The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  “Thank you for seeing us,” DS Matthews says. “As I think you know by now, your colleague, Carl Brock, was murdered yesterday.”

  Sombre nodding of heads.

  “We need to find out as much as we can about Mr Brock. Build up a picture of what sort of person he was. Who were his friends, and his enemies if he had any? Who did he mix with, where did he go? That sort of thing.”

  “Seemed a decent chap to me. He came here about three years ago. I was on the appointment panel,” Donald England says, taking his seat.

  “Did you ever see him socially, Mr England?”

  “Not I.” England turns to his colleagues. “But I don’t know about any of the ladies.”

  “I’m not sure Carl had much of a social life,” a thirty-something woman says. Tie-dyed skirt and heavy boots. Ms Yardley? “He seemed to spend most of his time here. He ran an after-school homework club twice a week.”

  “That’s right. A noble gesture to give some of the weaker pupils a helping hand with spelling and grammar and the like,” England explains. He straightens the crease in his trousers.

  “Did many kids go along?” Matthews sounds sceptical.

  “Most just tried it out a couple of times, but he had a core of regulars.”

  “Who were they?” I get out my notebook. It would be good to speak to pupils who knew Carl Brock well.

  “Mostly boys in his form class,” Ms Yardley says. She looks to Mrs Howden, the older woman, to help her out with the names.

  But Mrs Howden doesn’t respond until she realizes that we’re also looking at her. “Joe Walker, Sam Turner, Will Gleeson.” She glances at Donald England. “And a couple of others, probably.”

  “It would help if you could remember all the names,” Matthews says. He must have seen her hesitation.

  Donald England gives a small nod.

  Mrs Howden says, “The only other one I know was Saul Hedges.”

  “We’re interviewing the pupils tomorrow,” Matthews says. “I’d like it if you could arrange for us to see these boys first.”

  Mr England exchanges another glance with Mrs Howden, then nods to Matthews.

  “Did any of you know Gabrielle Brock, Carl’s wife?” I ask, trying to concentrate on their answers but I’m distracted by a half-thought I can’t grasp. Something Mrs Howden said is grating but I can’t work out what.

  “Didn’t even know the chap was married,” Mr England says.

  “He mentioned her to me once. He told me she had a miscarriage last year.” One of the other teachers speaks for the first time. When she lays a protective hand over her enlarged tummy, I make a guess that she’s Mrs Ferris, the teacher leaving at the end of term.

  “Didn’t any of you know her?” I ask, letting go of the missing thought. “I thought she used to work here as a classroom assistant.”

  “I worked with an assistant called Gaby, but she left ages ago,” Ms Yardley says. “Was she married to Carl?”

  “Oh, I remember little Gaby,” England says. “Quiet as a mouse. Didn’t stay long. Shame she left.”

  “She wasn’t that quiet. Not at first anyway. She was great at engaging the children, but said she wanted to spend more time at home with her new husband, so she left,” Ms Yardley says.

  “That sounds like Gaby Brock,” I say. “Isn’t it a bit odd she didn’t tell you she had married one of your colleagues?”

  “Many teachers choose to keep their personal relationships under wraps.” England casts a sideways glance at Mrs Howden. “It seems to get the children overexcited otherwise.”

  Mrs Howden looks away. Are they withholding something?

  “I think we should organize a collection. I can take some flowers round to Gaby. Carl’s address will be on file here somewhere,” Ms Yardley says.

  “Excellent idea,” Mr England declares. “I’ll get the Head to issue an email.”

  “Mrs Brock is staying with a relative at the moment,” I say. “If you’d like to leave the flowers with me, I’ll make sure she gets them.” I colour under Matthews’s stare. He clearly doesn’t appreciate the domestic interruption.

  “If I could just ask you a few more questions,” he says. “Does the name Samuel McKenzie mean anything to any of you?”

