The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  Right on cue, the common room door bangs open and the first awkward adolescent interviewee ambles in. Matthews points to one of the chairs opposite us. As the boy flops into it, the twin scents of body odour and stale cigarettes waft across the table.

  “Hi,” I say, putting on a warm smile.

  “What’s your name?” Matthews asks without any introductory pleasantries.

  “Joe Walker,” he mumbles in a buzzing, newly broken voice.

  The door opens again and Ms Yardley creeps in and takes her place next to Joe. Matthews acknowledges her and continues questioning the boy. “We want to talk to you about Mr Brock. See what you can tell us about him, okay?”

  Joe shrugs his shoulders and keeps his eyes focused on a spot between my head and Matthews’s. His jaws move constantly, working a piece of chewing gum behind his closed mouth.

  “You went to Mr Brock’s after-school homework club, didn’t you?”

  “Not me,” he mutters.

  “Are you sure? You’re on the list of pupils who did. That must be a mistake.” Matthews glances at Ms Yardley.

  She nods. Does that mean it was a mistake or not? I can’t read the gesture.

  Matthews doesn’t seem to know either. “So are you good at spelling then, Joe?” he asks.

  The boy shrugs.

  “What are you good at?”

  Joe says nothing and puts a hand through his greasy, unkempt hair. Matthews could do more to put him at ease. How does probing his scholarly inadequacies help the case?

  “Do you like school, Joe?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  I glance at Ms Yardley. Her face is impassive.

  I try again. “What do you like?”

  He shrugs again.

  “What do you want to do when you leave school?”

  Another shrug.

  “Did you like Mr Brock?” Matthews asks. No doubt he’ll blast my failed line of questioning later.

  Joe opens his mouth but only manages a “’S’pose.” He chews the gum with renewed vigour.

  “Has Mr Cunningham told you what happened to Mr Brock?”

  “He’s snuffed it.”

  Ms Yardley shifts in her chair and casts me an apologetic smile.

  Matthews begins tidying his papers on the coffee table, rather in the manner of Head Teacher Cunningham. I see the veins pulsating in his neck. “Okay, Joe, send in the next one,” he says without looking up.

  The boy saunters out without a backwards glance.

  “Are they all like that?” Matthews says, giving an exasperated breath.

  “Not all,” Ms Yardley says, her earrings jangling furiously.

  The next boy enters. Carrying a leather jacket over his shoulder, he walks confidently to us and sits down. He rests the jacket loosely between his knees. His green polo shirt shows off an athletic frame.

  “Hi, what’s your name, please,” I ask.

  “Will Gleeson.” His voice is deep.

  “We need to ask you some questions about Mr Brock. He was your form teacher, is that right?”

  Will confirms that he’s in 10B. Although only fifteen, he looks older. His skin, free of pimples, has a warm glow.

  “Did you go to his homework club?” I ask.

  “Sometimes. Not often.”

  “We were told that you were a regular.”

  “I’ve been a few times but not for ages.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Mr Brock?”

  “No idea.” He pulls the leather jacket further onto his knee.

  “There could be a drugs connection,” Matthews says, taking over the questioning. “Is there any of that in school?”

  Will draws the jacket up to his stomach. “Not that I know of.”

  “Anything you tell us is in complete confidence.” Matthews lowers his voice, flicking his eyes at the teacher.

  “I don’t know anything about drugs or Mr Brock. He was just my form teacher.” He speaks calmly and maintains eye contact with Matthews.

  “Thanks for your time,” Matthews says, leaning back in his seat.

  “I can go?” Will looks at Ms Yardley.

  “Yes, Will, you can,” Matthews says, breathing out. “Thanks for your time.”

  “You’re welcome.” The boy smiles broadly. I detect relief behind the gesture. Have we let him off the hook too easily?

  “He seemed polite but—” I begin.

  “Don’t be taken in,” Matthews says, not letting me finish. “He didn’t give us any more than Joe Walker did.”

  “Of course not, sarge,” I say, suppressing my indignation and not looking at Ms Yardley. What must she think of us? Of me?

