The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  Only Mary probes. In the early years of their marriage, he tried to explain the nature of his empirical investigations. But she isn’t a scientist. He has no time to listen to her weakminded debates and to counter her abstract reasoning. He’s taken the pragmatic line and concealed his research, continuing in secret to build the necessary experience to achieve results.

  He scans the page again. He must have missed it. He drains his cup. His head begins to ache but he forces the print back into focus. Suddenly, there’s The Evidence. Yes, The Evidence, but are the conditions viable? He snatches up a page of formulae and scribbles in the numerical values. The first equation balances. Now to manipulate the figures on the second one. Adrenaline starts its familiar stampede around his body. One more test needed, then it will be irrefutable. He roots through a pile of charts and diagrams and retrieves some graph paper. Hand shaking, he plots the data and joins the crosses. There it is, a straight line. Better than he’d dared hope. Perfect positive correlation. It’s incontrovertible. After so many challenges – not sacrifices, as Mary called them – here is the eureka moment.

  With his eyes fixed on the newsprint, his right hand opens his top drawer and his left dials the sacred number.

  It takes an age to be answered. Such impudence. He has an urgent theory to verify.

  At last. “The name is Tarnovski. I have an account.” He takes the whisky bottle out of the drawer and refills the cup.

  “What limit?… I can’t hold. There isn’t time.”

  During the silence on the phone line, he strains to make sense of the buzzing sounds from his radio.

  “I see. And you can’t override it? I’m a long-standing account holder … Well, of all the nerve. Wait a minute …” Another confounded woman who doesn’t understand the science. He slides open the top drawer again and removes a debit card from underneath a second, empty, bottle. It slips in his clammy fingers.

  “It’s the eleven thirty at Lingfield. I want to place …” He hesitates as another, weaker, force tugs against his resolve: Sara’s gap-year fund. But he’ll be more than able to replenish it. And retrieve his wristwatch from the pawnbrokers. A statistician of his standing doesn’t miscalculate.

  “I want to place £800 on number five, The Evidence.” He drains his cup again. It’s an absolute constant, a dead cert.

  Chapter 6

  Still feeling flushed after the meeting in the mortuary, I take off my jacket and clutch it to my stomach as I follow DI Bagley into the interview room. Gaby Brock sits at the table holding a plastic beaker. She looks like a battered baby. The forensic suit she’s been dressed in is way too big and she stares out of her swollen face with wide eyes. She seems unaware of our arrival and equally oblivious to the arm around her shoulder. It belongs to the large, sobbing woman beside her. The woman looks up as we sit down opposite. I drop my jacket over the chair.

  “Thank you for coming in at this difficult time, Mrs Brock. We’re sorry for your loss. I’m DI Bagley. This is DC Adams.”

  “I’m Linda Parry,” the large woman says, “Gaby’s sister-in-law, Carl’s sister.” She swallows hard.

  Bagley ignores her. “I need to ask some questions about this morning. Are you up to it, Mrs Brock?”

  Gaby Brock blinks her doe eyes.

  Bagley seems to take this as a yes and presses on. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Gaby’s pale mouth remains closed for a moment, apparently still frozen by her ordeal. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft and pretty – like honey. It doesn’t seem right for a voice like that to come out of such a damaged face.

  “We were asleep in bed,” she says. “Two men burst in and dragged us downstairs. One of them punched me in the face and I fell. The other grabbed my arms and pulled me up again.”

  “Can you describe these men?”

  She blinks again as if searching the images in her head for the faces of her attackers. “They were black,” she whispers eventually, “and big.”

  “How old were they?”

  This time her pause is so long that Linda Parry squeezes her shoulder and prompts, “Come on, Gaby, love. You can do it.”

  I see Gaby wince. The shoulder squeeze must have hurt. It’s a stark reminder that, although the face pummelling is there for all to see, there are other injuries hidden under the forensic suit.

  “Well, Mrs Brock? How old were your attackers? Teenagers? Twenties? Thirties? Older?” Impatience steals into Bagley’s voice.

