Under the Ice

by Rachael Blok

  ‘A counsellor?’ Maarten asks. ‘Can we have the name? Did the sessions take place in school?’

  ‘Yes – we referred her through the CAMHS programme, I think, but I’ll need to check. You know I worried, when I first heard, before they said murder, I worried we’d missed something and she’d… you know. Well, bullying can have repercussions…’

  He drinks again, his swallow loud.

  Maarten watches him. Each time he said the word ‘bullying’, he had dropped his ‘g’: bullyin’, bullyin’, bullyin’. The stiff suit incongruous with the language, and with the wobble of the hand. He wonders where the strength of leadership lies.

  Craven’s tone softens, and Maarten reflects on the evident grief, the shock.

  ‘Anyway, no. We got her parents involved too. A bit of trouble there, but then nothing since, I don’t think. I mentioned it in case it’s of any help. It was the most contact I had with her; she didn’t really raise her head much. I had to tell her off once, send her home because she came in with blue stripes in her hair – I didn’t mind, but we obviously can’t allow it in school.’ Shakes his head. ‘God, I wish I’d just let that go, now. Rules, though.’ He shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘And the trouble with the parents?’ Maarten says.

  ‘Yes – it blew over, but I think Leigh’s father, Mr Hoarde, became a bit of a victim himself of one of the fathers. It happened on school premises, well after all the children had gone home. We’d finished a meeting about the bullying, and a row began in my office. It escalated once they were leaving, walking through the building. The father of the girl who began the bullying is not the easiest of men – quick with his fists, by all accounts.’

  ‘You say a fight?’ Imogen says.

  ‘Yes. I think, and I’ll need to check, but it was Mr Hoarde who took a good whack. Two teachers nearby pulled the father off him. It was a split lip, not a broken arm. Nothing came of it – he didn’t press charges. I think Mr and Mrs Hoarde just wanted it all to stop. Leigh had been through enough.’

  ‘Can we have the names of the other family?’ Maarten asks.

  Imogen is nodding, making notes. ‘What about Leigh’s relationships with her teachers?’

  ‘Again, nothing much to report. Her English teacher really liked her, thought she had a spark…’

  ‘What about…’ Maarten checks his notes, ‘a Mr Pickles?’

  Alex Craven’s eyebrows rise, and his mouth purses, tight.

  ‘Tim Pickles wasn’t one of Leigh’s teachers,’ he says, and Maarten sees the authority.

  ‘What about discos, after-school activities?’

  ‘I can’t say right now. I’ll need to check what shifts he’s covered at after-school clubs or discos. They’re more PTA events than teacher-led, but I know teachers sometimes help out. I’m going to be honest with you.’ He looks flustered – irritated. Maarten watches as he flexes his fingers then leans forward. He places both palms flat on the table. An element of self-justification chimes. ‘Ideally, he’s not going to be with the school much longer. We’ve had a few reports about him being seen in clubs with sixth formers… But nothing else. I would imagine it’s inappropriate, rather than criminal, but I can’t give you any link right now to Leigh. The school is keen to discourage any fraternising between teachers and pupils.’

  A knock on the door is followed by a uniformed officer. ‘Post-mortem’s in, sir.’

  Turning back to Craven, Maarten sees the headmaster wince, and his face is now ashen. He feels a flicker of sympathy for the man. Dressed up, in costume only.

  ‘I’m going to leave you with DI Deacon, to take the various details down and finish off here.’ He rises. ‘Thanks for coming in.’

  Alex Craven rises too, and they briefly shake hands. Craven shakes firmly, making eye contact, yet Maarten can feel his palm, cold and clammy.

  ‘If you had to call it, to guess who might have done this, and why, is there anyone else we’re not discussing? Is there anything else you think we need to know?’

  Alex Craven shakes his head. ‘No, nothing. I wish I could tell you that there was. But there is nothing. Nothing and no one.’

  7

  Will’s text beeps: Met Connor on train. They’ve invited us out for dinner. Can we get babysitter? Or they come round?

