“Ma’am, that was Forensics on the phone,” DS Johnson cuts in, replacing the mobile in his jacket. “They say the death definitely occurred in the ditch. They can tell from the small amount of blood pooling at the site. They also confirm that the knife found in the ditch was the murder weapon. They’ve finished going over the Ford Mondeo. Most of the prints belong to Mr and Mrs Brock, but they’ve got a match for a third set, too.” He looked gleefully at Matthews. “It’s Samuel McKenzie.”
“Right, Danny,” Bagley says, “let’s not wait for the DNA. Get uniform to arrest him. They know what they are doing.” She shoots an icy look to Matthews.
“But we don’t have enough evidence to make it stick. What’s the motive, ma’am?” he says.
“That’s for you to find out, detective sergeant. The wife says the attackers knew Brock was a teacher. They told him he needed a lesson of his own. You and Adams get down to Brock’s school. Find out all about him.”
“Ma’am.” I stand up again, on wobbly legs but emboldened now that I’ve impressed Bagley with the hair sample. “His sister, Linda Parry, said he cared for his pupils. Maybe he discovered that McKenzie had dealers at the school.”
“Promising theory. But she would say that, wouldn’t she? The bereaved always turn their loved ones into heroes. It’s up to us to cut through that.” Bagley looks at the officer beside me. “Bradshaw, do the rounds of the hardware stores. See if they’ve sold any chains to anyone fitting our kidnappers’ description. You’d better do the kinky shops for the handcuffs, although they were probably mail order.
“Holtom, Connors, I want you to run a check on Reg Kenny. Let’s make sure he was just a passer-by on a bike ride who stumbled on the body.”
The two young detectives write furiously in their notebooks.
“And do PNC checks on Carl and Gabrielle Brock, and Linda Parry, formerly Brock. I’m puzzled why the murderers needed to tie up Mrs Brock. Why not meet Brock at the school gates and take him for a ride into the country? Why involve his wife? Was she an intended victim, too?”
“Maybe, they wanted to extort money from Brock by threatening to hurt his wife,” Matthews says.
Bagley nods. “We can’t rule it out. When you’ve finished at the school, check out Brock’s bank statements. Blackmail was one of McKenzie’s early career moves.”
“Do we know anything about the wife?” DS Johnson asks.
I look around, but no one responds. After a deep breath, I have another go – I’m on a roll now after all. “She is a full-time housewife. She gave up her job as a teaching assistant two years ago when she married Carl. They planned to start a family, but she suffered a miscarriage last year.”
Danny Johnson’s pale eyes twinkle in my direction. “Good girl, DC Adams. Anything else?”
My heart dances. Buoyed by yet another, albeit patronizing, compliment – and this one heading my way courtesy of the sparkling sergeant – I let my tongue dance too. “Her cockatiel died recently. I saw his old cage in the Brocks’ study. He was called Pipkin and his feathers fell out.”
My heart quits dancing. Several loud guffaws echo in my ears. I fix my eyes on a cracked carpet tile by Bagley’s desk, willing the words back into my mouth.
“Thanks for sharing that with us, Agatha.” I hear Matthews’s voice full of scorn.
“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” Bagley barks and sweeps out of the room.
Chapter 12
“The location is right for drugs,” DS Matthews says as he swings into the last remaining space in Swan Academy’s car park. “A short stroll over the bridge to the town centre, only ten minutes’ walk from the Dynamite Club. Perfect for McKenzie’s brand of tuck shop.”
The school looks utterly respectable to me. I’ve been to a couple of other secondary schools to give talks on the dangers of drugs. You did Drama at college, Adams. You can get up on your hind legs and spout, Sergeant Conway said when the schools liaison officer phoned in sick one day. The schools I inflicted my unprepared presentation on looked scruffy – litter in the playground, broken fences, patches of graffiti. Whereas this one, with its stonecarved nameplate Brigghamshire Education Committee Swan School 1936 above the main entrance, has a solid, traditional air. Like my own school, Tadcote.
