Daisy asked why.
‘The usual things. Internal group dynamics, I believe it is now called.’
‘We had a touch of that tonight,’ said Joe.
‘I can imagine. The dream goes sour eventually. All one can expect is to make one’s discoveries before the end. We made ours, and then fell apart.’
‘Is that when my father started to…’
‘To disintegrate? Yes, I suspect it was.’
‘A year before I was born.’
‘Maybe you were his attempt to realign himself. Perhaps that is why I was reluctant to discuss this with you. Ms Love, you must realize my delight when you applied for my course. Your name alone fills me with trembling memories. I went along with your scheme quite willingly, to pretend him dead. In a sense, you have brought him back to me. He rings me up occasionally, you know. He seems in good spirits. I have even invited him round here; he always declined.’
‘Well, he doesn’t go out much.’
‘But Joe, here, has further news of the past. He has been researching the whereabouts of the class of 1968. Joe?’
Joe unfolded a sheet of paper. ‘First the bad news: of the original twenty-eight, at least seven of them are dead. I have no trace of a Paul Malthorpe, of the correct age.’
‘I heard he left for London after Number Gumbo broke up.’
‘Nothing on George Horn. Regarding Susan Prentice; there are at least three women of the correct age and name in Manchester. One is a waitress. Another a lawyer. The third is a teacher.’
‘Ahhh.’
‘Junior school. Your junior school.’
‘Get some exam results for me.’
‘Already done. Nothing spectacular. Of the rest, nine of them I can find no trace. Of those I can trace, only seven of them are in professions at all related to mathematics: a computer analyst, a bookmaker, the owner of a casino, a tax inspector—’
‘Oh dear. Prime suspect.’
‘A meteorologist and a chartered accountant.’
‘You will concentrate on these, but not only. Remember, our clues may come from anywhere. Investigate everybody.’
‘That’s only six,’ said Daisy. ‘Six suspects. Who’s the seventh?’
‘He’s a professor of mathematics at Manchester University.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is,’ said Hackle.
Play to win
Daisy returned to the Golden Samosa at just gone eleven. They were still serving. Through the window she watched a certain waiter expertly carrying four dishes to a table. He didn’t see her. She went up the outside stairs to her door.
A late night call to her father, asking for a game tomorrow. Granted. Twelve midnight found her in bed, waiting for Jazir.
Twelve-thirty, asleep. A knock on her door. ‘I can’t stay long.’
‘You don’t need to.’
The same time found Eddie Irwell setting out for town with the half-cast bone. Celia was already asleep. Sometime later that night she woke up screaming, having been chased by a skeletal figure. Twelve other players had the same dream.
Celia looking around, scared. Where was Eddie?
He’d made it to the pay-out, but not quite home with the prize.
Play to win
‘Yeah, we stayed together. What else could we do? We were bonded you see, by the special lessons.’ Daisy’s father was stroking the game-scarred five-four domino around his neck. ‘Don’t ask me where Miss Sayer came from, or where she went. She was a mystery to us. Perhaps that was her appeal; all the other teachers were boring, just people from around the corner. Incompetents, getting on with life. Miss Sayer changed all that. Hmm, nice move.’ He played a domino in response to Daisy’s double-three. ‘She was only at the school for a year.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Got kicked out, didn’t she.’
Daisy played a bone. ‘Why? If she was doing so well…’
That’s the problem. She was doing too well. Some government bore somewhere, with nothing else to fill his life, must have noticed the results. They thought we were cheating. All of us, minus one. There was this kid called Georgie Horn. Blank-Blank. He was the only one that Miss Sayer couldn’t reach.’
‘Hackle mentioned him. Didn’t he do as well?’
‘Georgie bombed out.’
It was the Saturday morning, and bright with it for a change. Her father had made an effort to tidy up the place. It wasn’t much of an attempt, but Daisy was touched. She had come here specifically to uncover something; the game was just the soundtrack, the clack of bones, the occasional rapping of knuckles on wood, the web of numbers slowly adding up.
‘It wasn’t only Miss Sayer’s results,’ her father said, taking his turn. ‘It was the teaching methods.’