  A babysitter? They don’t have ‘a babysitter’. His parents every now and again, but too late to ask about tonight. And she can’t leave a grouchy, sleepless baby with a stranger: Finn, on his own, needing her, while she drinks wine and makes small talk. Will encourages her, but has never managed to produce anyone. It will fall to her to find someone. And to her to make peace with it.

  On impulse she tries her father’s number again. Its ring tone is broken, distant. ‘Dad? It’s Jenny.’

  The static is loud. ‘Jenny? Jenny? Sorry, pet. The line’s not good. How are you?’

  ‘Dad… something’s happened. Something’s happened here…’ In spite of herself, she starts to cry.

  ‘Jenny? Is Finn OK? Is it Will?’

  ‘No…’ The white noise blasts down the line. She has to pull the phone away from her ear. ‘No, it’s not that, there’s been a death in the city.’

  ‘Jenny, can you say again? Is Finn all right? Are you OK?’

  She shakes her head, her tears slowing. He is on his cruise. It is only for ten nights. Away with his golfing friends. Mainly widowers. What is she doing, upsetting him?

  The last time she’d seen him, they’d walked in the park, after hot chocolate at the Waterwheel Café. They’d followed the path of the river that runs from the café to the park, feeding the lake by the willow tree. The lake, in its loose outline of an eight, had been thronging with people: model boats, swans and scooters. He’d stopped by the lake. ‘The water…’ he’d said, and he’d stalled. ‘Your mum…’

  He’d looked older, grey. His voice had cracked with emotion. He needs this break. She knows he wishes her mum was here now, to share this time with them.

  ‘No, it’s OK. We’re all fine, Dad. It’s just something that’s happened in St Albans. Nothing has happened to us.’

  ‘As long as everything is all right? I’ll see you next week – you can tell me all about it. Jenny… Jenny, are you still there? This line is awful.’

  ‘Enjoy your day!’ she finishes off as breezily as she can manage. She can’t ruin his holiday. And nothing has actually happened to her – how to articulate this sense of dread? This sense of…

  Jenny walks up the stairs. Finn’s due a nappy change. He grizzles.

  Will is out late a lot. Not always drinks, but meetings that run late, work dinners. His law firm hands out big deals with big names: Titan, Platinum, Zeus.

  ‘It is work,’ he says. ‘I’d rather be at home, Jen.’ He falls into bed late and details the close of the deal: ‘They rolled over in the end. I knew they would’; ‘I held out, got it…’ His pleasure with the work, his performance, covers his tiredness like a band-aid.

  She remembers it: the sense of achievement at work, of pride, of success. Its buoyancy a life force. People saying, ‘Well done.’

  And the drinks after work, playing squash. She hasn’t been to the gym for such a long time. Even taking the tube to work with a book was something she took for granted. A stretch of time where steps, escalators and busy commuters didn’t seem like deliberately placed obstacles.

  Finn whimpers as she lays him down.

  The walls, a gentle grey, darken as the light from the window clouds over. The snow is back. Fat flakes begin to fall.

  A breath of draught whispers through the window. It reminds her of… something.

  She jumps, and moves away quickly. Her head feels thick this morning – echoes reverberate.

  Being inside in this weather is driving her mad. She had mentioned to Sam she might seek someone out, speak to someone… Just to talk.

  Washing her hands, her arms are leaden. Finn is squirming.

  The whisper sounds again around the empty rooms. Fami
liar.

  Downstairs waits for her. She could go out, but the buggy will be hard to move in the snow.

  Connor and Erin can come to them. She’s not ready for a babysitter.

  The snow swallows things whole. If she wanted to escape, to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to tell of the way back, it is not the season.

  8

  Sunny is banging gloved hands together and stamping in the car park when Maarten drives up to the school entrance. The dark of night is coming in early: navy and a hint of violet.

  Imogen had put her head round the door earlier: ‘Hi, we’ve finished with the friends, first round anyway. Two things have come out of the interviews: Leigh had mentioned to friends that her boyfriend was worried about something going on with someone else, and the teacher, Tim Pickles – apparently, he was due to give her a lift to a pantomime the afternoon she went missing. Sunny’s heading over to the school now.’

