Head Wound

by Judith Cutler

  Even as I turned the central heating on to override, I asked myself the question I didn’t want to answer: why wasn’t I getting dressed and walking round the estate in case I was needed?

  I didn’t have Geoffrey for company, that was why.

  I had trainers and a dark tracksuit. I had a torch on a head strap. I had my mobile.

  The bathetic part was that despite all this, I had an entirely peaceful walk round the close and was just about to let myself back into my house when a car turned into the road. It looked very much like an unmarked police vehicle, the sort that suddenly produce blue flashing lights when you’re whizzing along the overtaking lane on a motorway. I flagged it down.

  ‘Oh. Hi, Eoin!’

  He looked quite blank, but then screwed up his face. ‘My God, it’s you, Jane, isn’t it? What are you doing?’

  ‘I made the 999 call about the woman’s screams, and thought I ought—’

  ‘Bloody hell, did you now! Well, get yourself into your place, lock the door and brew some of that hot chocolate for me. But no Amarula, mind! Be with you in five.’

  He was. The conversation, such as it was, felt very stilted, perhaps because I had poured a healthy shot of Amarula into mine – or unhealthy, according to your view – and I really wanted to go back to bed and sleep, despite the heap of files on my table. Fortunately, the moment he’d sunk the last of his chocolate and then irritatingly checked the back garden for signs of foxes, he left.

  Odd, I mused to Nosey and Lavender, that considering we’d once spent at least half an hour fancying the pants off each other we seemed to have settled into an awkward semi-hostility.

  ‘Men!’ one of them said not entirely clearly, and we fell asleep.

  It was never going to be as easy as that next day, nor was it. Though I arrived at Wrayford School very early to brief the staff as I would later brief their Wray Episcopi colleagues, the media were already circling like buzzards – or the foxes I’d not seen yesterday.

  I pinned a copy of the prepared statement on the door and left them to it. The staff would come in via the kitchen, not best Elf and Safety practice, but one I’d suggested to them all via texts. Meanwhile, I needed a strong coffee to wake me up. And some toast. Thence to the comfort of my – our – office.

  As I came off autopilot, I tried to give more thought to – whatever needed thought. Which was a lot. But the more I tried to focus on budgets and staff development and one or two playground issues and … and … and … No, there was one thing bugging me from last night. I heard the screams. I dialled 999. I prowled round the estate. The police arrived in the form of Eoin. But Eoin was in Traffic, with particular responsibility for Kent’s motorways, whether they were being used as roads or car parks. Because, I suppose, when staff were short, everyone had to do as my colleagues and I did – multitask, fill in for each other, cover when someone was off somewhere else. But – and this was what had dimly troubled me at the time – he’d made no reference to responding to an emergency call. And why, when the very first time we’d met we’d have been at it like a pair of those bloody foxes one moment, were we less than studiously polite the next? Though that might have been after Joy’s efforts with the Amarula. Or was it after his walk round the close, when he’d shunted us back into my house because it wouldn’t do for us to be seen with a cop in uniform?

  But my musings had to be put on hold. The school had its first asthma attack of the day, promptly followed by our student teacher’s dash to the loo to vomit. A late outbreak of the norovirus? I had to assume it was and sent her home. So I had to get someone in to cover the classes she should have taught, because the regular class teacher was on a day’s training.

  And then there was a text from Rufus Petrie to think about. Could he and Lules have a few minutes of my time sometime today? Sooner rather than later. And it might have to be at their place, not the school.

  Hell. Twice hell. But why should he bring Lules into the discussion if he was going to bollock me to bits over her friends’ indiscretions?

  When I didn’t respond immediately, another arrived.

  Or at Wray School if it would help?

  It would. I had a few minutes while Tom was taking assembly. If you could manage be at Wray School by 9.05?

  CU then.

  Melanie looked at me with disapproval when I asked her to bring coffee through when the Petries arrived. ‘A visitor? With you looking like that? Did you actually brush your hair this morning?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ve been tearing it out.’

