The Stranger Diaries

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘Ella slept with someone at Hythe,’ I said, ‘and we think it was you.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Rick, clearly trying to keep his temper. ‘I’m a married man.’

  ‘What about Clare Cassidy?’ I say.

  He stopped fidgeting and went suddenly completely still. ‘What about Clare?’

  ‘What’s your relationship with Clare?’

  ‘We’re colleagues, friends. That’s all.’

  ‘She’s a good-looking woman,’ said Neil, all laddish chumminess.

  ‘Is she? Yes. I suppose she is.’

  ‘Ella Elphick too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will Clare say if we ask her about your relationship with Ella?’ I said.

  Rick seemed to control his voice with an effort. ‘She’ll say we were friends because that’s the truth.’

  He wouldn’t budge after that. It was frustrating but it’s a long game. We told him he was free to go.

  On Monday we went into Talgarth High. It was the first time I’d been inside since the day I collected my GCSE certificates. The smell was exactly the same: floor polish mixed with feet. We signed in at reception (a new innovation since my day, they didn’t worry as much about safeguarding in the nineties) and a pigtailed girl with a badge saying ‘Runner’ led us along the corridor to the head teacher’s office. This part of the school hadn’t changed at all; it seemed as if the same pieces of art were on the walls, the same laminated signs asking people to sign up for the Christmas play (Little Shop of Horrors — ha!) and not to run on the stairs. The photos of pupils opening their exam results — Talgarth’s Best Ever GCSE Results! — were new though. My GCSEs had been quite good, better than either of my brothers, but no one made a song and dance of it. Certainly I was never photographed with a beaming head teacher, holding that dreaded typewritten slip up to the camera. I was quite academic when I was at Talgarth. Things went downhill for me at the sixth-form college, although I managed to scrape together enough UCAS points to get to Chichester. There are no photos of me on A-Level results day either.

  But, walking along that corridor with its parquet floor, panelled walls, and high ceilings, it seemed almost impossible that, turning the corner, I wouldn’t run into my twelve-year-old self, my hair in long plaits, wearing a navy blue blazer, my tie ragged where I had chewed the end. The uniform has changed since my time; it’s sweatshirts now, no blazer, no tie. Practical but not very smart. Mind you, my brother Kush always wore a leather jacket instead of the blazer and I don’t remember anyone telling him off. Kush was always cool, which was handy for me, because I wasn’t.

  We passed the double doors to the chapel, now firmly closed. Mrs Elphick had told us that she wanted to have Ella’s funeral there. I hadn’t been inside since I snogged my first boyfriend, Gary Carter, behind the choir stalls. Past the main stairs, where, on certain nights, you can see the woman in white floating through the air like thistledown. I saw her myself once, though she was less ethereal and more like an avenging angel. But I wasn’t about to tell Neil this.

  ‘This is quite smart,’ said Neil, craning his head to look up the winding staircase.

  ‘You should see the modern building,’ I said. ‘It was falling down, even in my day. We had to put buckets along the art corridor when it rained.’

  ‘We still do,’ piped up our guide unexpectedly. ‘And there’s mould growing in the science labs. Actual mushrooms.’

  ‘Handy for home economics,’ I said, before realising that they probably didn’t do HE anymore. The girl looked confused and didn’t speak again. She left us at a door saying ‘Mr Sweetman, Head Teacher’ and clattered away in her heavy school shoes, as fast as she could go without running.

  We had planned to see Ella’s form group that morning. At Talgarth High, teachers stayed with the same class throughout their entire school career, which meant that, although they only saw their students at the beginning and the end of the day, by Year 11 they knew them pretty well. Ella’s form was 11EL which meant that Ella had had them for five years, since they joined the school in Year 7. The students might well be useful witnesses but we had to go very gently. We’d had to get permission from all the parents and Mrs Francis, the deputy head, was going to sit in on the interviews, acting as ‘appropriate adult’.