  “A cool lad like that always knows things, but he’s not as laid-back as he thinks he is,” Matthews says. “Anyone lugging a leather jacket around in the middle of June is insecure on some level. Didn’t you see the way he held on to it like a security blanket when I mentioned drugs?”

  “Do you think he’s hiding something?” I say, addressing the question to both Matthews and Ms Yardley.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Let’s see what the next one doesn’t know,” he says.

  Ms Yardley says nothing.

  Matthews tosses down his notes as another pupil, Sam Turner, leaves the room. “He was nearly as mute as Joe Walker. We’ve only got Saul Hedges left from the homework club and he’s bound to be like the others. This is useless.”

  Mr Cunningham appears in the doorway and makes a point of addressing himself to Ms Yardley. “Eve, I’ll start sending the rest of 10B now. Duncan Josephs is off with severe hay fever today. He should be back tomorrow or Friday.”

  “What about Saul Hedges from the homework club?” I ask, looking down at Matthews’s list of names.

  “I’m afraid Saul is off sick, too,” Cunningham replies, still looking at Ms Yardley. “Has been for some time. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Matthews asks.

  “I’m not exactly sure. I’d have to check his file,” Cunningham says vaguely.

  “It doesn’t matter. Send in the others.”

  I prepare to meet the next pupil but can’t shake off the feeling that I need to make a connection somewhere. It’s the same feeling I had when Mrs Howden spoke to us yesterday. A girl with thin black hair and painted-on eyebrows comes in. As the boys did, she launches herself backwards into the empty chair. She brings her skinny knees together and pulls her short skirt down as far as it will go. She seems familiar and this half-thought joins the other one in my mind.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Kirsty Ewell,” she says, and sighs as if talking to the police is the most boring thing she’s ever had to do.

  “We’d like to ask you a few things about your form tutor.”

  “He’s dead, right?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. He was murdered.”

  “Well it weren’t me.” She folds her arms and rolls her eyes, still faking boredom.

  “Of course not, Kirsty. Did you like Mr Brock?”

  “He was all right. At least he didn’t treat us like little kids like most of them do.”

  “Did he take you for English?” Matthews asks.

  “I have Howden for English.” She remembers the teacher sitting next to her and modifies her tone. “Sorry, Miss. I mean Mrs Howden. Mr Brock was just my form teacher.”

  “Did you ever go to his homework club?”

  “No way. I’m not staying in this dump after three o’clock if I don’t have to.” She doesn’t catch Ms Yardley’s eye. “Actually, Mr Brock mentioned the club to me a few times. He was on at me to go. My mate reckoned he fancied me.” She gives her hair a gentle preen with her index finger. She sees Ms Yardley’s icy face and adds, “But I never thought that.” She starts picking the red varnish off her badly bitten nails.

  The gesture’s enough for me to place her. She was one of the under-age girls at the Dynamite Club.

  I shoot a look
at Matthews, but he’s already asking his next question. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Mr Brock?”

  “No one here would. Everyone thought he was pretty sound – for a teacher.” She glances at Ms Yardley. “No offence.”

  Matthews forces a smile and speaks softly. “We need to ask you some delicate questions. You can talk in confidence. No one will know that we got the information from you. What can you tell us about the drug scene round here?”

  “Nothing.” She folds her arms again. “And if I did know anything, I wouldn’t tell you lot. I’m no grass.” A grin comes over her face. “Was Mr Brock a junky?” She bounces in her chair, her interest well and truly roused.

  “Mr Brock was not a junky,” Ms Yardley says flatly and glares at me and Matthews; she isn’t only saying it for Kirsty’s benefit.

  “We think Mr Brock’s killer might have been dealing,” I say hastily, trying to limit the damage, but knowing full well that Kirsty will dispatch the rumour of Mr Brock’s drugtaking around the whole of Year Ten by morning break.

  “Have you heard any rumours about dealers in school?”

  She shakes her head.

  I play my trump card. “Have you ever been to the Dynamite Club?”

