Dying for Millions Read Free Page A

he’d be back to Devon and Ruth.
    â€˜See you Friday, then? At the airport?’
    He shook his head. ‘It’ll be more like Saturday, and I’ll get a taxi. I’ll let myself in.’
    â€˜Breakfast?’
    He shook his head extravagantly.
    â€˜Lemon tea at eleven?’
    â€˜Some bloke’s missing a good wife.’
    â€˜Sexist bastard. Well, I’m off to earn my crust.’
    He stopped pedalling and slipped off the bike. A sweaty hug, and a tiny kiss on the lips. That was the routine.
    Taking the car into work always generated a mixture of guilt and frustration. I knew I was adding not just to city pollution levels but also to global warming, and I could see quite clearly the effect of extra cars – one-driver, no-passenger cars – on a grievously overloaded road system. Any day now the city would be gridlocked. But today I really needed the car to make another visit, this time to an airport – not Birmingham International, but West Midlands, a small-scale airport where I hoped to place some students. This meant heading out along the A38 via Spaghetti Junction. It was fortunate I had a class till ten: it would allow a little time for the roads to clear.
    The motorways into the city were still clogged, but the outward routes, including the A38 Lichfield Road, were clear. There was a slight delay on the Tyburn Road, where a milk-float had somehow spilt its entire load, but eventually I picked up the road to the airport just after the turning for Minworth sewage works. In cold, wet weather like this, there was no smell to betray it; I wouldn’t have taken bets on it after a long, hot summer, though.
    It was surprisingly easy to get in. I’d expected security guards – but then, it was a public airport. I found my way to a small visitors’ car park near the administration block. Mine was easily the smallest car, but I compensated by making it the most neatly parked. I brushed myself down, and headed for Reception.
    In addition to the car, the new job had also called for a few changes in my wardrobe: gone were the days when I had merely to decide which pair of jeans to wear. I had had to lose street cred in order to gain credibility with employers. And, perhaps, there was a faint but enduring hope that one of them might one day realise how efficient and professional I was and head-hunt me from the wilting grove of Academe that was William Murdock. I still enjoyed the teaching, and all the pastoral work with the students, but a brief sojourn at another, better-endowed college, had made me realise the advantages of working in a pleasant environment.
    Although the administrative block was a low and unimpressive building one grade up from a pre-fab, the doors opened – then shut – automatically, admitting me to a newly-decorated and clean foyer. I was greeted by a motherly middle-aged receptionist who appeared genuinely sorry when she told me that Mark Winfield, the Training Officer I’d come to see, was delayed in a meeting. She brought me current magazines and newly-made tea – with fresh milk – and settled me in a comfortable chair. I wallowed in the unexpected luxury of a break. I flicked through this month’s
Cosmopolitan
: my horoscope promised a change in my fortunes by the end of the month and warned me not to let my independence discourage my partner. Partner, indeed! The nearest thing I had to a partner was Chris, now on some course which seemed likely to whizz him from his current rank of DCI to something way beyond superintendent in less than no time. And the higher he flew, the less likely we were to agree.
    â€˜Ms Rivers?’
    I jumped, but had the presence of mind to stand up and offer my hand. ‘Sophie, please.’
    â€˜Mark Winfield,’ said the young man, taking it and shaking it warmly. He was in a suit considerably flasher than mine, but his hair was well styled and his complexion lightly tanned. He was about