  Miss Wickham, who’s been gazing at DS Matthews and hanging on his every word, speaks for the first time. “He runs the Dynamite Club. I go there every Friday and Sat … I mean I go there occasionally with mates. But I’ve never met him.” She stops speaking and looks at the floor. I sympathize with the gesture, which matches many of mine over the past two days.

  “Do you know how Carl Brock hurt his hand?” I ask, trying to rescue the young teacher from embarrassment. “His wife said it might have happened at school. It would have been last Friday.”

  The teachers shrug and shake their heads. So much for my line of enquiry. I wait for Matthews to take over.

  “Did Mr Brock have any visitors in school in recent weeks?” he asks but his question meets with more shaking of heads. “Perhaps parents of his pupils?”

  “I saw him talking to a woman a few weeks ago. Shoulder-length bleached hair and big looped earrings. She looked quite agitated,” Ms Yardley says. “I think she’s the mother of one of the pupils in his form class. But I don’t know who. I don’t teach that class.”

  At this point Trish interrupts us to say that the Head needs his English staff for a critical “ideas-slamming” exercise. As none of the teachers can shed any light on the mystery blonde, Matthews closes his questioning and we leave them to slam away.

  “His form class might know who the woman was,” I suggest as we cross the school car park. “It’s odd that the homework club regulars are all boys.”

  “I thought that, too, Agatha. Teenage boys aren’t noted for their conscientious attitude to homework.”

  “What did you think of Brock’s colleagues?” I ask. “Do you think they know more than they are letting on?”

  “I don’t think the women are mixed up in this. Howden is too ancient, Ferris too pregnant and Wickham too much of a raver.”

  “What about Ms Yardley?”

  “I wouldn’t like to get on the receiving end of those Doc Martens, but she’s harmless enough. The one I don’t trust is England.”

  “I thought he was charming.”

  “Exactly, Agatha. How many teachers do you know who wear pinstriped suits and talk with a plumy accent?”

  I think of my own teachers; it’s best not to give a truthful answer. “I did wonder whether he and Mrs Howden were hiding something.”

  “They’re probably at it. Even the over-fifties have been known to partake now and again.”

  “What about the headmaster?” I ask quickly. Why the hell am I blushing?

  “Seemed all right to me. A bit of a poser, maybe, calling his school kids ‘students’.”

  “He didn’t strike me as very caring.”

  “He’s a typical headmaster, a paper shuffler.” He stops walking as we reach the car. “Press the flesh with the governors, look paternal in assembly and Bob’s your uncle.”

  I wonder how he’d be sum up the professor of a music academy and make a mental note never to tell him what my father does for a living.

  “Do you think Mr Cunningham is right about there being no drugs in the school?” I ask.

  “Every school has a drug problem and he knows it. But he also knows that it’s career suicide to admit it.” He unlocks the car. “We can’t do more till we speak to the kids. Do you want a lift home?”

  “It’s only four o’clock.”

  “You’ll put in your hours soon enough. I see an all-weekender coming up. So where do you live?”

  “I’m sorry?” My voice quivers. Why is his question so distracting?

  “So I can drop you off.”

  “Thank you, but there’s no need. It’s out of your way.” It must be a joke. Any minute now he’ll mention St Mary Mead.

  “Don’t you live in Penbury?” he says.
<
br />   “Yes, but—”

  “It can’t be far out of my way, then.”

  “That’s very kind.” What else can I say without sounding rude? “It’s Riverside,” I mutter, pulling on my seat belt.

  “Nice.” Matthews switches on the ignition.

  I chew my lip as he drives us over the Ramparts, past the Boys’ Grammar School and the West Bridge, and on to Riverside. Several of my fellow PCs and Sergeant Conway have been round to the flat at one time or another, but I’m dreading Matthews seeing the warehouse conversion that featured in the Daily Telegraph property section as well as Brigghamshire Life.

  Will I have to invite him in for a drink and let him cast his sarcastic eyes over my living room? Storing up snide remarks about the women’s magazines on the coffee table and the rows of crime novels on the bookcase, with one Agatha Christie well-represented? I take a deep breath as we turn into the leafy courtyard and park in front of my block.