  ‘hey’re not children though,’ Neil had said on the drive in, ‘they’re sixteen and some of the boys are as big as me. They could easily overpower a slim woman like Ella.’

  ‘As far as we’re concerned today, they are children,’ I said but I knew that Neil had a point. It wasn’t impossible that one of her students could have had a crush on Ella and reacted violently when rejected. It wasn’t a theory I was going to express openly though.

  Tony and Mrs Francis (Liz) met us in his office. We’d asked to do the interviews there, partly because it was separate from the main part of the school and partly because the room itself had gravitas. It was the head teacher’s office and I hoped that, even in these lax sweatshirt-wearing times, it still had a certain power.

  We’d brought coffee from McDonald’s and I saw Tony looking at the Styrofoam cups with disapproval.

  ‘I’ve asked my secretary to make us some proper coffee,’ he said.

  ‘Have a Dunkin’ Donut.’ Neil proffered the box.

  Tony shuddered. ‘No thank you.’

  I liked Liz Francis. She was older than Tony, no-nonsense in a navy-blue suit and flat shoes, she had a humorous face, as if she’d seen it all before and didn’t take any of it too seriously. She took a doughnut, remarking that, as it contained jam, it counted as one of her five a day.

  ‘Remember our Heathy Eating Charter, Liz,’ said Tony, only half-joking.

  Tony explained that he was talking to all the students at assembly that morning. ‘They will probably all know about Ella,’ he said, ‘you know how news travels these days. But I think it’s best that they hear it from me.’ He sounded sincere but also rather self-important.

  ‘We’ll start seeing the students afterwards then,’ I said. Liz had copies of the students’ timetables (as they were in Year 11 they were all doing different subjects) and had prepared a schedule for us. But, as soon as the teachers had left, I turned to Neil. ‘Let’s see Clare again. Ask her about Hythe.’

  ‘She’ll be teaching.’

  ‘Let’s see her in break then. That’ll rattle her.’

  Neil sighed. ‘I don’t know why you’ve got it in for her.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ I said.

  We saw the students from 11EL one at a time, with Mrs Francis present. We asked them all the same questions.

  1.How did you get on with Miss Elphick?

  2.Do you know of anyone who didn’t get on with Miss Elphick?

  3.Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?

  The students all said that they liked Ella. Their tributes ranged from ‘she was all right’, with a shrug, to ‘I loved her’, eyes brimming with tears. I didn’t take too much notice of the brimming. Liz Francis had told us that the students were over-excited today. ‘It’s the first day back after half-term. Their teacher has just been killed. They’re genuinely upset but also some of them will be enjoying the drama of it.’ She smiled. ‘And it’s Halloween tomorrow which always gets them worked up.’ I loathe Halloween. Mum always has loads of sweets by the door in case kids come trick-or-treating but they mostly ignore our house because one, we’ve got a big dog and two, we’re foreign and ‘dress funny’.

  Ella’s pupils didn’t seem exactly over-excited. Some of them were emotional, some were nervous and some acted as if being interviewed by the police was all part of a day in the life of a bored teen. No one could think of a person who didn’t get on with Ella and no one had anything significant to tell us. We’d sent the runner with a message for Clare and, at break time, she appeared, looking haughty and disdainful.

 
‘Hallo, Clare,’ I said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  She sat down. She was wearing a black skirt and a dark grey jumper. Very understated but also mysteriously elegant. The knee-high boots again, a glimpse of black tights.

  ‘As we’re on first name terms,’ she said coolly, ‘what’s yours?’

  I thought this was rather a cheek but kept my voice pleasant. ‘Harbinder.’

  ‘Well, Harbinder, I haven’t got much time. I have a class in fifteen minutes.’

  Charming. ‘We’ll be quick,’ I said. ‘We’ve been looking at Ella’s social media profile and there are a few questions I’d like to ask you. In July, you and Ella went to a teacher training course in Hythe. Something happened there. We know that from her Facebook messages. What was it?’

  I watched her closely. She looked quickly at Neil, then back to me. ‘What do you mean?’

