Good to hear that she hadn’t discounted marriage—and therefore by implication Anderson—entirely. “Bit of a mess, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Adam, you have no idea. Thanks for listening, though. I haven’t got anybody else I can talk to who doesn’t want to take sides.”
“We’ll always be strictly neutral. I promise.” The only side Adam wanted to take was one which got Anderson out from under their feet. “You should talk to Stuart. He’d listen.”
“Would he?”
Adam tried to sound convincing. “I’m sure he would. You can’t keep up the wall of silence forever. That’s just being silly.”
“Don’t call me silly.” Helen’s voice had tightened again, the angry edge—never far off—returning with a vengeance. “I’m not one of your pupils.”
“I know. I wouldn’t dare call them that. All I’m asking is that you talk to him.”
“I’ll think about it.” That seemed to be the best she was going to offer. “Don’t you dare tell him about the baby, though. I swear to God, it’ll make things worse.”
“I promise.” He’d tell Robin, though. “Take care of yourself. And the baby.”
“Okay, mother.” It came across like a jokey exit line, but the abruptness with which Helen ended the call didn’t fill Adam with confidence. Were he and Robin any nearer getting rid of the unwanted lodger? He doubted it.
The day promised to be a hectic one. Culdover Primary always held “meet the teacher” evenings at the very start of the academic year so information could be shared and expectations laid out. As Jim Rashford averred, you could make more of an impact spending an hour with parents than a day with pupils; it was the next generation back who proved so often to be feckless, lacking in discipline and common sense.
Adam had still been at Lindenshaw school when those evenings had happened, so he’d missed a vital part of establishing the right relationships with the parents of his charges. So he was looking forward to this morning, when they’d be holding open class sessions for the first hour. Parents would be able to drop in informally before they set off for work, see what their children were learning about, join in themselves, and bend the teachers’ ears if necessary. His enthusiasm continued until Sophie’s father appeared, wearing an expression that signalled he wanted to talk.
Best to start on the front foot; Adam waited until his target had spent some time looking at Sophie’s work, then drifted over, hand outheld. “Mr. Baxter. Good to meet you.”
“And you.” Baxter shook the proffered hand vigorously. “Sophie cried all evening when she heard her old teacher was leaving, but you know what kids are like. Fickle. She thinks the world of you.”
“Oh, Dad.” Sophie, blushing, studied her shoes. “Stop it.”
“That’s me told.” Baxter didn’t appear bothered. They shared some pleasantries about how well Sophie had settled in, Adam stating that he’d prefer to talk about things like progress when it was the proper parents’ evening and he had all the information to hand.
“Suits me.” Baxter nodded while Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and got back to her work. “I wanted to nab a word about something else.”
Adam, heart sinking, forced a smile. “Now?”
“Yeah. It’s nothing the children can’t hear.”
That at least was reassuring. “Okay, but excuse me if I keep part of my attention on the class.”
“I get that.” Baxter dropped his voice. “I’ve just chatted with Mr. Rashford. I wanted to thank you for passing on what Sophie told you about the detectorists. I should have done it myself, but it made less trouble that way.”
“She’s a sensible girl.”
Baxter snorted. “I wish the detectorists were half as sensible.”
Adam, keeping an eye on one of his charges, who seemed to be contemplating poking his pal with a pencil, then thinking better of it when he saw he was under observation, said, “I used to have a hankering to do that when I was a boy. Metal-detecting, not sticking a pencil in other people.”
“You should join us! We could do with some younger blood.”
“I wish I could,” Adam backtracked, regretting the confession, “but you know what it’s like with teaching workload. I’m up to my eyeballs.”
“Tell me about it. My boss would have me work all hours God sent.” Baxter halted. “I can say that, right? I mean, this being a church school.”
“You’re okay.” Adam smiled. Baxter seemed like a genuinely nice bloke, and in any other circumstances Adam might have been glad to take up the offer. He could do with a new hobby, one that was nothing to do with either school or Robin, and his early interest in metal-detecting hadn’t been feigned. But if there was any risk of getting caught up in the Culford case, that would put the kibosh on things.
“You could just come along for a meeting, see what you think. If you hate it, you wouldn’t need to come again. You might get put off by the paperwork, anyway.”
“Paperwork?” That had Adam intrigued.
“You should see the palaver you have to go through to become a bona fide member”—Baxter wagged his finger—“but I won’t tell you about that, or I’ll definitely put you off. We’re meeting tonight, if that’s not too short notice. It can’t hurt to meet the locals.”
Adam, about to pretend he was too busy, noticed Sophie out of the corner of his eye. She appeared tickled pink that her dad and her teacher were getting on so well. “I’ll come along the once,” he offered. “Although I need to check it with Mr. Rashford first. There’s a proper protocol about teachers socialising with parents, although this is probably okay. So long as we don’t become pals on Facebook and start making comments about the pupils.”
Baxter looked aghast. “I hadn’t thought of that. Mind you, if you’re used to working with strict protocols, the detectorists will love you. They have more red tape than the Department for Education.”
“Don’t you believe it.” The arrival of another parent gave Adam the opportunity to escape. “Sorry. Duty calls. Leave me the details of when and where to meet, and if I can, I’ll be there.”