  She produced a can of Elnett, gesturing to the new cloakroom before she handed it to me. ‘A spot of lippie wouldn’t come amiss. And mop your mascara. Left eye.’ She looked me up and down. ‘Mud on your trousers, too.’ The hairspray was followed by a clothes brush.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ she said, as I returned her property. ‘If only I could get you to stand up straight before your shoulders are fixed like that for ever.’

  I’m not sure what sort of greeting I was expecting from Petrie. Controlled fury, probably. What I got was Lules hurling herself into my arms and him smiling apologetically over her head. ‘She insisted on telling you herself and apologising.’ He closed the door quietly as Melanie, having silently delivered coffee and a glass of milk, withdrew.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ the poor child was saying. ‘I told them I was having help and they said it was childish and silly and I said if it was good enough for you – oh, I can’t believe I said it!’

  I’d been hugging her tightly, but pushed her away so I could hold her gaze. ‘I’m going to tell you something someone once told me: just because you leave a key in your front door doesn’t mean anyone has to burgle it! They were your trusted friends and they betrayed your confidence. That’s not your fault. Don’t worry. Come on, President Trump will fire off a new tweet tomorrow or the day after and the Twittersphere will be far more interested in that. How’s Snowflake enjoying all the extra fuss with your being at home? Didn’t you promise me some photos?’

  ‘So when I assure you I said not a word to anyone, you’ll believe me?’ Petrie asked quietly.

  ‘Of course.’ My hand, apparently of its own volition, reached out to shake his. Weird.

  ‘Daddy – there’s something else I’ve got to say.’ The words almost exploded out of her. ‘I’ve got to. I promised I wouldn’t. But … You said in assembly last week it was OK to break a promise if you shouldn’t have been asked to make it in the first place, didn’t you, Ms Cowan?’

  ‘Absolutely. We were talking about online grooming, Mr Petrie,’ I explained.

  He nodded. ‘So what do you need to tell me, Lules?’

  ‘It’s Ms Cowan I need to tell, not you, Daddy. Ms Cowan, they’ve put something bad where no one will find it. So the school will have to close until they do. I’m sorry.’

  I took her face between my hands, holding her gaze. ‘It’s not your fault, Lules. Even if you joined in then, you’re doing the right thing now. Do you understand?’ As she nodded doubtfully I asked, ‘Could you recall what it was and where they might have put it?’

  She shook her head, imploring me to believe her.

  ‘It’s OK. At least we know there’s a problem and can start dealing with it.’

  Petrie got down to Lules’ level, pulling her to his shoulder. ‘Any clues at all, darling? Anything that would help Ms Cowan?’

  ‘An idea they got from the Internet,’ was her muffled reply.

  It was clear she didn’t know any more. I could imagine them holding the information just out of reach to tantalise and torment her. But whatever they were planning – whatever they had done – I needed to know.

  And I hadn’t a clue how to find out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was one thing to search the Wray Episcopi buildings as best I could without disturbing classes, which I had done, slowly but not at all surely; it was quite another to give it the sort of forensic examination it might well need. I could either ring
the fire bell and get all the kids into the playground, where they’d be soaked to the skin in five minutes or—but at this point Hazel walked into my office.

  ‘I’ve just been hearing your Zunaid read,’ she said with a smile. ‘Such a lovely child in every way, isn’t he? Jane, what’s the matter?’

  I explained, pointing to my hand on the phone. ‘I have to call the police, don’t I?’

  ‘Because of the empty threats of two silly girls? Surely not!’

  ‘Even with the tiniest risk we have a duty of care.’

  ‘You could go and talk to them.’

  ‘In their own homes, assuming, of course I found them there? Legally I can’t. Mustn’t. And do you suppose they’d tell me anything if I was rash enough to try?’

  She waved aside my objections, but came up with one of her own. ‘Ah, you’re afraid they’d trace the information back to Lulabelle and bully her even more.’