  Playing for time. ‘We know something happened in Hythe that disturbed Ella,’ I said. ‘You were there, you were her friend. I thought you might know what it was.’

  ‘No. It was just the usual training course stuff. You know.’ She tried for a matey ‘professional women together’ tone.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘Sussex police don’t run to residential courses. What happened at Hythe?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Clare, doing her wide-eyed look. ‘It was the usual thing. Lots of talks, group activities, drinks in the evening.’

  I wasn’t buying this. Something happened on this training course and it wasn’t just someone not buying their round. I asked who she had drinks with and she said Ella and, when prompted, Rick Lewis. She also mentioned another member of the department, Anoushka Palmer.

  I pointed to the file in front of me, hoping to convey that I already knew the answers to the questions I was putting to her. ‘In here, Ella mentions wanting to forget Hythe. What do you think she meant?’

  Clare crossed and recrossed her legs, one of her signs of tension. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘She talks about Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hythe. What do you think that means?’

  ‘A misspelling?’

  I gave her a look. She probably thinks we’ve never read the book. Well, she’s basically right, as it happens, but I wanted to wipe the superior look off her face.

  ‘She says, “C knows”. Is C you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Clare and now she did look rattled. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. A hot flush? Perhaps. She’s forty-five, after all. But maybe something else. Now it was time for Neil to mention the note and he did it well, voice flat and unemotional.

  ‘What did it say?’ Clare almost whispered it. Neil told her and Clare said the quote was from The Tempest. She probably thinks we haven’t read that either.

  ‘What’s the next line?’ I said, although I already knew.

  ‘Hell is empty,’ said Clare, ‘and all the devils are here.’

  Something about the note really bothered her. We could both see it. She put her hand up to wipe her forehead and then probably realised how this would look. She settled for pushing her hair back. It’s cut very short but with a longer bit at the front, dark brown with gold highlights. Classy looking.

  I asked for a sample of her handwriting. She must have realised why I was asking but she responded calmly enough. She wrote out the words using Tony’s smart Montblanc pen.

  ‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’

  It wasn’t the same writing.

  Only one of Ella’s students said anything at all interesting. It was nearly lunchtime by the time we got round to a boy called Tom Creeve, a gangling youth with spots and hair shaved at the sides. They seem to be much more relaxed about hair these days at Talgarth. When I was here it was short back and sides for the boys and hair tied back for the girls. I know that my dad had to come into the school to explain that Sikh children couldn’t cut their hair and, yes, the turban was mandatory for boys. But today I’d seen beehives, dreadlocks, skinheads and all manner of bad dye jobs. Tom couldn’t quite carry off the look. He sat slumped in front of us, picking at a hole in his sweatshirt. But at the question, ‘Do you know of anyone who didn’t get on with Miss Elphick?’ he answered, ‘Well there was the thing with Patrick O’Leary.’

  Neil and I looked at each other. ‘What thing?’

  ‘Patrick sent her a Valentine’s card. We all knew about it. Miss Elphick told Mr Lewis and Patrick had to move forms.’

  ‘How did Patrick feel about that?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tom started to look panicky. ‘I’m not his friend.’ He ran his fingers through his remaining hair. ‘He won’t know I told you, will he?’

  ‘It’s entirely confidential,’ I assured him.

  While we waited for the long-suffering runner to find Patrick, Liz tried to put things into perspective. ‘It might not be such a big thing. Students often get crushes on teachers and the only answer is never to be alone with that pupil ever. Ella did the right thing in telling Rick because he was her line manager.’

  ‘What sort of a boy is Patrick?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s quite bright, very good at sport, plays rugby,’ said Liz. ‘But he’s had his share of trouble while he’s been here.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Fighting, talking back to teachers. That sort of thing.’

  ‘He sounds like me at school,’ said Neil.

  But Patrick O’Leary, when he appeared, was nothing like Neil. He was a dark, good-looking boy who carried himself with a swagger. He sat down opposite us and spread his legs wide. If he’d been next to me on a train, I would have kicked him.

