The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  Beyond the minster is a parade of shops. I make out a hardware store, a bank and a sandwich bar. Across a side road is a high-wire fence around a school playground. Swan Academy. No unauthorized entry.

  We drive over the East Bridge, built fifty years earlier to span the River Penn. At this time of year its vast stone arches seem ostentatious for the grubby stream of water trickling below. However, by October, heavy rains in the Welsh mountains will swell the river and hide its banks. They currently stand naked and filthy. Another week of drought and they’ll reveal the river’s insides: rusted pushchairs, buckled bicycle frames, fleshless mattresses.

  The town centre proper begins after the bridge. There’s a multi-storey car park, an antique shop, two estate agents, a health food shop, three pubs – without hanging baskets – and any number of shoe shops. And then, on the right-hand side, is the Dynamite Club.

  Matthews pulls into the deliveries bay in front of the club. “We ought to be able to arrest him just for that.” He shakes his head at a neon sign that promises Live Music.

  The building is by all other appearances a genteel Georgian-style mansion with greystone walls and bull’s-eye windows. In a previous life it was Penbury’s town hall. The council relocated to bigger premises west of the river and cashed in some of the town’s architecture to pay for the move. The town hall was sacrificed when Samuel McKenzie waved a big enough chequebook. And the result was Dynamite.

  Even before my eyes grow accustomed to the dimness after the brilliant sunshine outside, there’s distaste in my mouth. Not so much for the shabby scene inside the club, unworthy of the building’s heritage, as for the fact that it’s taking place before noon. The sun not over the yardarm, my grandfather’s expression passes through my mind.

  There are women cocooned in cigarette smoke and laughter. Office workers taking an early lunch break or on an all-day bender. They don’t notice me, but take in an eyeful of DS Matthews, nudging each other and laughing even louder.

  A table of young men study the women and sip their beer. Elsewhere, at least three overweight, elderly men sit alone, clenching their pint glasses. When one of them lifts his rheumy eyes towards me, I hurry on, trying hard to shake off a feeling of revulsion.

  Two skinny girls sit near the bar. One twists the rings on her fingers and the other picks at her nail lacquer. They wear cropped tops and leggings, but look as if they’d be more comfortable in the green school sweatshirts that peep out of the bulky holdalls stuffed under their stools.

  A heavy woman in tight pink jeans passes us carrying a tray of empty glasses and makes the air heady with hairspray and cheap perfume. Matthews indicates we should follow her to the bar. As we weave between the tables in the dark room, a strobe light swoops across us and onto a small, low stage. Once there it changes to a series of whirling spotlights. An ageing speaker system starts with a muffled saxophone track. Its deep base makes my throat throb.

  The circling spotlights settle on one side of the stage as three figures in white glide forward to the sound of a drum roll. My ears ring when the women erupt into wolf whistles and shouts of applause. I squint across the room. The young men have switched their gaze to the stage but still drink their beer. The fat old men are no longer holding their pints, their hands have disappeared below the tables. I’m ice-cold as a buried memory threatens to resurface. Crepey skin, florid neck, bulging eyes, acid breath. I turn to the stage, forcing my mind away from the past.

  As we reach the two schoolgirls, they bow their heads guiltily. I sense them relax as we move on. They must think they’ve dodged the truant officers for another day.

  The woman in pink jeans is already behind the bar when we get there, slamming half lagers onto the tray. Matthews speaks and I strain to hear the barmaid’s reply above the noise. She points to a large man sitting at the far end of the bar. Matthews moves towards him, holding out his ID card.

  I try to stay tuned in but miss bits of what Matthews says as the tortured saxophone music works itself into a frenzy. The man stares at Matthews. Dreadlocked hair scooped into a ponytail. Expensive-looking purple suit with matching shirt and tie. Unlit cigar in one fist and a tumbler in the other. He sees me looking and I flinch. I flick my head back to the stage, cross with myself for feeling intimidated.

  The dancers’ manoeuvres are sluggish, not in time to the marching drawl of the music. What would Zelda say? With each step their ankles turn out sloppily. They push their hands above their heads, stroking the air with red fingernails. Their hips thrust to the left, flashing shiny brown thighs through the criss-cross of white fishnets. The music cuts out and the dancers amble off to raucous applause from the female parties.