  ‘In addition to everything else I am. But—’

  ‘What if I go down instead?’

  I really think she was prepared to. ‘You’d expose yourself to more insolence. No, Hazel. I’m sorry to go against your advice, but this has to involve the police.’

  ‘We don’t want flashing lights and sirens! Not at this point.’

  ‘Of course we don’t. But we don’t want a big bang and all the kids being blown to kingdom come.’

  ‘What about talking to that nice lad Ian – the PCSO?’

  I suppressed a sigh. ‘Of course, we could. But he’s not—’ It was best to save my breath to cool my porridge. Hazel and I had always been allies. She’d been more than loyal to me: she’d been kind. The least I could do was treat her with respect.

  ‘Donna will have his number.’ She bustled off to speak to her.

  Meanwhile I thought fast. I really had no alternative but to clear the building, but to close it was not an option, not if I wanted to keep our parents onside – which in these days of expensive and elusive childcare was vital. It was a miserable day, with no sign of the rain abating, so having a whole day in the playground simply wouldn’t work. Sadly, this village had neither church nor village hall, nothing but a rusting Nissen hut that housed the few remaining Scouts. But Wrayford had a village hall, which had once provided us with a safe haven. It was an old building that had been extensively refitted. With luck we could use it again, if, of course, it was free. The bonus was the excellent kitchen, not to mention the closeness of the Wrayford School playground if the weather improved. All we had to do was get there. I reasoned that if we expected even the youngest child to run at least a mile before school each day, we could expect them to walk the three and a half to Wrayford – two and a half if they went cross-country via public footpaths.

  Within ten minutes, Ian was in my office, reaching for his phone.

  ‘This is beyond my remit, you know, way beyond it. You need specialist officers to talk to the girls for a start, Ms Roberts – people who are properly trained.’

  Like the one who was supposed to be talking to Zunaid.

  ‘And yes, I’m sorry, Jane, you probably do have to evacuate the school. Maybe pronto. In fact, that would be my advice.’

  Hazel spread her hands. ‘Ian, this is two ten-year-old girls, not members of ISIS or Daesh or whatever they call themselves.’

  He looked at us cynically. ‘Surely you know that kids are being referred to the Prevent programme as young as four or five? You must have known that when you spoke to me I wouldn’t just tell you not to worry.’

  Hazel’s mouth tightened. ‘Indeed, I did not. I expected common sense. We can’t disrupt the education of nearly a hundred children just on hearsay. I’m going to talk to those girls now.’ She got to her feet.

  ‘That’s got to be left to us. Now, Jane, about clearing the school.’

  ‘The evacuation’s already under way. Each child has already collected his or her shoe bag, PE kit and lunch box, and their class teacher is checking the content of each – ditto the boxes they keep their workbooks and so on in. I know, I know,’ I said as Ian started to protest. ‘Should this be a crime scene I’ve disturbed it. But at least we know that anything left lying around hasn’t been checked and maybe that’s a job for your colleagues.’

  ‘Two things: what if there’d been any explosives in their belongings?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Ian, stop fussing: Jane’s acted with sensitivity and intelligence, I’d say – and your colleagues can always recheck if they’re not happy. But at least we know that each child has been united with their property.’

  ‘Some of which they’ll have to carry to Wrayford, where I’ve booked the village hall for the day. Donna will be there to update parents and field phone calls and emails. My deputy, Jess Rhodes, will be supervising the pupils and her colleagues when they’ve walked there in a crocodile. Yes, hi-vis waistcoats all round,’ I said. ‘As they leave the playground in pairs, you and/or your colleagues will easily be able to recheck everything they carry. What was the other problem, Ian?’

  He held up his hands in pleasing surrender.

  His colleagues – the real police with powers of arrest – might have been less keen on what I had done but were, I suspect, quite happy to ignore the possibility that a Peppa Pig pencil case might have concealed a bomb. Even a stink bomb.