“Cool beans,” Baxter replied, at which the class burst into laughter and Sophie, groaning, hid her head in her hands.
Jim Rashford had no objection to Adam going along to the detectorist’s meeting, so long as he used his common sense about what he could and couldn’t talk about. There was a hint, in his agreement, of suspicion that this was more about Robin’s case than Adam’s potential new hobby, but Adam pretended not to notice. He’d need all his energy and wits to explain this one to his partner, and the sooner the better. A call at lunchtime would be preferable to leaving his thoughts to stew.
As it turned out, Robin appeared cautiously positive about Adam’s plan. He was convinced something was awry at Culdover, over and above what had emerged so far, but he couldn’t get a handle on it, and anything that might lead to the lucky break was worth a try.
“Do you think you can act dumb?”
“I’m certain I can.” Adam chuckled. “Not sure it’ll do much for my reputation with the parents, though. Why?”
“Just thinking that if you keep quiet and smile, it’s amazing how many people want to tell you things—the sort of stuff they’re probably not supposed to tell anybody.” Robin sniggered. “They need to fill the conversational void.”
“I can make that happen. You have no idea how many little old ladies have regaled me over the years with tales of their operations. Everyone wants to pour their heart out to me.”
“That’s your natural charm. Let’s hope it doesn’t run to some nasty great villain telling you how they did someone over round the back of Victoria Station, because one case is enough, thank you. Keep to Culdover stuff.”
“Will do. And while we think of it, do you want me to join the detectorists?” Adam offered. “I mean, I will if it’ll help. I can always leave again once we’ve got what we need.”
“No. You don’t have to go through with the whole malarkey, unless
you suddenly decide that’s the life for you. Dip your toes in the water and keep your ears open. Show enough interest and you might get under their skins.”
“Shall I take Campbell with me? To be my bodyguard?”
Silence reigned at the other end of the line.
“Hello?” Had the connection been lost?
“I was just wondering whether you should send your apologies. Look, forget it seemed like a good idea.” Robin, voice shaky, must have been thinking of the last murder case he’d been involved with and the almost disastrous end it had come to.
“We’ll be in a pub. I promise I won’t let any of them lead me down a dark alley.”
“Like I did, you mean?” Robin’s reference to getting himself beaten up seemed light-hearted enough, but the underlying message remained.
“I’ll be careful, I swear. And if it would be helpful, I’d be happy to do it, unless I hear from you that it’s a no go.” They both needed to think this through; time to change the subject. “How was your morning?”
Robin groaned. “I’ll tell you about it later. How did you get on with Helen?”
“About the same level of success as you’ve had, by the sound of it. I’ll explain that later too. Remember the milk.”
“I’ll make sure not to forget it. I love you too.”
“No,” Adam insisted. “We really do need milk. Stuart’s gone through all of it, and I’ve had to open the long life I keep for emergencies.”
“Oh, gotcha. I’ll ring him and make sure he buys some en route to ours. He can get me fish and chips in too. Pay his way a bit. We’re not his parents.”
“Don’t let’s get started on them.”
“Sorry?”
“Conversation with Helen. All will be revealed later.”
Robin sniggered. “Promises, promises.”
“Daft beggar.” Adam snorted. “Have to go. See you sometime tonight.”
Adam got back to work, preparing for the afternoon ahead, only half his mind on the task. Had he made the right call? He made a mental note not to let himself end up alone with any of the detectorists—or anybody who might be involved with the case—and he definitely wouldn’t get in any cars until he was absolutely sure the driver was innocent, and maybe not even then. He’d learned his lesson twice over.
Although given that Robin still couldn’t identify the dead woman, how could Adam know who was in the frame for being the murderer?
Robin’s Thursday morning had started with a showdown. Having managed to calm down overnight—if he’d been in a position to speak to his team the previous evening, he’d have gone off like a rocket—he still needed to get to the bottom of the leak. How had the media known about Becky Bairstow? The morning update seemed an ideal time to deal with attitudes, as well, so he’d got the troops together, lulled them into thinking this was a briefing like any other, then dropped the grenade.
“Before we get our heads around developments in the case, I want to investigate developments here.” Robin scanned the faces of his merry men and women, not that they looked particularly merry. He’d been fighting off a deep suspicion that some of them were deliberately being less than effective, maybe in an effort to discredit him personally. He was forcing himself to believe it was more likely they were simply feckless, suffering from having poor role models over the last few years—even Ben had shown signs of that. But the situation wasn’t helped by being served with a side order of antagonism towards Stanebridge and anyone associated with that place.
“I’m due to brief the media at ten. I was going to start by telling them that Becky Bairstow had been ruled out from being our dead woman. I don’t need to do that now. Do I? Seeing as they already know.” He drew the words out, watching his team’s discomfort visibly increase.
Ben—of course it would be him—responded first. “Some of them were hanging around outside yesterday. Maybe they saw her leave the building, vaguely recognised her face, then connected her with the picture we’d put out. She’s not changed much.”