Matthew helps when I struggle to open the heavy oak door. We go up six marble steps to the vestibule. On the left-hand side of the high-ceilinged entrance hall is a lift, looking like an upstart, squeezed in beside a wide staircase. The wall next to it displays a row of paintings and collages: An Owl by Daniel Tanner; Firework Fantasia by Ned Downey; a vivid and chaotic watercolour by Saul Hedges; and a pencil-sketched self-portrait by Sarah Link. What impressive young talent.
Ahead is a corridor that probably leads to classrooms. Off to the right, the entrance hall becomes an open-plan office. A middle-aged woman types into a computer, cradling a phone against her shoulder. Two boys in their early teens hover in front of her. They wear trainers and dark grey trousers a faction too short. Their open-necked shirts must have been plain white once upon a time but have taken on the hue of an aged treasure map. A far cry from my uniform – white knee socks, polished shoes, blue tartan skirt and a crisp white blouse with a firmly fixed tie.
When the woman finishes on the phone, the boys move forward, but she looks past them to us. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks, peering through her bifocals.
“Police. Is the head teacher about?” Matthews takes out his ID. The boys exchange an excited glance.
“One moment, please.” The woman presses three buttons on her phone with pronounced finger movements. People often exaggerate their gestures to hide their fluster when dealing with the police for the first time. But this woman keeps her voice steady. “Mr Cunningham, I’ve got two police officers here who’d like a word.” There’s a short pause, but only a short one, before she replaces the handset. “Mr Cunningham can see you now. If you’d like to come this way.”
She leads us down the central corridor. When we reach a door marked Head Teacher, she knocks, shows us in and leaves immediately. A tall man of about forty-five with laughing brown eyes comes round the front of his desk to shake our hands before motioning to two easy chairs.
He returns to his leather chair. “How can I help you, officers?”
“Thank you for seeing us without an appointment, sir,” Matthews says. Is the “sir” out of cordiality or because of some vague memory of his school days?
“No problem at all. Don’t mind Trish. It’s only irate parents who need an appointment. Trish protects me from the worst of them.”
“We are here to talk to you about one of your staff, a teacher called Carl Brock.”
Cunningham adjusts some papers on his desk before answering, “He teaches English here, but he’s off sick today. At least we think he is. He’s not answering his phone. Didn’t come in yesterday either or email cover work. Most unlike him.”
“We have bad news, I’m afraid. Mr Brock is dead.”
“Oh my god. That’s terrible.” Mr Cunningham raises his hands to his mouth in a show of horror. “I wondered why he didn’t ring in.” He must have seen my frown and adds, “What happened?”
“He was murdered yesterday morning.”
Mr Cunningham grows pale and moves the papers again. “Not the stabbing on Martle Top? I heard about it on the local news. The victim hadn’t been named. I never thought it could be … This is dreadful.” He flicks his fingers through the papers. “Nothing like this has ever happened to one of my staff before.” He sounds apologetic. “Do you know who did it?”
“Our investigations are at an early stage.”
“Of course. Well if there’s anything I can do to help.” He adjusts his position in his chair. “He was a good teacher. He got reasonable results given the material he had to work with.” He grins at me. On the desk is a framed newspaper clipping with a head and shoulders photograph of himself. The headline: “A Head of his Class”. The words “flash” and “salesmen
” cross my mind.
“Is the school poorly funded?” I ask.
He presses his hands together and leans his chin on them, adopting an academic pose. “Not really. Not that I would say so to Brigghamshire Children and Young People’s Services Department. What I meant was his results were satisfactory for our students. Our catchment covers one of Penbury’s largest council estates, the Danescott. I’m sure you must be familiar with it in your line of work. Need I say more?”
“Does the school have a drugs problem?” Matthews asks. Clever; he’s used the headmaster’s disparaging comments to lead into his main line of questioning.
“Certainly not.” Cunningham lays his hands flat on the desk and looks steadily at Matthews. It seems to be a well-practised response to a question he’s faced before. “Our students may not be the brightest stars in the galaxy but they understand the penalties for breaking school rules. I can’t control what they do in their own time, but I can assure you there are no drugs in this school.”