  With nothing obvious lying around, the officers turned their attention to the less accessible areas, which is where, after all, Kayleigh and Cecily claimed to have put – whatever it was. But there was nothing under or behind cupboards, nothing in walk-in storerooms, which were always out of bounds anyway and kept firmly locked. When I’d shown them round and produced keys to order, the only use they could think of for Hazel and me was to make tea, a career opportunity we were quick and firm to decline, though I told them where to find everything they needed.

  I had probably scored a diplomatic own goal, because at this point they told us to vacate the building because, amazingly, it was the turn of the army to arrive, in the form of a bomb disposal unit. I didn’t need Hazel, still stomping doughtily beside me despite the now driving rain as I walked round and round the building, to say it felt like overkill. But all their electronic and chemical analysis brought up nothing, and we were allowed to return to the building, where we did make tea and coffee, graciously sharing it with the disconsolate officers. We were soon joined by their colleagues whose interview with Kayleigh and Cecily had come up with the same big round zero. There had been a lot of giggles, a lot of face pulling – and a claim from the allegedly responsible adult with them that they weren’t old enough to be treated as criminals, which I should imagine was swiftly refuted. Meanwhile, any computer they might have used in their search was going to be forensically examined – including those in the school, of course.

  The hot drinks thawed relations sufficiently for the officers to start talking to, as opposed to at, us. In response, I mentioned the fact that it was lunchtime and though most of the ingredients of the school lunches had gone by car to Wrayford village hall, I should imagine that we’d find the wherewithal to make sandwiches. A tiny silence was filled by Ben, the forensic team’s leader, who said he was a dab hand at buttering bread if someone else could slice it. Hazel volunteered to do that, and Theresa – one of the two women who’d been questioning the girls – and I found ham and cheese to complete the job. We sat round in the hall, suddenly relaxed and at ease. Over coffee, Theresa brought us back to the work in hand: did I think the whole thing could have been a double bluff, the equivalent of kids in secondary schools pressing the fire alarm to get out of maths tests.

  ‘I’ve been worrying about that myself,’ I admitted, setting down my mug. ‘It might be helpful to talk to Lulabelle Petrie, the kid who snitched on them to me, but she’s in a very fragile state and you’d have to tread with maximum caution.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be lying herself?’ Theresa asked. ‘Trying to get them into trouble for what they put out about you?’

  ‘Do children’s min
ds work like that?’ Hazel asked, rhetorically, I thought.

  But I answered her seriously. ‘They can. They might. But Lules’? I don’t know. I might have wondered myself, especially as she’s been a very edgy pupil, and of course she has been bullied herself by girls she considered her friends … But on the whole I’d exonerate her. Especially in the light of what you said about Kayleigh and Cecily’s response to your questions this morning.’

  Which had been nothing: they were entirely innocent, guv.

  ‘Let’s talk to her,’ Theresa’s colleague Charlotte said, putting down her mug with an assertive tap and getting to her feet. ‘Falling down and breaking your collarbone’s not that traumatic, is it?’

  Hazel coughed. ‘It was rather more than that, my dear.’ She looked sideways at me. ‘She … she found a woman’s body.’

  ‘Even so—’

  ‘A woman who’d been tied to a tree with her own intestine – while she was still alive,’ I added, the words coming flatly out of my mouth of their own accord.

  Funnily enough I’d felt very little as I spoke. But my words couldn’t have had a more dramatic effect if I’d tried. Theresa dashed for the loo. Charlotte’s eyes filled. Two hardened officers. I even found myself apologising. I was aware of Hazel putting her arms round me, and leading me somewhere.

  At last I realised we were in the playground again. I was kneeling by a drain.

  ‘We all knew it must have been bad, my dear. But not the full extent of … the circumstances. And yet you’re here working? Or is it better to work?’

  ‘Absolutely. The therapist tried to get me to describe what I’d seen and I couldn’t. And then—’