. But it certainly sounded odd. Most of these places are only too keen to welcome parents – and their cash.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Liz. ‘Have you taken it any further?’

‘A little. Our child protection team did a bit of research on the place. Apparently, it was taken over about nine months ago, with the intention of setting it up as an international school – it’s not clear what that means exactly but they have been bringing in their teachers from abroad. We received a tip that some of them may not have any qualifications or have the proper documents to work here. I gather they’re not all EU citizens.’

‘Are you following that up?’

‘We will be, probably through the Home Office and possibly the Department for Education. But we need something a lot more solid first. Now it’s your turn. What’s your interest in the place?’

‘It’s even vaguer than yours, I’m afraid. It’s just that the name of the school came up in an investigation that seems to link in some way to that Illegals case we were both involved in last year – when you were in Manchester.’

‘Don’t tell me the Russians have penetrated rural Suffolk.’ He laughed. ‘Is it anything to do with our air bases?’

‘I doubt it, though it could be anything – or nothing – at this stage. I’m intending to go to the school myself in a few days. I’ll be a prospective parent and see whether my reception is similarly unwelcoming.’

Liz paused, wondering how to suggest that they might meet up as well. I am terribly out of practice, she thought. I can’t even ask a man for coffee.

‘If you’re coming this way, then let’s meet up,’ he said quickly. ‘We could have lunch or dinner, depending on what’s convenient. I’ll look forward to hearing your impressions of the place – and to seeing you, of course. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ said Liz firmly, pleased that he had taken the initiative. She hadn’t learned much more about Bartholomew Manor, but she was very glad she would be seeing Richard Pearson again.