  He stands straighter as Maarten gets out of the car.

  ‘He’s still inside, sir. He was going in for marking or something when I spoke to him earlier. I said we just needed a chat.’

  ‘Thanks, Sunny. Come in on this one, will you? Chip in when you want.’

  Pushing open the door, the school is ghostly. A cleaner opens the glass door that sits beyond reception when Sunny knocks and holds up his ID. Maarten enters, imagining it swamped with children. Empty now, the grey stairs that lead up out of the hall seem huge, and a cavernous assembly hall can be glimpsed on the left. The school reception desk lies to the right-hand side, on which a coffee mug sits, half-filled with an old drink that has turned white and grows a film of something on the top.

  The hall, a mix of paint and decay, displays a damp patch and large pieces of artwork, with children’s names and year groups printed underneath, pinned above chipped skirting boards. The stair rails gleam shiny black.

  ‘Gives me the willies, this place,’ Sunny says.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Where I went, didn’t I. Five long years. Pleased to get out of it, I can tell you. Not over-keen on coming back.’

  Maarten smiles and steps aside. ‘Well, you can lead the way then, Sunny.’

  The art room door swings open, and Tim Pickles sits at the desk, at the front of the classroom. Blond hair, a hint of wax, an expensive sweatshirt emblazoned with A and F. Maarten recognises the brand from a shop his daughter tried to drag him into, with a half-naked male model outside, music blaring from within. He had left her to it, visiting the Apple store instead.

  Sitting down on a red plastic chair, Maarten watches the man start shifting in his seat, eyes Bambi-like. Fingers long and thin, he picks up and fidgets with his phone. He doesn’t look, Maarten thinks, surprised to see them.

  Maarten gives Sunny a small nod.

  ‘Tim Pickles? I am Detective Constable Atkinson, and this is DCI Jansen.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about Leigh Hoarde. Can we start with the nature of your relationship with her?’ Sunny sits on a chair. Its four legs are slightly uneven, shifting his weight front to back.

  ‘I didn’t have a relationship with her.’ Pickles hasn’t really moved. He sits still, like a rock. He hasn’t stood up to shake hands.

  ‘No? We’ve had reports of you two talking, of the offer of a lift to the pantomime on the day she went missing? That she didn’t turn up?’

  ‘I said a few of the kids from the school could have a lift. I don’t remember if she was one of them – it was a casual thing. I was driving from the school that morning.’

  Sunny tries again. ‘Well, maybe you could tell us your whereabouts on the evening of the thirteenth of December, and into the early hours of the morning of the fourteenth?’

  ‘I was at home. I finished at the pantomime and then I went home.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any telephone conversations? Any takeaway deliveries?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. My housemate was out that night. Why, what have you been told? Has Craven been badmouthing me?’

  ‘If you could just answer, sir,’ Maarten says.

  ‘Look.’ Pickles puts down the pen he is holding, and looks at Maarten, ignoring Sunny. ‘I’m friends with some of the kids at the school. That doesn’t make me a criminal. Some of them have fairly crap lives: chaotic families, domestic violence, no encouragement. I’m nice to them. I don’t try and hurt them.’

  As his arms fold, Maarten can feel him bristling, closing up. The voice is clear, well-educated, with long clean vowels. Expensive, like his sweatshirt.

  ‘You went to boarding school?’ Maarten says, thinking of the file he’d read.

  ‘Yes, a small one in Oxfordshire.’ Tim Pickles’ eyes narrow.

  ‘How have you found working here?’

  ‘It’s fine. Great. I like it.’

  Sunny crosses his legs and leans back in his chair. It wobbles again, and he sits up. ‘An odd choice, for a privately educated teacher? Why not something you’re more familiar with?’

  ‘A girl has died and you want to know why I chose to work in a comp?’

  ‘Maybe you could just answer the question, sir,’ Maarten says, smiling.

  His shoulders drop a notch, and he looks, Maarten thinks, much younger when the fear leaves his face. Can’t be more than twenty-three. ‘I left Bristol, went travelling, and came back to teach. I chose a comprehensive because I decided I wanted to make a difference. You know teachers often think about it as a vocation, rather than a job? They don’t always work just for the money. Well, at least, not to start with.’