  “I know who you are. We already met.” With the death of the soundtrack, the man’s voice is loud and clear.

  Matthews ignores the man’s tone. “That’s correct, Mr McKenzie. I interviewed you about a cocaine consignment which hit the Penbury club scene.”

  “It’s summer,” he drawls. “Ain’t no snow here.”

  He looks me full in the face with his hard eyes.

  “I’m DC Pippa Adams,” I hear myself say in an over-friendly way.

  “What you people doing in the Dynamite?” The menace in his eyes chills me.

  “We want to ask you about a kidnap and murder which took place yesterday.” I try to sound businesslike despite the intimidation. Blood whirs in my ears. I’ve seen eyes like this before. One time they’d bored me in half and I couldn’t get away. I gasp for breath.

  McKenzie lights his cigar and takes a deep draw on it. He leans towards me then breathes out with his mouth open wide. I manage not to cough despite the sweet smoke and sour breath that violate my nostrils.

  “Errol, show these people the door. They not members.” McKenzie calls out to a large, shaven-headed man who’s appeared at the other end of the bar.

  “We don’t want to take up more of your time than necessary,” DS Matthews says, apparently undaunted and opting not to remind him his smoking is breaking the law. “We need you to tell us where you were yesterday between two a.m. and seven a.m.”

  “With my woman, of course. Now leave my place.”

  “We’ll have to speak to her to confirm it. And we would like to ask you for a sample of your DNA to eliminate you from our enquiries.”

  “Ask my woman. She gets my DNA.” He discharges a belching belly laugh and leers at me. I want to bolt, need to even, but I hold as firm as I can on jelly legs.

  “All we need are a few cheek cells, Mr McKenzie,” I say quickly, eager to reach the end of my sentence before an old fear freezes my voice. “We can compare your sample with the one we found at the Brocks’ house.”

  I see the brief but unmistakable flicker of recognition on his face. The name Brock means something.

  “Errol. They going now,” he says.

  Errol moves in front of DS Matthews.

  Again, Matthews ignores the threat. “We’d like you to come with us to the station. A witness has placed you at the kidnap scene.”

  McKenzie stands up slowly, extinguishing his cigar in his glass. He leans towards Matthews. “You get some evidence first.” He turns to leave.

  Errol blocks the way. Without challenging him physically there’s nothing Matthews can do to reach McKenzie.

  McKenzie saunters off. Without thinking, I make a grab for his back and catch his ponytail. After what must feel like a gnat bite to a rhino, he brushes me off with a flick of his wrist and keeps on walking. I take a few strands of his hair with me as I fall and bang my face on the grubby carpet, with its stench of beer and undigested food. Stomach heaving, I pick myself up.

  “We’ll be back, Mr McKenzie,” Matthews shouts as Errol moves aside.

  McKenzie ambles through a door by the bar.

  “Shall I call for backup?” I whisper, rubbing my cheek.

  Matthews shakes his head. “He’ll keep.”

  Chapter 11

  One wall of the general office displays a board of ph
otographs and diagrams. DI Liz Bagley has her back to the assembled officers and writes on a white board, her silver bracelets jangling against her tanned arm. A desk is piled high with her papers, briefcase and handbag.

  Chairs have been dragged into a line in front of her. I slip in beside an older detective. He nods, his eyes lingering on my injured cheek. Two young officers at the end of the row appraise me, smiling. I manage a smile despite the tension in my jaw. When they finally return to their own chat, I relax.

  DS Matthews stands next to a small, attractive man close to the display board. The man catches my eye and grins. I look away, blushing.

  “The victim,” DI Bagley says, turning round and pointing to the stark crime scene photograph of Carl Brock, “was found in a ditch on the Martle Top road, by a pensioner, at just after eight yesterday morning.”

  The room falls silent.