  Gaby’s hand tightens on the empty plastic cup. Somehow she’s managed to consume an entire outpouring from the interview suite coffee machine. The trauma must have affected her taste buds.

  Gaby’s answer rolls out at the same hesitant pace as her previous ones. “They weren’t kids, but I don’t know how old.”

  Bagley studies the woman’s face, weighing up her reliability as a witness. “What were they wearing?”

  “I couldn’t see. It was dark.”

  “You mean they didn’t turn the lights on?” she asks, more irritation creeping in.

  How long ago did the DI attend the Dealing with the Traumatized Victim course, I wonder. Do they offer refreshers?

  Gaby shakes her head slowly. “They shone torches in our faces. And I was too scared to look at them.”

  “Did you see their hair? Was it long or short?”

  “They wore hats. Woollen ones.”

  “Balaclavas?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but I couldn’t see. I’m not sure.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  Gaby Brock blinks again and her sweet voice cracks. “They told Carl to get a chair and chain me to it. One punched me on the shoulder and I fell back into the chair.”

  Linda lets out a sigh and tightens her arm around Gaby. I turn away, not wanting to see Gaby Brock flinch again.

  DI Bagley ignores Linda once more. “Did you notice any kind of an accent?”

  There’s another pause as Gaby considers her answer. “I think one was local and one was sort of West Indian.”

  “And they brought the chains with them?”

  Gaby’s body tenses as if reliving the memory. “They brought metal chains and handcuffs. They made Carl tighten the chains around me and handcuff my arms to the chair. They gave him the keys and told him to put them in my pocket.” She taps her chest to indicate the spot where her pyjama pocket had been. “Then they took Carl away.” Her words are faint and slow.

  Her eyes are watery, empty. Victim’s eyes. Victim … Still living, still breathing but a victim nonetheless … No one could know how that felt except another victim … The hairs on my arms bristle but I won’t go there. I concentrate on the interview.

  A thought comes to me but I’m not sure of my role. Does Bagley want me to remain the silent trainee or should I take part in the interview?

  “Did they say anything else?” Bagley asks.

  Gaby Brock takes a deep breath. “They said to Carl, ‘You need a lesson of your own, teacher’.”

  “He was an English teacher at Swan Academy and a damned good one,” Linda explains. She pats Gaby’s hand. “Everyone liked him, even the kids.”

  I think of the literature textbooks on the Brocks’ bookcase.

  “And the kidnappers definitely called him ‘teacher’?” Bagley asks.

  Gaby lowers her head, too weary even to nod. My heart races. Dare I ask my question?

  “Would you recognize the men again?” Bagley continues.

  “Maybe but – I don’t know – it was dark. The torchlight in my face … I couldn’t see …”

  As the woman’s voice tails off, I expect Bagley to fill the silence. When she doesn’t, my question pops out.

  “How did your husband cut his hand and get the bruising? Was it during the assault?”

  Bagley’s jaw tightens at my interruption but she looks at Gaby Brock, waiting for the answer.

  “His hand?” Gaby’s eyes glaze over and she seems to retreat into her private thoughts. “I don�
�t know. I don’t think he tried to fight them off. How could he? He might have done something to his hand at school, but it hardly matters now that he’s …” Gaby shakes her head. Her right cheek is black, and a purple blotch, visible through her thin fringe, spreads from her left temple across her forehead into her hairline.

  Bagley lets out a small, defeated sigh. “That’s all we’re going to ask you at the moment. I want you to look through some images later to see if we can identify your attackers but for now you can leave the station. Where can we find you?”

  “She’s staying with me,” Linda says. “I’m not having her go back to that house.”

  “Good. I can’t let you go home anyway, Mrs Brock. It’s a crime scene. We’ll be doing an appeal to the public, so it would help if we had a recent photo of your husband. If you tell me where to look, I’ll send an officer into your house to get one.”

  “Photo,” Gaby echoes as if she’s never heard the word before. I cast my mind over the barren walls and tables of the Brocks’ lounge. Photography does seem to have been an alien concept to the couple.