  I didn’t waste much time. ‘I understand that you once sent a valentine to Miss Elphick.’

  Patrick didn’t seem disconcerted. He even smiled slightly. ‘Yeah. What about it?’

  ‘Did Miss Elphick talk to you about it?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘She said I shouldn’t of sent it but it was just a laugh.’

  ‘And she told Mr Lewis, the head of department?’

  ‘Yeah, and he went on about it being inappropriate. “We need to maintain the boundaries”.’ He assumed a high, pernickety voice that was obviously meant to be Rick.

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’ Neil was going into lad mode. ‘You said it was just a laugh.’

  Patrick looked at Neil under his brows. He could see what was going on. ‘I wasn’t bothered, to be honest.’

  ‘Did you ever see Miss Elphick out of school?’ I asked. ‘Ever go to her house?’

  ‘No.’ Patrick sat up slightly straighter. ‘If anyone tells you I did, they’re lying.’

  ‘Who would say something like that?’

  Patrick didn’t answer. Liz leaned forward. ‘You’re not in any trouble, Patrick, but you have to answer the questions.’

  ‘I dunno,’ he said at last.

  ‘You were moved into another class, weren’t you?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. 11GN.’

  ‘That must have been tough,’ said Neil.

  ‘It’s OK. I don’t see them much. Just for registration and that. I’ve still got my mates.’

  ‘How do you feel about Miss Elphick now?’ I asked.

  He looked me straight in the eye. ‘I’m sorry she’s dead,’ he said. ‘But that’s it. I don’t think about her. I’ve got a girlfriend. It was all just a laugh.’

  Tony said that we could have lunch in school but I wasn’t keen. The dining room is in the old part of the building and I could smell the food from the office. Tony said that there was a canteen in the New Building now — ’it sells pizza slices and everything’ — but I said we’d go out for a breath of fresh air. We still had to see a few remaining students as well as the rest of the English department. I thought a Nandos in Chichester might help maintain our concentration.

  We walked across the quad
to the car. Blue sweatshirts were everywhere, making the kind of subdued roar that you hear from a distant football crowd. A group of boys loitered by the car park. I could tell that they were about to light up. They had that kind of furtive but defiant look. A teacher approached them. ‘What are you doing here? The car park’s out-of-bounds. Aren’t you going into lunch?’

  ‘I’m watching my figure, Mr Carter,’ said one of the boys.

  We were passing at that moment and I stopped to look at the teacher. Tweed jacket, green tie, thinning hair, slightly hopeless look.

  Gary Carter hadn’t changed at all.

  Chapter 13

  ‘I saw Gary Carter today,’ I told Mum.

  ‘I liked Gary,’ she said, pausing from her chopping. ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘You like everyone.’

  ‘That’s not true. I didn’t like that little boy in primary school. The one who pushed you off the slide. And I wasn’t keen on Margaret Thatcher.’

  ‘You didn’t like that UKIP man on the TV the other night.’

  ‘I’d be friendly to him if he came into the shop,’ she said, pushing her hair back with one hand, ‘but I’m not that keen on the mindless racism.’

  This is typical of my mum. She always takes hypothetical situations very seriously. ‘If I had the Queen for lunch, I’d be very careful what I gave her to eat because Prince Philip has trouble with his digestion.’ ‘If I was a racing driver’ — she can’t drive — ’I’d ask for Prosecco instead of Champagne at the end of the race. You still get a nice fizz and it’s much cheaper.’ The understatement is typical too. Mum ‘isn’t keen’ on racism, genocide makes her ‘quite angry’ and war ‘really isn’t such a good idea when you think about it’.

  ‘Gary’s a teacher at Talgarth now,’ I said. ‘I talked to him today. He teaches geography.’

  ‘Oh, you were always good at geography. You drew lovely maps.’

  ‘I gave it up in Year 8, Mum.’ But I was good at maps, she was right. I loved edging the continents with blue and drawing in the mountains, each with a little white ice cap.