The Lake Louise Sharland (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Hardy, I truly am, but we have a strict safeguarding policy here at St Michael’s.’ She frowns slightly, clearly irritated at a possible transgression. ‘Rule number one is that no unauthorised persons are allowed into the school without prior permission. Mrs Gannon is aware of that, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Drake.’

‘Please don’t blame Lisa,’ I say, feeling that automatic response to fight for the underdog. ‘I did try to find someone at the front desk but there was no one.’

‘That should not have happened,’ the head teacher says with barely contained fury, ‘but that still doesn’t excuse—’

‘She was only trying to help,’ I interrupt, ‘and she did ask me to leave, but I’m afraid I just needed to talk.’

The head teacher’s stern composure softens. ‘Of course, and I am sorry. It would be more appropriate, however, if you met outside school.’

‘I understand. It won’t happen again.’ I get up and turn to Lisa, who is standing by the whiteboard, wide-eyed and mute. ‘Lisa and I were just going anyway, weren’t we?’

‘I’m afraid I’ll need a word with Mrs Gannon first,’ says the head teacher, now restored to stern mode. ‘We may be a little while.’

‘I’ll wait.’

Her nostrils flare. ‘Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

‘But I—’

‘Why don’t you leave me your mobile number?’ says Lisa, attempting to sound calm, but clearly in a state of panic. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I’m done.’

I am reluctant to leave now that I have found her. It’s clear, however, that I have no choice.

‘Of course.’ I rummage through my bag for a pen and paper, write down my details on a Post-it note and hand it to Lisa.

‘My office, Mrs Gannon,’ says the head teacher, and, leaving the classroom, adds sharply: ‘Straight away please.’

Lisa’s complexion turns ashen, and when she speaks her voice sounds childlike. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘What about the police?’ I try not to sound too demanding, threatening. ‘Shall I wait for you somewhere?’

‘Tomorrow,’ says Lisa impatiently. ‘Meet me at four at the QE Cafe on Godolphin Street. We’ll talk then.’

‘And you’ll come to the station with me? Tell them everything?’

‘Yes,’ Lisa snaps, ‘I’ll come to the police station with you!’

As she turns to leave, I step in front of her, blocking her way. There is still one more thing I need to know. ‘You never told me about Diving Fish.’

‘I’ve got to go.’

I don’t move. ‘Who is she?’

From the hallway comes the muted voice of Mrs Drake. ‘Mrs Gannon – now, please?’

Lisa, pale-faced and humming with anxiety, turns back to the desk. I watch as she searches through my papers, pushing aside the police and coroner’s report until she finally finds what she’s looking for. She picks up the photograph of her, Michael, and their swimming coach sitting together at the Edgecombe Hall fundraising event and thrusts it at me. ‘You already have your answer,’ she says. Gone is the frightened, panicked expression, replaced momentarily by one of power and control. Grabbing her planner, she speeds from the classroom towards the head teacher’s office, calling back to me, ‘I’m sure you can see yourself out.’

19

My meeting with Lisa has been both astounding and perplexing, providing me with far more questions than answers. I should go straight to the police, but I’m not sure how to explain what she told me, or even what it means. Was Diving Fish someone in Michael’s year? Or a sixth former? Or someone else, someone older? I find myself struggling with Michael’s version compared with Lisa’s. In his diary he describes his lover as beautiful, loving, sensual; there’s no indication of manipulation or abuse. Yes, there were comments about things getting nasty when he wanted to go public with their relationship, but that’s hardly on the scale of what Lisa described. What exactly is the truth, and who’s telling it? A vulnerable young woman, or my dead son?

I give myself a shake for letting my imagination run away with me. Conscious of the long drive home, I stop for a coffee and something to eat. I can’t stop myself from returning to the photograph. What did Lisa mean when she pointed to the image? You already have your answer. Was it someone on the scholarship committee, or at the meeting where they were photographed together? What about Susan O’Neill, the sullen-looking swimming coach sitting on Michael’s left? Could she have been Michael’s lover?

The more I find out, the less it makes sense. Unable to contain my curiosity or impatience any longer, I decide that there is still one more thing I can try and do before my meeting with Lisa tomorrow. Something that might just help us when we go to the police.

I make a quick phone call, and then drive the twenty-three miles to Falmouth, making it to the bank just before closing time. It’s half past five when I arrive at the Old Wheel. Siobhan is already waiting.

‘Mrs Hardy.’

‘Why don’t we go outside?’ I lead Siobhan around the back to the beer garden. She looks nervous – but even more than that, she looks hugely curious.

‘Thank you for coming,’ I say, finding a table under a large chestnut tree.

‘I can’t stay long.’

‘You won’t need to.’ I reach into my bag, remove a white envelope, and slide it across the table.

‘What’s this?’

‘I told you I’d make it worth your while to meet with me. Open it.’

Siobhan glances around and then, slipping a manicured fingernail between the seal, gently rips open the envelope. My eyes never leave her face. At first, she seems confused, uncertain; but slowly understanding dawns. I watch in satisfaction as she counts the notes.

‘There must be at least five hundred quid here,’ she whispers, finally daring to make eye contact.

I smile, confident she is mine. ‘Five hundred pounds now,’ I say, ‘and another five hundred when you deliver to me a copy of Susan O’Neill’s HR file.’

‘The