  The DI looks at her notes on the desk. “The pensioner was a Reginald Arthur Kenny – out for an early morning bicycle ride.” She paces in front of her audience. Her toenails, polished in the same red as her fingernails, peep out of her high sandals. “A blue Ford Mondeo was parked nearby with the passenger door open and the car radio on. Uniformed officers found what looked like the victim’s photo driving licence in the glove compartment – in the name of Carl Edward Brock. A PNC check confirmed that the Mondeo was registered in the same name.”

  She sits on the edge of a desk, her thighs pressing against her leather skirt. “Uniform called at Brock’s house in Southside at nine twenty.” She points at a street plan on the board behind her. “On hearing banging noises inside, they broke in and found Gabrielle Brock, the victim’s wife, semiconscious on the floor, gagged, chained and handcuffed to an overturned chair.” She taps a photograph of the Brocks’ lounge. “And the keys for the handcuffs and padlocks were found in the breast pocket of her pyjamas.

  “Mrs Brock has been able to tell us that two men burst into their bedroom in the early hours. They made her husband, Carl, tie her up and then took him away. She remembers them saying …” She checks her notes. “‘You need a lesson of your own, teacher’.

  “I attended the post-mortem this morning. Carl Brock died from a single stab wound into the heart.” She scans her notes again. “Dr Spicer says the actual cause of death was cardiac tamponade – that’s heart failure to you lot. The stabbing caused blood to accumulate in the space between the heart muscle and the outer covering of the heart. Death occurred within a few minutes. Brock also had a gash on his right hand from a day or so before his death, consistent with smashing his fist against a sharp surface. It might be something. It might be nothing.”

  She surveys the assembled officers and, when she’s sure they’ve noted down the information, she continues. “Dr Spicer is running further tests as there is some evidence of long-term nerve damage. Although, in my opinion, any underlying chronic disease pales into insignificance compared with the terminal condition of a stab wound.” She waits, giving us time to acknowledge her brand of humour, and turns to DS Matthews. “Did you learn anything from the house-to-house enquiries?”

  “Nothing useful,” Matthews says and pauses.

  I examine the weave in my skirt, waiting for him to tell the room about my encounter with Mrs Perkins and how I managed the “house” but failed the “to house” bit of the operation.

  He resists the temptation. “I tracked down the Brocks’ milkman. He called at around six thirty but saw and heard nothing. He couldn’t tell me anything about the Brocks except that they kept themselves to themselves. They always paid for the milk by cheque, direct to the dairy.”

  “So we can rule out the wife having an affair with the milkman and the husband catching them in the throes of a bondage game,” Bagley says.

  “You’d be the expert on that, ma’am,” Matthews says. The older officer next to me blows his nose and hides a smirk under a greying handkerchief. The others, less discreet, laugh out loud.

  “Expert on motives, I mean,” Matthews says calmly.

  “And I learnt everything I know from your mother.” Bagley grins, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

  Matthews resumes his briefing. “The only prints found on the chains, handcuffs and keys used on Mrs Brock were Mr Brock’s, which supports the wife’s version of events. A bit of tissue and cotton thread were found by her chair, but there’s no evidence that they are linked to the crime.”

  “That’s probably the separate crime of being a bad housewife. She hadn’t vacuumed the carpet for a week.” The handsome man next to Matthews speaks, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. My face heats again.

  A hearty chuckle ripples around the room and even Liz Bagley laughs. I find myself smiling at the joke, too, but a thought stirs in my mind. I try to make sense of it, but Matthews continues the briefing and I have to let it go.

  “Forensics say that the strand of hair found in the hall is definitely IC3.” He pauses to look at the other detectives. “Odd they found hair when the attackers were wearing woollen hats.”

  “Maybe they didn’t have hats on at first, but put them on before attacking the Brocks upstairs. Anything in the bedroom?” Bagley demands, her laugh a distant memory.

  “Forensics have found nothing, and they’re starting to rule out an inside job. They are still checking Mrs Brock’s pyjamas, but there are no obvious blood spatters. She was barefoot when uniform found her. Forensics have tested for pollen or soil on her feet and shoes to place her on Martle Top with Brock, but it’s looking unlikely.”

  The grey-haired detective near me raises his hand.

