The Chorister at the Abbey Read Online Free

partner. More than one dad had sidled up to confide about a misspent youth smoking dope, or a brief, heady time in a group. A few had even bought Freddie’s album, Fabrikant’s Factory , in the old days. After fearing he would be on the fringes, Freddie Fabrikant was really enjoying himself.
    ‘Cappuccino, Wanda? With skimmed milk for your waistline?’ Freddie laughed heartily and others smiled with him.
    She nodded, trying not to show her irritation. She hated going to Figaro’s. Freddie waved cheerily to people, greeting them all expansively as if he was some mad lord of the manor.
    Wanda Wisley sank into the sofa. She closed her eyes. They would be in London in twenty-four hours, at her flat. I’ve got to get out of here, even if only for a fortnight, she thought. It would be awful to be reduced to just getting to Town for the odd concert or, God forbid, a ‘show’. Look at pathetic Edwin Armstrong, once a budding composer, now nearly forty and marooned in Norbridge. It was too frightening.
    ‘Wanda!’ Freddie’s loud voiced boomed at her from the counter where he was still waiting for his latte laced with reindeer droppings – or whatever muck she thought he was ordering.
    ‘Wanda, can’t you hear? Your phone’s ringing.’ Freddie had famously acute hearing, honed rather than blunted by the recording studios. Postproduction and synthesizing was his thing. He hadn’t been very successful with live gigs. Not enough real energy.
    Wanda fumbled in the Fiorentina bag and found her phone. As she listened she felt suddenly sick, the hot steamy smell of coffee and milk making her nauseous. The message was telling her to call North Cumbria police. Urgently. In connection with a problem at the college.
    Had there been a break-in? Or was one of the students in serious trouble? Wanda had become aware that Norbridge was a place of undercurrents. The curious smiles she had taken for bucolic friendliness had hardened into blank looks, or even sniggers behind her back. Freddie understood country life much better than she did. But he would be no help in anything where the police were involved.
    She scrolled through the numbers on her address list. She had never expected to use this one, but she had no option. She pressed the call button to connect her to Edwin Armstrong’s mobile.
    Whatever the problem was at the college, she knew it was serious, and she didn’t want to go there.
    At seven thirty, Suzy Spencer arrived home in Tarnfield, tired and irritable. She’d driven back from Tyneside after an exacting day in the TV studio working on the Christmas special I’m a Geordie, Get Me Out of Here . The title was a bit dated but the show worked well – though it was fraught to produce. It was about people from the north-east of England who’d moved to more exotic locations and still had a hankering for home.
    ‘That bloody director. I’ve had it up to here with men!’ she snapped.
    ‘You must be very athletic then,’ said Robert Clark.
    Suzy flung her handbag at him, just missing the Daily Telegraph he was reading. He’d arrived home himself an hour earlier. She ran her hand through her spiky fair hair and tipped her coat untidily over the end of the banisters.
    ‘Get lost, smart-arse. I’m going into the kitchen. Where’s Jake?’ Jake was her son, just turned fifteen.
    ‘There was a note to say he’s round at Oliver’s for, would you believe, a ‘jam session’. He said Ollie’s dad would drop him back later.’
    ‘And Molly got away to the Brownies’ Christmas party?’
    ‘Yep. There was a note from the childminder saying she went off safely.’ Molly was Suzy’s eight-year-old daughter. Tarnfield kids were almost all car-dependent, with elaborate rotas for driving them to activities in Norbridge, Carlisle and even Newcastle. Suzy was always on edge about Molly’s safety.
    ‘Have you already had a drink?’ she asked Robert.
    ‘Yes, I stopped for a quick half with Edwin Armstrong.’
    ‘How is