“Glad to hear it,” Matthews says, holding the man’s gaze. Cunningham’s the first to look away. Matthews chooses not to press his advantage and changes the subject. “To build up a picture of Carl Brock, we would like to interview staff and pupils.”
The headmaster’s hands are back on the papers, gathering them up and tapping them into one neat pile. “There are nearly a thousand students and they’ll all be going home in half an hour so I don’t see how—”
“I don’t mean today. We have to inform the parents first of our intention to interview their children. We can come back tomorrow. We just need a list of names and an interview room. Your office, perhaps?”
Cunningham coughs. “I need access in here at all times. I receive a number of important telephone calls throughout the day.” He smooths his sleeve like a cockbird tidying his feathers. He must be used to his “I’m a very busy man” routine being accepted without question. But DS Matthews isn’t his receptionist.
When the sergeant doesn’t respond, Cunningham’s plumage shrinks. He picks up the phone on his desk. “Trish, lock the Year Eleven common room for the rest of the week. The police need it. Any Year Elevens in for exams can go in the playground or, if they’re desperate, the library.”
“Thank you, sir,” Matthews says, jotting in his notebook. “We’d like to start at nine tomorrow, but we can only interview children if the parents have been invited to attend. Perhaps your secretary would be kind enough to type out a letter for the pupils to take home tonight? Or send an email?”
“If it’s really necessary, but don’t expect a response. Most of these parents don’t turn up to the annual consultation meetings. Unless, of course, you’re planning to arrest any of their offspring? They’ll demand their rights soon enough in that case.”
“We just want to ask them a few questions, but we need an appropriate adult present. Perhaps one of the teachers could stand in if the parents can’t attend?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. They all have classes of their own to supervise.”
“What about you then, sir?”
He pauses. “I’ll allocate a teacher,” he says eventually.
“We’d like to kick off with the children who were taught by Mr Brock. Did he have any particular class that he spent time with?”
“His registration group. He didn’t teach many of them English – luckily for him.” He rolls his eyes. “But he had half an hour with them first thing every morning and fifteen minutes after lunch to take the register.”
“We’ll start the interviews with the form class and then work through his English classes. When can we interview the teachers?”
“I’m afraid that will be difficult to arrange. It’s the end of GCSEs this week. Free periods are few and far between and taken up with lesson-planning and marking.” He moves the pile of papers to his empty in-tray as if he’s somehow closing the matter.
But DS Matthews isn’t finished. “What about after school?”
Cunningham gives a sharp intake of breath. “Curriculum development meetings most nights. We have one tonight in fact.”
“Will all the staff be there?”
“The English, History and Drama departments.”
“I wonder if we might take up a short part of your meeting to interview the English teachers? It shouldn’t take long.”
Cunningham shakes his head. “We’ve got an Ofsted inspection coming up.”
DS Matthews stares back at him. “We’ve got a murder inquiry.”
The headmaster swivels his chair. “I can let you talk to them for the first half hour. We start at three fifteen prompt. You may use the reception area.”
“Isn’t that a bit public?” I ask.
“You won’t be disturbed. We let the students out at three o’clock and you can see the skid marks on the carpet tiles. The place is deserted by five past.”
“Thank you, sir. You’ve been most helpful.” DS Matthews manages to sound sincere.
Bartholomew Hedges is outside his son’s closed bedroom door. Should he knock, does the boy still deserve that courtesy? He and Sonia have always respected Saul’s privacy, but have they been wrong? Privacy leads to secrets, and secrets lead to misery. Should he have been a stricter father, demanding to know Saul’s every move and breathing brimstone for every minor misdemeanour? His heart drops in his chest, weighed down by another rush of the guilt that has swept over him in the last few weeks. Since that day when he had breathed brimstone – breathed, slapped, struck, shook and punched. Why is he so concerned about Saul’s privacy, when he’s violated a more precious right?