  “Yes, Bradshaw,” Bagley says.

  “How did the kidnappers gain entry to the Brocks’ house?”

  Matthews turns to his colleague to answer. “SOCO found a broken panel of glass in the back door with a key in the lock on the inside. It looks as if they just put a fist through the glass and turned the key.”

  There’s a general tutting and shaking of heads. We never cease to be amazed by people’s disregard for crime prevention: leaving the key in the door is asking for trouble.

  “Any prints?” DC Bradshaw asks.

  “None, but SOCO did find blood on a shard of glass. They’re checking it out.”

  DI Bagley addresses the room again. “Mrs Brock has formally identified the victim as her husband and picked out our old friend Samuel McKenzie from the family mugshot album.”

  A brief chorus of “I might have guessed”; “typical”; “sounds about right”, interrupts her.

  “Are there any similarities with Briggham’s Easter Day kidnapping?” Bradshaw asks suddenly.

  Bagley pauses before answering. “Doubtful. Briggham CID is pretty sure it’s the Smith End Gang behind that.”

  “Does McKenzie have links?”

  “Not that I know of. He’s a pain in our arse, but he’s small fry. Smith End would have his bollocks for breakfast,” Bagley says. “So, Matthews, what’s the latest on the McKenzie line of enquiry?”

  Matthews clears his throat. “DC Adams and I visited McKenzie at the Dynamite Club this morning. He refused to give a DNA sample and had a flimsy alibi for the time of the murder.”

  Before they can register the hesitancy in Matthews’s voice, an electronically whined version of “Mission Impossible” rings out and distracts everyone. His good-looking neighbour reaches into his jacket for the offending noise. Liz Bagley beams again. I beam too. It’s hard not to. The man’s dazzling. As he moves to the back of the room and speaks into his mobile phone, a grin plays on his agile mouth and he rubs his fingers through his smooth blond hair. He’s in blue jeans, and his New Balance trainers pick out the matching red and white in his T-shirt. He must be the other sergeant, DS Danny Johnson. I let out a sound as I imagine myself assigned to work with him instead of Matthews.

  I turn hastily to the meeting, relieved that no one has heard my sigh.

  Bagley’s in mid-rant and exacting her revenge on Matthews for his bondage joke. “I’ll give you resisti
ng arrest. How could you let McKenzie get away? How many other scumbags in Penbury do we know who fit the description and are capable of this? I’ll lay odds on the hair at Brock’s house being his.”

  Matthews stares into her face impassively. The only sign of his discomfort is the pulsating skin above his collar.

  “Is that how you got that shiner, Adams? It took two of you to fail to do the job. Put some make-up on for goodness’ sake,” Bagley snaps. I rub my cheek as she continues. “Get him, Matthews. And be quick about it. I want that low-life in here before he can firm up his alibi and brief his fancy lawyer.”

  I’m not sure what makes me do it. I haven’t planned it. A discreet word with DS Matthews was my intention. But in a reflex action against Bagley’s comment about my face, I stand up and, after a moment’s scrabbling through my bag, fetch out a tube of Smarties. “Will this speed things up?”

  The two young officers smirk. Bradshaw chuckles.

  “What’s that, DC Adams?” Bagley says, irritated.

  “During the scuffle …” I hesitate as I see the anger in Matthews’s eyes. “I mean when McKenzie resisted arrest, I managed to grab some of his hair. It’s in here.” I shake the sweetie tube.

  Another, louder chuckle goes round the room. But Bagley’s in no mood to join in. “Do you mean to tell me you obtained a sample of a suspect’s hair without his knowledge?”

  “I just thought …”

  “Against every police protocol ever written?”

  “I, well …” I hear my voice squeak and die.

  “You took it upon yourself to get an unlawful DNA sample from Samuel McKenzie. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  I nod.

  “Well, don’t just sit there glowing brighter than your sweeties. Get it down to the lab. It’s strictly illegal but if it gives us a positive match on the hair in the hall, we’ll find something official to nail him with later. Good effort, DS Adams.” A brief smile appears at Bagley’s mouth but vanishes quickly. “Now, jobs for you lot …”