Shuffle, hop, tap step. After a series of split double-time steps, I find myself thinking how well DS Matthews handled himself. He kept his cool despite Bagley’s attempts to choreograph his questioning. His smile as he showed me to the observation room before the interview wasn’t mocking but conciliatory, almost kind. And it was his idea to let me observe the interview.
Suddenly DS Matthews seems less oafish. I might have misjudged him. He indicated to the DI that he wanted to do the interview with me. Shuffle step, shuffle ball change. But that was probably because he disliked DI Bagley more. If he had to be with one of us, better the bimbo than the battle-axe. My step slackens and I miss a beat.
I cue “Happy Feet”, the routine I practised with the troupe. I take up a star-shaped stance as if I’m performing to an audience. Stamp, stamp, toe, heel, toe, heel. I can’t gloat that Bagley’s interview with McKenzie failed. He’s guilty of something even if it isn’t Carl Brock’s murder. I saw the evil in his eyes. If I’d made more of an effort to restrain him when he walked away in the Dynamite Club, he’d have probably hit me, even put in a kick for good measure. My gut says he’s no respect for women. Not much for men either.
Side step right, left, right. The humiliation of the interview will no doubt make Bagley more determined to nail him for something – and that something will be whatever sticks.
Toe, heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, turn. And despite my dislike of Bagley, I want to help her. Better the control freak than the cold-blooded killer. Shuffle ball change, stamp. But if McKenzie can outwit a DI in a controlled interview, I don’t see how being vague or decorative, or any of the adjectives Matthews might attribute to me, would work on McKenzie.
Crossing my arms, I stamp forward. I still don’t get why Matthews wanted me to go softly, softly with McKenzie when he looked daggers at my attempts at familiarity in the pupil interviews. Perhaps he realized afterwards that the formal approach at school hadn’t got us very far. We learnt nothing in a half a day of enquiries.
Most of the Swan pupils displayed the requisite stroppiness with folded arms and crossed legs when talking to old people like me and Matthews. Stamp, ball change, hop, hop. How can an age gap of less than ten years make such a difference? I’m only twenty-four, but 10B must see me as ancient.
I toe-heel my way to the close of the music. I’ve got to win their trust. No good sitting on the opposite side of the Year Eleven common room, with my notebook poised, crisp in my pale grey suit. I have to soften the setting. Putting the copies of Glamour and PlayStation back on the table where we found them would be a start. Matthews won’t be keen but I’ll have to convince him. Let him see me in action.
I barely notice the first spots of rain as I sprint home, preoccupied with mentally creating a teenager-friendly wardrobe. My pedal pushers will be perfect for the warm weather. And I’ve a particular top in mind. The slogan might appeal to some of the pupils. Doubtless Matthews will make some fatuous comment, but I’ll just have to explain my strategy. Because I’ll be at the school all day, I won’t bump into DCI Hendersen and risk repeating the Boogie Babe T-shirt dressing-down. It’s one time when a plain-clothes officer can go a little fancy.
The next morning the rain buckets down. I throw a raincoat over my carefully chosen outfit and head outside. Discovering I haven’t got my car keys, I’m about to cross the road to catch the bus towards Swan Academy when I receive a text, asking me to call at the police station for a briefing. I dash to the other bus stop and jump straight on the bus towards police HQ. I congratulate myself on not having to wait in the rain for the next one.
Chapter 20
I get off opposite the station, wait a few moments for a gap in the traffic and dash across the road. Bright patches in the sky hint at the sun to come, but the shoulders of my raincoat are soaked by the time I reach the main entrance.
Shaking off the excess drips I lay the coat on the back of my chair. Matthews is at his desk, hunting through the top drawer.
“What have you come as?” he asks when he sees me.
“It’s for the school. To gain the pupils’ trust,” I sniff. The move from the cool rain to the warm office has made my nose run.
His eyes scan my T-shirt. “‘Born to be Wild’,” he says. I can taste the derision.
“Well it’s worth a try. We haven’t got anywhere so far,” I say.
“True, but I’m not sure today’s the day to try it.” He loosens his red tie.
“I don’t see why not. After the briefing we’re going to the school again, aren’t we?”
“We’re going to the school all right, but the headmaster is holding a memorial service for Carl Brock this morning.” He takes a black tie out of the drawer and lays it round his shoulders.
I’m glad of the tissue already en route to my nose to hide my mortified face. There’s no way my crimson and purple ensemble will pass for mourning clothes. “How long have you known?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Keep your hair on, Agatha. I only found out this morning. Headmaster Cunningham called Bagley yesterday evening. He told her that the press had been phoning the school and a photographer even turned up. Now that the victim’s been named, they want more than Hendersen’s initial briefing. Cunningham and Bagley decided on a memorial service for the whole school followed by a press conference with the two of them on the charm offensive. She’s called us here to give us our roles in the pantomime.”
