The Pinocchio Brief

by Silver Abi

  “Your emphasis is more on sport now than on academic studies?”

  “Oh no. Academics always come first, but we have just elevated sport to bring it up to the same level of excellence now, I am pleased to say.”

  “You like sport yourself, then?”

  “Yes, absolutely.” He raised a leg in ungainly fashion to display his gaudy trainers. “The sixth formers bought these for me last year as a token of their appreciation. So, I wear them around school, just to, well, to lend support.”

  “I see.”

  “And I think physical exercise is so important for the boys. They need an outlet. We have mainly rugby in the winter months but we have lots of other options, swimming all year round, cricket in summer together with athletics and tennis, table tennis, trampolining, badminton. We’ve even had some interest in ice hockey recently; Mr Simpson made some enquiries and now one evening a week we take over the local ice rink.”

  “And how are the academic standards?”

  “Better than ever. Healthy body, healthy mind, that’s what I say.”

  “And what did Mr Davis think about this emphasis on sport?”

  “Well, I don’t think I ever really discussed it with him. He was a maths teacher, you see.”

  “Not even when you insisted he attend the inter-school rugby final on the day he died.”

  Mr Glover opened and closed his mouth once, his shoulders tightening, his head dipping first to one side then the other, his hands widening in a gesture of submission. Then he smiled briefly. It wouldn’t be right to tell these women what he had seen in Davis’ face when they had sat opposite each other at the end of the last staff meeting, after the others filed out.

  Yes, there had been rumours about Davis, which had been drip-fed back, via a number of sources and which he had steadfastly ignored; that he was edgy, on rather a short fuse, that kind of thing. Didn’t like it if things were not quite as he expected. But he had never seen any sign of temper from Davis, up to that point. And he never acted on the basis of gossip. If he were to do that, how would he ever find time to do his job?

  He had struggled to recall the trigger for that look Davis had flung at him, the precise words which had caused the response. Now he remembered. He had begun the conversation with what he had hoped was a conciliatory opener delivered in a friendly tone, despite Davis defying him openly before all the staff only moments earlier. “Roger. Don’t you think you’ve taken this rugby thing far enough now?” he had said, smiling benignly. And that was it. That was all it had taken. Davis had stiffened visibly and sat bolt upright, lips pursed. He hadn’t spoken. But the flashing in his eyes had told a different story, one of pure derision, utter and total no-holds-barred contempt for his headmaster. And Mr Glover had shrunk back and poured himself a glass of water.

  “He didn’t like rugby,” Mr Glover announced coolly. “Each to his own. He had an issue with the scheduling of a games lesson for Year 11 just before a double period of maths. He said the boys arrived late, covered in mud, and it took them half the lesson to settle down. He asked if we could swap the two sessions so the boys finished the day with sport.”

  “And what did you say?”

  Again, Mr Glover opened his hands wide. “Well, I thanked him for bringing it up. Naturally, I said I would have preferred it if he had come to me privately and I said I would think things over.”

  “I see.” Judith’s pen hovered over her page before scribbling an illegible note in the margin. She flicked over two pages of notes, her eyes narrow and darting, before returning her attention to Mr Glover.

  “And what happened then?” she asked.

  “Well, that was all really. But I tried to impress on Roger how important it was to support all the boys in the school, not just those who were good at maths or computing. After all, a few of the boys in the rugby team were in his house.”

  “And what did Mr Davis say?”

  “He said he understood and that he would come to the match, but he might not manage to stay for it all. He said he had set aside the time to work on a maths tournament we were planning with some other schools. We agreed on that compromise. Sadly, poor, poor man, if he had come to the match he might not be dead now.”

  Judith and Constance exchanged glances. “Yes, quite so,” Judith muttered, half under her breath. “And after Mr Davis left, did you think things over?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did you act on his request about timetabling?”

  Mr Glover emitted a deep sigh and his face became a mass of furrows and creases. He tried, without success, to blot out the image of the dead man’s face, as close to his as Judith’s was now, as it ran the gamut of facial expressions from scorn to disbelief through to anger. And naturally, when he had ultimately had to pull rank on the young man, to bring matters to a close, there had been more than a hint of humiliation. Mr Glover had not liked that; he had hoped that could have been avoided.

  “Well. I reflected on it afterwards. But, I couldn’t agree. To be frank, I thought he was being deliberately provocative. You know, just because he didn’t like rugby. And I, together with my senior management team, had spent a lot of time putting the timetable together. If I changed it for Davis, I might have been inundated with requests to make further changes.”

  “Yes, I see, of course.” Judith nodded again agreeably. “So, you were not prepared to accommodate Mr Davis’ request?”

  “No.”

  “And did you communicate this to Mr Davis?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Well, not immediately. I put it off and then, well, then there was no need to tell him, was there?”

  “And at the end of the staff meeting you and Mr Davis parted on good terms?”

  “Yes. I’ve said so. I told him I would consider what he had said and that was an end to it.”

  “Moving on then, did anything happen, that you are aware of, anything specific, any incident between Mr Davis and any of the boys?”