  “How do you afford this on a constable’s salary?” he asks, looking up at the building.

  I wasn’t expecting such a direct question and blurt out the truth. “My grandfather bought it as an investment when they were built and left it to me in his will.”

  “He must have loved you very much.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I offer. So disconcerted by the first civil words he’s spoken since I started the job, the invitation comes easily.

  I feel an odd mix of relief and disappointment when he declines, pleading paperwork. I fumble in my bag for the door key as he effects a three-point turn behind me. I make a point of not turning around to avoid the decision of whether to wave.

  Once inside, I head along the ground-floor corridor. The door to my flat opens before I reach it.

  “Darling, you’re home early.”

  Chapter 14

  “What a lovely surprise.” I put my arms round Mum, breathing in the exquisite perfume and touching the soft fabric of her smart navy T-shirt.

  “What happened to your face?” She lifts wisps of hair that have come loose from my ponytail, her eyes full of concern.

  I rub my cheek where it connected with the carpet at the Dynamite Club. “It’s nothing. I slipped over, chasing a suspect.” Almost true.

  “How frightful. I’ll make some tea.” She moves easily to the kitchen, slim and elegant in her polka dot trousers.

  I follow. “What brings you this way today?”

  “I met the girls for a spot of lunch at Bundies, and I decided to pop over to see how you were getting on in the new job. I thought you might have phoned last night.”

  “I stayed on at the studio. It was too late to ring when I got back.” I curse myself for bringing up the dance studio and quickly change the subject. “I didn’t see your car outside.”

  “It was Diana’s birthday, so we had champagne. I thought I’d better pick up the car this evening.” She stands on tiptoes to reach the teapot from the cupboard where it resides between her visits. As she cranes her neck in search of the matching teacups, her thick hair shimmers in the light from the window. The greying gives it a stunning silver quality.

  “The mugs are on the bottom shelf,” I say, wandering into the bedroom.

  “Let’s have cups,” she calls after me.

  I toss my jacket on the immaculately made bed. Half a dozen cuddly toys are propped up on the pillow beside a folded nightshirt.

  I emerge a few minutes later, barefoot and in loose-fitting shorts. “Thanks for making the bed. You didn’t have to.”

  Mum reaches into the fridge. “My goodness, darling. What on earth is that mould?” She retrieves a milk carton and hastily closes the door.

  “It’s courgette puree. Would you like some? I’ve got plenty. The proceeds of a housetohouse enquiry.” Mrs Perkins was true to her word and pressed two margarine tubs of green liquid into my hands as I made my escape.

  Mum gives a declining smile and hands me a cup and saucer. “So how is Brigghamshire’s newest detective?”

  “My feet haven’t touched the ground, and I’m investigating a murder and an assault.”

  “I read about it in the Evening News. How’s it going?”

  Despite my mother’s deep fondness for gossip, I know she’ll never breathe a word to anyone about my work. I tell her what little I know. “The murder victim and the assault victim were a married couple. The wife was left bound and gagged at home while the husband was taken away and killed. We are trying to find a motive at the moment.”

  “The poor woman, subjected to that terror and then being told her husband had been murdered,” she says. “I can’t imagine having to face anything so dreadful.”

  She holds the hot cup to her mouth, taking careful sips. She’s been through traumas of her own: her husband’s adultery; her beloved father’s death; my desertion to the police from my dance career. Although she hasn’t faced a crazed kidnapper, she’s fought off her own demons.

  “Are you going to see Jamie on Saturday?” she asks with the false brightness that’s in her voice whenever she mentions my half-brother, the product of Dad’s remarriage.

  “My sergeant says we’ll probably have to work all weekend.”

  “How awful for you.” She tries to sound sympathetic, but I see the relief in her face. She’s glad her daughter won’t be playing happy families with the enemy.

  “We need to make some headway with this case.”

  “Who’s in charge of it?” she asks.