  Linda Parry comes to her sister-in-law’s rescue, offering to provide something from one of her own family photo albums. DI Bagley closes the interview with a cursory “thank you” and stands up.

  I follow her to the door and look back at the two women. “Goodbye,” I say. “It was nice to meet … I’m sorry for … Goodbye.”

  DI Bagley speeds along the corridor. “I want you to join DS Matthews in Forensics. See what they’ve got so far. Good question, by the way, well done, but no need to be overfamiliar with the witnesses. This is a murder inquiry.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you,” I say to the back of the gingham skirt as it disappears through the door at the end of the corridor. I can’t help grinning to myself. I’ve asked my first question in CID and, despite it coming out in a gabble, the inspector was impressed. Not that the answer told us anything. The cut hand is still a mystery. Dr Spicer has already said there’s no other sign of a struggle, so Gaby’s vague suggestion of an injury at school simply confirms that it didn’t happen during the attack at the house. At least both sources are consistent, making it likely that Gaby Brock is telling the truth. I all but tap dance along the corridor. Things are looking up.

  “DC Adams,” a voice booms behind me. “Hoped I’d catch up with you. Everything going well, is it?”

  I spin round to see the advancing hulk of Detective Chief Inspector Hendersen, the chairman of my interview panel. So huge in his tweed jacket that I think he must have at least two more on under it. He moves at quite a speed for a man of bulk, jowls flapping. A rhino charge? Or a Saint Bernard dog?

  “Very well, sir, thank you,” I manage.

  The DCI catches up but doesn’t speak again. The silence unnerves me and I fill it with basic facts about the case. The longer he remains mute, the more disjointed my explanation becomes. While my mouth moves, my brain wills him to talk. His eyes are boring a hole in my middle. The dreadful realization dawns that I’ve left my jacket on the chair in the interview room. I’m standing in front of a senior officer exposed in my royal blue T-shirt.

  DCI Hendersen’s gaze takes in every letter of the sparkling silver Boogie Babe motif before moving on to the Barbie girl below it. After what seems like an age, he resumes his military bellow. “Jolly good work so far, DC Adams, but remember this is a police station not a night club. CID is the plain-clothes branch. How would it be if I pitched up in my pyjamas?”

  My eyes hit the ground in search of a gaping hole to swallow me up, royal blue T-shirt and all.

  “Carry on, detective constable, carry on.” He strides past me, muttering to himself, “And they expect us to take them seriously.”

  Chapter 7

  After retrieving my jacket, I join Matthews in Forensics. Blood pounds in my cheeks. How could I have undermined my credibility with the DCI on my first morning in the job?

  Matthews is sitting with a man who has the same air of scientific inquisitiveness as Dave, the forensics officer I met at the Brocks’ house.

  The man grins. “I’m Steve Chisholm. You must be Agatha. I’ve been hearing all about you.”

  Same appearance and same sense of humour. Thanks again, DS Matthews.

  The room is a jumble of desks, each with its own spaghetti tangle of telephone and computer cables. Two or three small, heavy-duty suitcases of forensic equipment lie on the floor. I wheel a swivel chair over and sit on the edge, trying to slide my back down to their level. I daren’t touch the handle to alter its height. Landing spread-eagled on the floor is the only indignity the day has so far spared me, but I still have the afternoon to endure.

  Evidence bags litter Chisholm’s desk. Matthews has his notebook open.

  “Steve’s going through the forensics for both crime scenes,” he explains. “Dave’s team has scarpered back to Briggham.”

  “Did you know that it’s the fifth fatal stabbing in Brigghamshire this year, but only the second kidnap?” Steve says. “Quite a puzzle for you. Good job you can call on forensic science.” He points at two large see-through bags. One contains a heavy metal chain and the other holds a set of handcuffs. “We got these from the lads at the Southside crime scene. We’ve only found one set of fingerprints.”

  “Anyone we know?” Matthews asks.

  “Definitely not the wife’s. So, if she did handle the chains, she would’ve been wearing gloves.” Steve grimaces. “But there were no gloves anywhere near the lounge where she was found.”

  “She says the assailants got her husband to chain her up.”