  “No-o”, she says slowly, peering through her straggly fringe. “It’s for over eighteens only.”

  “Of course, forget I asked that,” I say, feigning an apology. I go for a different approach. “Tell me about school, do you like it?”

  “I already said it’s a dump.”

  “So you bunk off sometimes?”

  “No-o,” she says again, turning away from Ms Yardley. “What’s that got to do with Mr Brock?”

  “Just interested,” I reply, unsure what to ask next. This girl’s our best link between Carl Brock and McKenzie and I have to exploit it. If Brock found out that some of his pupils were going to the Dynamite Club, he could have decided to confront McKenzie, with fatal consequences. Does Kirsty realize I know she’s lying? The girl’s remarkably composed if she does. She doesn’t seem to recognize us from our visit to the Dynamite.

  I’m still planning my next question when Matthews says, “If you think of anything which might help, let us know.”

  “Is that it then? Can I go now?” Kirsty sounds even more surprised than I feel.

  “I’d just like to ask—” I begin.

  “We’ve no more questions,” Matthews says, turning a firm shoulder towards me.

  Speak for yourself, but I’m powerless to overrule the sergeant.

  During the rest of the morning, we toil through interviews with most of form 10B. Some chatter, a few charm, most grunt but none say anything useful. Eventually Ms Yardley asks for a break, pleading dinner duty.

  “If we want to get in that sandwich bar next door before the school bell rings, we need to go now,” Matthews says after she’s gone. “I know most of them will head for the chippy across the road but there’s bound to be a hard core of pre-anorexics ordering wholemeal lettuce sandwiches without butter.”

  “Maybe we should eat in the school canteen. We might pick up some gossip,” I say. I’m wrestling with a question that keeps hovering out of reach.

  “The only thing we’ll pick up in there is salmonella. Kids who have school dinners these days are the sad ones with no mates. They’ll be the last to know what’s going on.” He answers his mobile phone.

  I collect our notes and pens, boiling at Matthews’s blunt labelling. Does he put everyone in boxes? Lonely pupils in the canteen. Anorexics in the sandwich bar. Where does he see me? At least I recognized Kirsty Ewell from the Dynamite Club. He sent the girl on her way oblivious to any connection with the case. I’ll enjoy telling him that later, even though he’s bound to turn the information round and blame me for something.

  “That was DI Bagley,” he says, coming off his phone. “The strand of hair found in the Brocks’ house isn’t McKenzie’s. It must belong to one of his cronies.”

  I picture Errol, the shaven-headed minder. A match seems unlikely.

  “But we still have McKenzie’s prints in Brock’s car at the murder scene,” Matthews continues. “Uniform have brought him in for questioning. The DI wants us back at the station to interview him. We better grab a sandwich on the way. I can’t face that monster on an empty stomach.”

  I wonder whether he means McKenzie or Bagley.

  Chapter 16

  On the journey back to the police station, I feel a surge of excitement. Not the simmering anxiety of crowd control duties or foot patrols at closing time, it’s more like the buzzing nervousness before a stage performance. I thought I’d forgotten what that felt like. But there was no mistaking that stomach-churning eagerness – in the dressing room, backstage, in the wings. Backstage. My spine turns to ice; I’ve pushed the memory too far and the excitement is gone.

  I force my mind back to the case. McKenzie made us look like fools at his club. I touch the bruise on my arm where his huge hand made contact, sending me to the floor. I don’t need to check my darkened cheek, now concealed behind make-up as per Bagley’s orders; it aches whenever I speak. This time I’m ready for McKenzie.

  Matthews peers intently through the windscreen, driving fast because a long queue of office workers at the sandwich bar has made us late. What’s he thinking? He has every reason to want to corner McKenzie after our previous encounter. He must be planning his own strategy for obtaining McKenzie’s confession.

  “Do you know what you’re going to ask him?”

  His response is fast. I was right: he is thinking about the interview. “We need to concentrate on linking him to Carl Brock.”

  He said “we”. Is that a figure of speech or am I part of it? “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “Have you ever played ‘good cop bad cop’?”