  “Detective Inspector Liz Bagley.”

  “I thought it would be James Hendersen.”

  “I haven’t seen the DCI yet.” I decide not to mention the Boogie Babe T-shirt debacle.

  “He’s a good man, you know,” she says. “Your grandfather knew him in his regiment.”

  “I think you may have mentioned it already.” Ever since I became a police constable, Mum has clung to the knowledge that her father, Brigadier Nairn Woodford, commanded Major James Hendersen. On retirement from the army, Hendersen joined the Brigghamshire police force. In Mum’s eyes this gives my new career far greater respectability.

  “You must invite him round to supper.”

  “I’m not even sure it’s the same James Hendersen.” I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve regretted telling her the name of the officers on the CID interview panel. “Even if it’s the same one, he’s a chief inspector and I’m a detective constable.”

  “Darling, you make it sound worse than the army. No fraternization between the ranks. He’s a family friend.”

  “Well as I said, I haven’t seen him. I expect he’s busy investigating other aspects of this murder.”

  “Who do you think killed the man?”

  “It could be someone he met through his work as a teacher.”

  “Surely not even a pupil at the grottiest of comprehensives could hate a teacher enough to do that.”

  “We think it might be drug-related.”

  “Of course. The scourge of the twenty-first century. I don’t envy young people today. The worst temptation I ever faced was when Lydia De Cornez smuggled a bottle of sherry into the dorm. We didn’t have any glasses, so we used our toothbrush mugs.”

  “That explains why you never drink sherry now,” I laugh.

  “The next morning matron had us cleaning the lavatories as punishment. It was colourful to say the least.” She takes a long drink from her tea, leaving the imprint of her pink lips on the cup. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’ll probably go to the studio unless you’d like to stay for a meal?” I kick myself for mentioning the studio again.

  “No, thanks, darling. I want to get the car back.” Then she looks into her teacup and says, “Is Zelda doing a show this summer?”

  “It’s in a couple of weeks.” It’s my turn to take a long drink.

  “Did you audition …?”

  I shake my head with the cup still obscuring my face.

  “Shall I make more tea?” She goes into the kitchen, extracting
us both from the hazardous conversation.

  “Yes, please,” I say, relaxing back into the sofa, the danger over.

  “Thank you for ringing,” Sonia says.

  Bartholomew watches her replace the handset. She’s almost smiling. Almost. But not the old smile, broad across her bright face, from one hoop earring to the other. That grin has died. The new half-smile is grey. Just grey.

  “That was Kyle Stewart, the senior manager. They’ve had a cancellation,” she says. Her voice is trembling. With excitement? Or more tears? “Saul can go in tomorrow.”

  Her eyes find his, but he looks away. They used to be close. A marriage blessed in church before the eyes of the Lord, even if Sonia didn’t worship and not everyone accepted their union. They were strong through the hard times. A match for the wolf at the door. But for the one in the home, not a hope. He can’t look into his wife’s eyes anymore.

  Sonia turns away too. “I’ll go pack Saul a few things.” She hurries to the door.

  Don’t rush, he thinks, it’s too late to rush.

  Chapter 15

  I drag two bulky chairs across the Year Eleven common room to a coffee table. Matthews takes them from me and brings two more for the other side of the table. I clear its debris of tatty magazines and sit down, landing heavily when the chair’s lower than I expect. I don’t catch Matthews’s smirk, but assume it’s there.

  Peeling posters cling to the walls with yellowing Sellotape. “Are your trainers fairly traded?” asks one, while another gives details of “SnoopeeeZ MegaParty”, partially obscuring one for the Penbury Careers Advisory Service. A far cry from the Senior Girls’ Lounge at Tadcote, with its solid oak panelling and reading tables, displaying undisturbed copies of the Daily Telegraph and The Economist.

  Matthews also takes in his surroundings. “This dump makes the station restroom look regal. Did you ask Trish to start sending them in?”

  “She said Ms Yardley would be coming down with the first one after they’ve called the register.”