  “We’ll get the prints off your corpse. If they match the prints on the cuffs and chains that would fit with her account.”

  Matthews holds up a bag containing two small keys.

  “We got a partial on one of those,” Steve says, taking the bag. “The prints were smudged.” He shrugs. “Not unusual on something like this.”

  “I take it they do fit the cuffs?”

  “One key for the cuffs, one for the padlock on the chains. It was a pretty sick joke, putting the keys to unlock them in the pocket of her pyjamas – these pyjamas.” He lifts another bag. “Mrs Brock was wearing them when we found her.”

  DS Matthews takes the bag, looks at it and passes it to me. The pyjamas, folded with the top pocket visible, are like something I’d buy in Marks & Spencer. Paisley pattern, lemon and white winceyette. I have a pair like them for winter.

  “And that’s about it,” Steve says, retrieving the pyjamas. “We couldn’t find anything in the bedroom. There were a couple of bits of rubbish on the lounge carpet. This piece of cotton thread and a fragment of toilet tissue.” He points at the relevant bags on the desk. “The other thing of significance might be this.” He passes round a small bag containing a single black hair. “It’s hair uprooted from a human head, probably IC3. We’re working on the DNA, so if you find your suspects we may have evidence which places one of them at the house.”

  “Let’s have the DNA as soon as you’ve got it,” DS Matthews says. “The chances are they’ve both got previous.”

  Steve nods, closes the file on the desk, and slides it to one side. He pulls another manila folder towards him. “Moving on to the murder scene at Martle Top. The boys are taking the car apart as we speak. Lots of prints everywhere, especially on the steering wheel, which match the prints on the handcuffs. So probably the husband’s.” He flips the new file open. “Also a few of the wife’s prints, as you’d expect in the family car. But there’s at least one other set. The boys are looking for DNA.”

  “What about this?” DS Matthews points at the bag containing a large knife, the blade partially obscured by dried crusts of blood.

  “No prints on the handle. That would be too easy. We’ve taken a blood sample to match to the victim. A foregone conclusion, I’d say.” He lifts a bag containing a large pair of black and white trainers. “We also found these shoes in the footwell of the driver’s seat. We think they belong
ed to the victim. I’ll confirm this as soon as I can.”

  “Brock was barefoot when we found him,” Matthews says. “If they’re his, he was probably wearing them on the way to Martle Top and took them off before he got out of the car or was dragged out. But why would two brutal killers get into his house, pull him out of bed and then let him stop to collect his trainers?” He rubs his chin and pauses. “Or did he always keep them in the car?”

  “You tell me, Mike. You’re the detective. But if they wanted him to drive the car, they might have let him put something on his feet.”

  Despite the run-in with Hendersen, I have a residue of confidence left over from the interview with DI Bagley. I interrupt. “Was anything else found in the ditch near the body?”

  “Yes, Agatha.” Steve points to three bulging plastic sacks at the back of the desk. “All the usual crap you find in an English country hedgerow these days. It’s all bagged and labelled. I’ve got to go through it, but I doubt that any of the fag ends, condoms and cola cans will lead to a major breakthrough.”

  Squashed down to foolish, I remain quiet for the rest of the meeting.

  “You can go home now, Agatha. Catch up on your bedtime reading,” Matthews says as we make our way downstairs.

  “I don’t mind staying on.”

  “You go home and psyche yourself up for what you’ve got to do tomorrow.”

  I dread he’ll mention the post-mortem, but he has another task in store.

  “First thing you’re taking the grieving widow to identify her husband and then bringing her back here to view some mugshots. The inspector thinks it requires the softly, softly approach of a woman constable. Best not stay up all night with Hercule Poirot. We want you looking fresher than the corpse.”

  Chapter 8

  Zelda’s eye goes straight to the towering figure exercising at the barre. Her heart skips. The prodigal has returned – for the second time. She takes in the shiny blonde hair scooped into a ponytail and the baggy blue T-shirt that matches the friendly eyes. And the woollen legwarmers, of course – so old-fashioned and yet so becoming on Pippa Adams.