  “Sergeant Conway used to do it with shoplifters but he said I was too nice sometimes.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I want you to be as friendly and as vague as you can.”

  “Vague?”

  “Think bimbo.” He pauses when my mouth drops open, then he explains. “If he thinks you’re there for decoration, he’ll only concentrate on what he says to me. He’ll think my questions are out to trick him. While he’s fencing with me he’ll hardly notice what you’re asking and what he’s saying in response.”

  Decoration! My hands start to shake; I sit on them. “What do you want me to ask him then?”

  “Drop in some aimless questions in-between my incisive stuff. Pick up on his answers and ask him something trivial. Then, when you’ve softened him up, enquire whether Carl Brock ever gave him a lift.”

  “What possible good will that do?” I’m truculent and hope he notices.

  He doesn’t. “Depending on his answer, you may need to back off. Play bimbo for a while and then ask him again. We want to lure him into giving a reason for his prints being in Brock’s car.”

  “But he could be making up a reason.”

  “Doesn’t matter. As soon as he admits a connection with Brock, we’ve got him. We can work on the details later.”

  He’s used that word bimbo again, and he said friendly and vague. Does he mean flirtatious and stupid? I’m never a flirt, not any more. I’m chatty, but I’m like that with everyone. Girl next door, everyone’s friend, no one’s fantasy. I can’t play the interview Matthews’s way; I might be too convincing. He’ll see me as even more of a lightweight. I’d rather talk tough with McKenzie. But two heavy-handed interviewers will get nowhere with a brute like him and Matthews’s opinion of me will sink even lower. Better do as he says. If we crack McKenzie, Matthews might begin to see me as a useful teammate.

  I mentally rehearse bimboesque questions. Have you lived in Penbury long? I do like your shirt, where did you get it? Which gym do you use? It comes terrifyingly easily and I’m primed for action by the time we get to the station car park.

  DI Bagley’s waiting outside the interview room. “He’s in there with his lawyer
,” she tells us. “It’s a shame we didn’t get a chance to speak to him on his own first, but he was forewarned.”

  Matthews looks away. She must still see mileage in keeping alive the memory of the failed interview at the Dynamite Club.

  “Right. Let’s do it. Here are your questions.” She hands Matthews a sheet of paper.

  I hold out my hand for mine, but Bagley says, “You aren’t needed here. Go back to the office and read through some past case notes.”

  I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I wasn’t relishing Matthews’s approach, but I still wanted in on the action. Crestfallen, I turn to leave, keeping my eyes away from Matthews for fear of seeing one of his smirks. But I have to check my hearing for what happens next.

  “Ma’am,” he says, “DC Adams and I have worked out an interview dialogue.”

  “She’s too inexperienced and I’ve given you all you need,” Bagley says, pointing at the paper.

  “Can she at least go into the obs. room to watch?” he asks. “I’m sure she’d benefit from seeing how an inspector conducts an interview.”

  Her ego apparently massaged, Bagley agrees. “Fine, but let’s get on with it. We’ve left him to invent an alibi for long enough.”

  Matthews points me to the next door along the corridor and gives a reassuring smile, before following Bagley into the interview room.

  The observation room is dimly lit. Noiselessly, I lift out a plastic chair from under the desk and sit to watch the screen in front.

  “… present are Samuel Royston McKenzie, Edwin Saunders, DI Liz Bagley and DS Mike Matthews.” The DI’s voice comes through the speaker on my left. I see the backs of my two senior colleagues and beyond them the bulky frame of Samuel McKenzie. He grins at the police officers. Next to him sits a thin man in a grey suit. He seems to be dozing.

  “Do you know why you’ve been brought here?” Bagley begins.

  “Police harassment.” McKenzie’s grin gets wider.

  “You resisted arrest.”

  “Your officers said nothing about arrest. They asked for my DNA. I’m not obliged to give it.”

  Bagley ignores the technicality. “Your fingerprints were found in a blue Ford Mondeo belonging to Carl Edward Brock. What have you to say to that?”