  “No. Nothing I know about.”

  “He was well liked?”

  “Well. Hm. I’m not sure that I can say.”

  “Really? Why is that?” Judith’s nostrils flared, as they had that first time Constance met her, although her voice remained flat and calm.

  “I am the head teacher and my remit is more strategy and standards; I don’t have much time for chit-chat.”

  “I see. And did Mr Davis prove himself to be a good maths teacher?”

  “Excellent. The boys had top marks. And computing. He had recently begun teaching the A level group. Mr Bird, head of maths, said he was very solid, knew his stuff, if a little rigid.”

  “Rigid?”

  “Well, he didn’t smile a lot. That I can say. Perhaps that helps answer your earlier question.”

  “Perhaps it does. Did you ever hear of anything occurring between Raymond Maynard and Mr Davis?”

  “No. Nothing. Like I said. I don’t listen at keyholes. It’s not my style. My staff wouldn’t thank me for it. Maynard is a brilliant student, though. Rather awkward physically, that sort of thing, but he can do anything with numbers, so I am told.”

  “Any good at sport?”

  “No. Terrible. Uncoordinated, poor chap. I once saw him trying to throw the javelin; he tripped before the line and almost stuck it in his own foot. Very lucky escape. But very bright – off the scale. Not our usual sort of student. Money from life insurance brought him here you know.”

  “Yes, we heard. Did Raymond, did Maynard have many friends?”

  “I don’t know but I would guess not. The very clever ones usually don’t. Being top of the class, being cleverer than the teacher, it doesn’t tend to make you lots of friends, in my experience. The police questioned his roommate, Benson. I imagine they asked those kinds of questions.”

  “Ah. James Benson. He’s on our list and we should like to speak to him too, if you agree.”

  “Yes, the boy knows he is to come over. Like I said, anyt
hing to help.”

  “Yes, you said. Thank you. Is there any pastoral care here at Richmond Boys’?”

  “Well, the house masters have all been trained and boys are encouraged to talk to them if any issues bother them.”

  “And who do the house masters tell?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, if a boy tells a house master something personal but serious, say, that he is homesick, for example, what does the house master do? Does he record it somewhere? Would you get to know about it?”

  “The boys are encouraged to speak to their house masters on the basis that it will be confidential between them and the house master. If we didn’t have that rule they wouldn’t confide, would they?”

  “No. I suppose not. Mr Glover, you have been very helpful. Constance, did you have anything you should like to add?”

  Constance looked up from her laptop and made a pretence of reviewing her notes to hide her surprise at being asked to participate.

  “Yes,” she replied, hesitantly at first, “Mrs Taylor said that Mr Davis received a telephone call shortly before he died, from a woman. Do you have any idea who that was?”

  Mr Glover shook his head from side to side repeatedly.

  “No. I’m afraid I seldom become involved in the private lives of my team and on that day my thoughts were definitely elsewhere.”

  “May I then ask for the telephone records for incoming and outgoing calls for Mr Davis’ number?”

  Mr Glover smiled broadly with his mouth, but his eyes did not follow suit.

  “Yes, that’s fine. Mrs Taylor will organise it for you.”

  “And, when Mr Bailey came to find you, at the match, do you know what time that was?”

  “No. I’m sorry. But, I know what the score was if that helps. It was finely poised at 21-15. Young Evans had just set up a try from Partram with a fabulous dummy.”

  “And when you reached Mr Davis’ rooms who was there?”

  “Mrs Taylor ran out and Mr Bailey, our groundsman, ran in and then a police officer came outside.”

  “The police officer was already there when you arrived?”

  “I’ve just said that.”

  “And Maynard?”

  “Well, he remained inside. After some time, he came out with the police. He had blood all over him.” Mr Glover’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head from side to side.

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “No.”

  “How did he look?”

  “I was going to say ‘pale’ but the boy is always pale. Ha! He looked a bit dazed, he was staring at the ground and walking slowly, almost staggering. But they had cuffs on him by then, handcuffs.”

  “Yes. Thank you. That’s all I have to ask.”

  Judith nodded once to acknowledge Constance’s contribution.

  “Thank you so much, Mr Glover. I think Constance and I will just take a 15-minute break before we speak to James Benson.”

  “Certainly. Would you like to sit next door? I have some work to get on with. Lorraine could bring you some tea.”

  “No. I think we’ll get some fresh air if that’s all right. Take a few turns around the grounds. I promise we won’t approach any of the boys. They’re at lessons now, aren’t they?”

  ***

  JUDITH STRODE briskly towards the shelter of a large oak tree in the corner of the field which housed the athletics track. She dropped her briefcase to the ground and paced up and down under the shelter of its branches. Constance watched her with amusement and sat herself down on a pile of dry leaves. If this taster was representative of working with Judith, then it was going to be a rollercoaster of a ride. Eventually, Judith stopped walking and tutted loudly.

  “Damn, I could use a cigarette or a whisky or both!” she muttered. Then she laughed raucously.

