When Did You Last See Your Father? by Jodi Taylor

Author:Jodi Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline Publishing Group
Published: 2019-06-25T12:05:55+00:00

We pulled up outside the front doors.

‘Want me to park it for you?’ said Markham, cheerfully.

‘Thank you.’ I opened the door.

‘Don’t forget your gun,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘You know, the one under the seat.’

I pulled it out and shoved it in my pocket. ‘Does Hunter know you’ve been out on your own?’

‘I had my grandad with me,’ he said, shunting over and putting the car in gear.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘For everything.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said sunnily, and pulled away.

Inside, everything was pretty normal, in that the History Department was wasting a great deal of time and effort arguing about something that happened five hundred years ago. Stops them playing with matches, I suppose. Although actually, given what I’d just been up to that morning, I was hardly in a position to judge.

I took the stairs two at a time. Peterson was on the gallery, looking through a file with Mrs Shaw.

‘Still in with Dr Bairstow,’ he said, without looking up.

‘Did you pee in John Maxwell’s car?’

‘No, but mine was the idea and my agent will demand I get full credit.’

Normally, Edward lives behind his desk. It’s an arrangement with which everyone is comfortable. Everyone knows where they are. Or where he is, which is the important thing. Every now and then, however, on well-published occasions, he walks around the building, carefully adhering to the schedule. He calls in at each department, silently surveys the extraordinarily tidy rooms, watches his staff addressing each other politely – albeit through gritted teeth – and not remarking in any way on the smell of burning.

Occasionally, however, some demon of mischief enters his brain, he expresses a desire to see how his people are spending their working day, and off he goes, zigzagging around the building with no fixed route or purpose. He moves slowly but silently, materialising at just the wrong moment and observing the suddenly frozen tableau in front of him before sighing and moving on. Thank God he doesn’t do that very often because believe me – it takes its toll on everyone. But mostly he lives safely behind his desk.

Some years ago, following on from some sort of seminar the University of Thirsk compelled him to attend, he installed two armchairs on the other side of the room because they had told him a more informal environment would foster employee/employer relations. Tellingly, they’re about as far from his desk as possible while still remaining in his office and, as far as I know, virtually unused. I’m sure they’re very comfortable, but as an aid to sympathetic employer/employee chats – a bit of a dead loss. Max frequently extols the benefits of having the protection of several feet of polished desk between her and him. They have been referred to as The Armchairs of Doom.

Today, she and Dr Bairstow were sitting in the armchairs. She looked up as I came through the door.

The good news was that there was no blood on the walls. The bad news was that she was wearing a look I’d hoped never to see again.

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