“Could be.” Robin acknowledged Ben’s remark. “But I heard the local bulletin on catch up, and there was too much in that report that couldn’t have come from simply matching a face to a name.” He scanned the room again. “Has one of you been talking where you shouldn’t have been?”
“We wouldn’t talk directly to the press.” Sarah, a constable who hadn’t overtly blotted her copybook yet in Robin’s eyes, even if she didn’t seem to be putting her whole effort into her job, appeared outraged at the suggestion. “Look, sir, we may not have got off on the right foot with you, and I know that Abbotston earned itself a reputation, but we’re not stupid.”
“So you say, but can I be sure of everyone sitting here?” Robin paused, scrutinising each team member in turn—with the exceptions of Ben and Pru. He wanted to make it clear who was being addressed and who wasn’t. “This case is important. Not only for your careers, and God knows you’re not covering yourself in glory where they’re concerned, but for the people involved. We have a dead woman and she deserves justice. She also deserves people to try their utmost best for her.” Out of the side of his eye he caught another constable, Alison Cosgrove, squirming. That wouldn’t hurt. “Given all that happened here, I don’t expect you to like me. Or like Chief Superintendent Cowdrey. But I do expect that you’ll do what I ask you to, when I ask you to do it, and that you won’t jeopardise a successful outcome by talking to people you shouldn’t be talking to. Am I making myself plain?”
A murmur round the room and all eyes firmly fixed on the ground proved as infuriating as an out-and-out argument would have done. Robin, who’d kept his tone even so far, raised his voice to a level he’d never had to use at Stanebridge. “Am I making myself clear?”
“Sorry, sir.” Alison broke the silence. “There’s still a bit of bad feeling between the two nicks, and it’s hard to shake off.”
“I’m well aware of that. But if you were being professional, you’d do your damnedest not to let it affect your work. It isn’t Stanebridge versus Abbotston. It’s us versus whoever bludgeoned that poor girl and denied her a decent burial.”
“You’re right, sir.” Sarah, clearly willing to risk what might appear to be siding with the enemy, sat forwards in her chair. “We haven’t all been putting in as much effort as we should. There are people at this nick who’d love to see you and Mr. Cowdrey come a cropper. No”—she raised her hand at the rumbles of protest—“what’s the point in denying it? And if it’s delaying this case being solved, what’s the bloody point at all?”
“Yes, but—” Alison protested.
“When you’ve quite finished.” This must be how Adam had to talk to his class. “Right, I’ve said my piece, and I expect you to act accordingly. Now, let’s get down to business.”
Pru and Robin got everyone up to speed with the latest developments—such as they were—and listened to what the constables had to report.
The Community Payback line had turned out to be a bit of a blind alley, the three men who’d been involved at the site all having been interviewed and effectively ruled out. One had been arrested and held on remand within days of finishing at Culford, one had been abroad on business—dodgy-sounding business, but he’d definitely been out of the country—at the crucial time, and the third had moved back to Scotland to live with his parents as soon as he’d discharged his sentence, which was for driving offences.
Andy Hales had been put through the wringer by the Met, eventually confirming Becky Bairstow’s story. Whether he’d face charges for wasting police time was up to the Crown Prosecution Service.
Ben had the most intriguing piece of information to share. “When we got the news back from the Met, I started poking around about Becky Bairstow. As far as I’m concerned, her story doesn’t hang together, despite what her boyfriend says.”
“I’d agree.” Robin waited for the rest of it.
“She told us she was orphaned. Have I got that right?”
Robin nodded
.
“Well, she wasn’t. Isn’t. Her parents are both alive. Why would she lie about that?”
“Maybe she hates them,” Alison suggested, her first real contribution to their bank of ideas. “She took her chance to get away from them as well as the ex-boyfriend. Anyway, what’s that got to do with the dead woman?”
“I don’t know,” Ben admitted, “but I don’t like factual inconsistencies.”
“Neither do I.” Robin gave Ben a thumbs up. “If that turns out to be a lucky hunch, you can give me the lottery numbers. Pru, can you make a note to follow this up with Ms. Bairstow?”
Progress made, of a sort, but there was no getting away from their biggest stumbling blocks: who was the dead woman, why had all ID been taken off her, and why had the body been relocated after death? “Is there nothing more on a possible identification? Are we going to have to look for her worldwide?”
Sarah raised a tentative hand. “Ben and I have been going back through every viable option on identification from the UK database. We’ve not yet turned up a name, but we have run across something odd.”
“Go on.” Nice to see some proper intra-team cooperation. Maybe he’d underestimated Sarah, tarring all of the Abbotston crew with the same brush.
“A girl called Philippa Palmer was reported missing at a similar time to when our girl was killed, but we’d discounted her because she then turned up again, sort of.”
“Sort of?” Alison quickly suppressed a sneer. Just as well, given Robin’s inclination to get her transferred as soon as convenient.
Ben, bridling, said, “She’d gone travelling round the world, like Becky Bairstow.”
“Another one?” Robin ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve come across a lot of coincidences in my time, but this is unbelievable.”
Sarah shrugged. “I know, but apparently it’s a fact. She’s been posting on social media and assuring everyone she’s okay, simply in need of some time out. As a result, the file got closed.”
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 10