Or was his action justified? Did he act as any caring father would? Didn’t God Himself, the most caring father of all, punish his children? Bartholomew has read it often enough: Numbers 16: 46–50; Romans 1: 18–20; Romans 2: 6–10. If the Holy Book tells of chastisement, then how can Bartholomew have been wrong? He ought to talk it over with Pastor Michael. Several times he’s waited behind after the early service, but lost his nerve, too ashamed to talk about it outside the family even to a man of God.
Is the boy in his room? A flicker of hope. Perhaps Saul’s in there drawing again. But the hope dies because the room is silent. Saul hasn’t picked up his pencils for weeks and, anyway, he always draws with a racket in the background. Saul’s favourite noise-music can no longer blare out, since he took his phone apart at two o’clock one morning when he couldn’t sleep. Bartholomew isn’t sure Saul still has the components to put it back together; he’s probably sold them off.
Not since he was a toddler has he slept so erratically. In those days he ran his mother ragged, rushing around, into every piece of mischief, not wanting to miss out on any fun by succumbing to sleep. On the day they moved into Hare Close, Bartholomew took him outside to the grass in front of the flats to keep him out of Sonia’s way while she unpacked. It was one of those gloriously bright, chilly mornings that the Lord God provided every once in a while during a dull, damp autumn. Saul rolled in the leaves, then found a stick and tried scooping them into a pile.
“Big ’tick bru’… Daddy,” he exclaimed over and again as he continued with his game. Bartholomew’s heart swelled to hear his baby telling him the stick was a brush. Such a bright child and what a talker! He toyed with looking for a proper broom for the boy to use but he didn’t want to break the magic by taking Saul back inside. He carried on watching Saul coax his leaves into a scrappy heap and then scamper after them as the breeze blew them away.
Despite Sonia telling Saul to keep his bobble hat on properly in the cold weather, he pulled it back so that his ears stuck out, making him look like the cheeky imp he so often was. In the muddle of the unpacking, Sonia could only find the navy duffle coat that had belonged to his big cousin. Saul tripped over many times because it came down below the tops of his wellington boots. But none of those tumbles made him cry, so intense was his concentration on catching and herding the leaves. His magnificent son: active, enquiring, focused. Bart
holomew sighs. When did these admirable qualities free-fall into something else?
He knocks gently on the bedroom door, and then harder. Soft tapping will show weakness. He has to stay strong in front of Saul at all times. They’ll get through this ordeal with strength. He puts his ear to the door. Saul could be sleeping. He doesn’t sleep often, but when he does, he’s out for hours. Bartholomew sighs again.
He feels the familiar tears prick his eyes. There’s no more little boy who peeped transfixed through the stairwell railings at the first snowfall of winter, who sang in the choir in his Sunday shirt, Weetabix stains hidden under his tie, who won a children’s painting competition and had his photograph in the Penbury Evening News, who swept the autumn leaves with a big ’tick.
Bartholomew has never forgotten that autumn morning, not least because he managed to capture it on camera. Pastor Matthew, the old pastor, used to lend him his video camera once in a while, saying, “It will be joyous for you and Sonia to share with Saul’s own children one day.”
He turns away from Saul’s room without waiting for an answer. No one can watch the DVD of the little boy in the leaves; their DVD player is missing.
Chapter 13
Judging by the pained expressions on the faces of the five people sitting at the back of the deserted reception area at 3.15 p.m., Mr Cunningham has passed on the news of their colleague’s death.
A distinguished-looking man in a navy pinstriped suit offers his hand to Matthews and, as an afterthought, to me. “I’m Donald England, head of English.” He catches my grin and adds, “A good name for the job, I know. The source of much mirth and merriment among the troops.” He pauses to allow his colleagues time to chuckle. “And this is Mrs Howden, my second in command.” He points to a plump, middle-aged woman with dyed black hair. He waves generally in the direction of the others. “These are Ms Yardley, Mrs Ferris (who’s leaving us at the end of term) and our newest recruit, Miss Wickham.”
The Good Teacher Page 7