  “Well done on the question about the phone call,” she called out to Constance, “although I might have been tempted to leave that one till trial, but, well, it’s done now. He was lying, of course.”

  “Really? When?”

  “When he said he had no idea who called Davis, he shook his head too many times and his voice wavered. And he really did not want us looking at the phone records, that was clear, but of course he had no choice. Davis almost certainly used his mobile most of the time in any event and the police must have that. Funny how neither of them liked him, Davis, that is.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, come on. He never once said he was sorry that Davis was dead. What was his opener, go on, read me your notes?”

  “I don’t need to read them. I remember.” Constance’s eyes fixed on a far-off point as she ensured she repeated what she had heard verbatim. “He said ‘anything that can help that poor boy’.”

  “Precisely. ‘That poor boy’, AKA Raymond. Nothing about poor Davis, his fantastic maths teacher who was achieving tremendous results with the boys, who was found lying dead with a knife in his chest.”

  Constance mulled this over.

  “Do you think he doesn’t believe Raymond is the killer then?” she asked.

  “Maybe. But I think Mr Glover is more devious than that. This is the way I see it,” Judith began to circle Constance more slowly than before, with her arms folded tightly around her body. “If he condemns Raymond, then what does that say about the school he presides over? Answer – that it breeds murderers! I think it’s all about self-preservation with old Glover. And of course, the man is clearly mad. There’s that, too.”

  “How do you mean ‘mad’?” Constance found herself giggling, despite the seriousness of the subject matter.

  “Well, the trainers for a start. All right, the boys gave them to him, but he has to maintain standards. Why can’t he wear them at home? Next, he’ll be in the swimming pool with the eleven-year-olds, encouraging them in their backstroke. And he has taken the sensible notion that boys study better if they are physically fit, and promoted it to become that boys study better if covered in mud and fired up from violent physical exercise.

  “How would you like to teach twenty-five 15-year-olds, half of them beefier than you, when they’ve just come off the rugby pitch, or just finished boxing in the gym? It’s ludicrous. But clearly when the rather old-fashioned, starchy Mr Davis sensibly and reasonably pointed this out, he didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t want anyone interfering with his precious timetable or ruffling the feathers of his ‘senior management team’. So, he stuck to his guns and Davis ended up making enemies of half the boys every time they turned up late.”

  “You think they had an argument about it after the staff meeting?” Constance had now opened her tablet and was reading back through the notes she had made earlier.

  “Yes I do, although he won’t admit it now. OK, he has a virtually cast-iron alibi, but it doesn’t look good to have had a blazing row with a man who turns up dead a few days later, does it?” Judith raised her forefinger in recognition of the importance of Constance’s question. “Yes. I imagine Glover told Davis he had to come to the match or pack his bags. That’s why Mrs Taylor saw him storm out. I wouldn’t put it past Glover to have checked Davis’ rooms himself before the match.”

  “But you don’t think he killed him?”

  “Physically he is capable of it but the evidence puts him at the match, although I’m not sure we have his measure yet. I think we need to know more about Davis’ mystery caller too. It could all lead to nothing, of course. Can you work on that?”

  “Sure,” Constance agreed with enthusiasm. “Why did you ask him about pastoral care?”

  Judith shrugged. “A mixture of force of habit and desperation, I suppose.”

  Constance shook her head to indicate her puzzlement and Judith turned her head to glower at the robust, sprawling school building before replying.

  “As soon as anything involves a boys’ school, particularly boarding, I always think bullying or abuse,” Judith replied crisply. “Oh, I know it’s not very PC to say that and I chose instead to
use the euphemism ‘homesickness’ but there it is. And they seldom have the wherewithal to put any useful programme in place to combat it. I thought it worth exploring further.”

  “Should I ask Mrs Taylor, then, about whether they report incidents between boys, that kind of thing?”

  “Well you heard Glover’s response. The house masters deal with it, and Maynard’s house master is no longer with us, so we can’t ask him, but it won’t do any harm to check. Thank you, Constance. Good work. Add that to your ever-lengthening To Do list.”

  9

  NOW FOR level three. Some serious exercise, but not the kind you do in the gym. No one will notice I’ve been exercising of course – there won’t be any weight gain, no honed abdominals, no chiselled features. No, the muscles I’m going to exercise are not visible, well, not to the naked eye, but they will benefit from exercising, even so.

  I remember years ago, being taken to an orthoptist because I had a “lazy eye”. I was six and mum promised me an ice cream if I was good. The house stank of dogs – two of them, tiny little squirmy things with long ears – but how they reeked. I felt sick but I went in because of the ice cream. I had English toffee with nuts and chocolate sauce (did you know that January 8th is English Toffee Day in the USA?). “Look at the pencil, now look at the pen” exercises followed for weeks. They hurt my eyes but my lazy eye was suddenly not lazy anymore. In fact, it had never really been lazy; to call it lazy was stupid. It just needed to be given the opportunity to work properly. But I learned then, before my first biology lesson, that we have muscles everywhere and when we exercise them they grow strong and we gain control over them. And for what I want to achieve, control is the key. Here’s my plan.