  ‘Why here?’ Sunny says.

  ‘I was seeing a girl at the time who worked in London. St Albans is great for a commute. We moved in together, but it didn’t work out. So now I live in the house and she’s gone travelling, bitten by the bug. South America this time. To find herself – again.’

  The hard edge has disappeared a little, rubbed away. Maarten leans back in. ‘And I bet they like you, the pupils. Young, good-looking, dresses well… I bet you’re popular.’

  ‘I am popular. But not just because I’m young; I get stuck in. Once, teachers led clubs, trained kids in sport… Now, with more than thirty in some of my classes, and the curriculum changing all the time, I can see the jaded looks on their faces here. I was taught in a class of twelve. Now? I’m lucky if I get more than twelve books out of thirty marked in my lunch break. But still, I tutor the choir; I run school trips. I give them lifts to school events. I help out at PTA stuff, when none of the other teachers do. That display in reception? That’s my work with the kids.’

  The phone on Pickles’ desk lights up, and he quickly turns it to face down on the desk. ‘Craven doesn’t cares about them; he cares about his statistics, his record. This is his fourth school in ten years – he bounces around like he’s playing career ping-pong.’

  Maarten watches his face begin to heighten in colour: pink, puce. The tone is defensive. Even if this man is not a killer, he is hiding something. His speech on the behalf of the defence continues. Gains volume.

  ‘Leigh came from a brilliant family, but she was bullied at school. It was me she told first, and because I asked – found her crying after class. No one else asked her… Thirty kids in the class, a bit of bullying gets overlooked. Yes, I offered her a few lifts… No more to her than to any of the others.’

  The phone on his desk vibrates and Pickles swipes it up and pockets it. Maarten looks around the room, back at Pickles. He taps the car keys on the desk in front of him, the large chrome key extended and bright.

  ‘If you could think carefully, sir, about anyone who might have seen you on that evening, it would help us out a great deal.’

  Pickles leans forward. His eyes bright with intent. ‘I did not kill her.’

  No one speaks. Maarten places the car key on the table, and glances at Sunny.

  ‘I want a lawyer. I’m not saying anything else until I have a lawyer.’

  Th
ey stand; the small plastic chairs scrape on the floor and Sunny bangs the door on the way out. Maarten touches his elbow and shakes his head as Sunny opens his mouth to speak. Nodding his head to the right, Maarten walks down the corridor and stands beyond the turn. He holds his finger to his lips.

  ‘Sir?’ Sunny whispers.

  Maarten shakes his head again and glances at his watch, counting one minute. Gesturing, he turns and retraces his steps. Pushing the door open quickly, he re-enters the classroom.

  ‘Dropped the car key,’ Maarten says.

  Pickles, who is talking on the phone, leaps in the air, his hand waves as though carrying a hot coal. He stumbles backwards, dropping the phone, and as Maarten strolls towards the desk, Pickles bends quickly, scrabbling on the floor.

  ‘Tim? Tim? Are you there? Is it the police again? We won’t say anything…’ A voice, a young female voice, rings out loudly. Speakerphone has been inadvertently activated.

  Pickles’ face is beet-red. Flaming skin touches the edges of his hair, and Maarten can see a vein pulsing in his neck. Caught in the headlights, lit by fear, Maarten watches the face colour by numbers. He had expected Pickles to get straight on the phone; his itchy fingers had been twitching during their interview only minutes ago.

  ‘Do you need to get that?’ Maarten asks.

  Standing, phone in hand now, Pickles shakes his head.

  ‘Ah, here it is.’ Maarten bends to pick up the car key, lying on the desk that sits between him and the teacher.

  Pickles twitches.

  ‘Who was on the phone, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The phone, who were you speaking to?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you that. I’ve told you… I’m not bloody talking any more.’

  ‘You don’t. You’re right. But I can request your phone records. This is a murder case. It might be simpler for you to just tell me now. I’d be interested to know how many pupils’ numbers you do have on your phone. And how frequently you contact them.’