Danny Johnson, Kevin Bradshaw and Martin Connors have arrived by the time DI Bagley enters. They eye my outfit, desperate to put voice to their ridicule.
Bagley does it for them. “Are we keeping you from other things, DC Adams?” The sniggers behind me are out before she adds: “A day at the seaside perhaps?”
After a swift admonishment to Matthews to advise his constables of the dress code, she begins the briefing. “At nine thirty, David Cunningham, the head teacher at Swan Academy, is giving a short assembly in memory of Carl Brock. If the weather fairs up, it will be held outside in the playground so that all the pupils can attend. The school hall’s not big enough apparently. The local media have been invited. Afterwards Mr Cunningham and I will hold a press conference. Our press office is taking a couple of uniforms with them to marshal the hacks. We’re expecting people from Mids FM, Radio Brigghamshire, and maybe Mid TV too, and a photographer from the Penbury Evening News.
“I want you lot there as our eyes and ears. Don’t watch the memorial service, watch the audience, or should I say the ‘mourners’. I want you to mingle, keeping a low profile.” She turns to me. “Which might be quite a challenge in some cases.”
My nose needs blowing again.
“Look at the teachers,” she continues. “Who’s weeping into their hankies? Who’s turning cartwheels? Watch the kids, too.” An icy glance to Matthews. “The interviews with students may have failed so far, but you can still crack them through observation.”
A vast assortment of children in white or green polo shirts mill about the playground. Some of the smaller ones head for the puddles left by the earlier downpour. There’s a hum of excited chatter that I associate with a school fire drill. A level of noise never tolerated inside school but somehow acceptable in the fresh air.
On the far side of the playground a tarpaulin covers half a dozen stage blocks. Two police officers raise a line of police tape, its job to corral the media that comprise: a longhaired man with a large movie-type camera; a stocky man snapping photos of the crowd and two young women with shiny hair. One holds a tape recorder, the other a notebook.
I stand among the children, uncomfortable in my raincoat now that the sun’s out again.
Mr Cunningham mounts the stage. His movements are slow and considered, with a welldefined pretence at gravitas. He surveys his empire, lapping up the ripple of attention that moves through the assembled children, aided by taps on shoulders and shushes on lips from their teachers. After several moments, too many in my opinion, he sits in one of the two chairs that have been placed
on the stage.
Then I spot the occupant of the other chair. How on earth was I so wrapped up in the buffoon Cunningham that I missed her arrival? Although she’s seated, I can tell that she’s tall and lean, definitely lean. A panther of a woman in a black, short-sleeved trousers suit. I’m no fashion guru but I can tell it’s expensive. Her legs are lightly crossed, revealing a dark brown ankle and a slim foot in a flat leather sandal. She’s at her most striking from the shoulders up – long neck, small head framed by cropped black hair, high cheekbones and huge brown eyes.
Matthews, who’s been moving through the pupils, comes into earshot.
“Is that …?” I whisper.
“Superintendent Naomi Chattan, our glorious leader,” Matthews answers.
“Where’s DI Bagley?”
“Gesumpt. The Super pulled rank.”
A warm glow comes over me. Bagley bounced me off the McKenzie interview yesterday and now she’s been bounced off the press conference. Poetic justice.
When Cunningham’s sure that the audience has reached an approximation of silence, he signals to Trish, the school secretary, below him on the tarpaulin. She slips on her spectacles and gingerly examines an old-fashioned tape player. Eventually she finds the appropriate knob. Strained organ music bleats out of a speaker at the far side of the stage. The music has the same effect on the children as headlights on deer. They stand transfixed for almost half a minute before the usual shuffling and whispering begins. Cunningham holds his nerve for another thirty seconds before motioning Trish to kill the music. The fidgeting dies down as he stands up. He switches on the induction loop around his neck sending a loud clang through the PA system. One of the uniformed constables sticks a finger in his ear, and the cameraman moves his equipment back a few feet.
“Colleagues, students and welcome visitors,” Cunningham begins. He pauses for effect as I silently fill the gap with lend me your ears.
“We are gathered here today.” Another pause. In the sight of Mid TV. “To pay tribute to one of our own who was cruelly and savagely taken from us earlier this week. We, at Swan Academy, are a family, always there for one another.”
“Agatha, forget the soap opera,” Matthews whispers. “Watch the kids.”
I snap back to my duties and look about me. Keenly aware of the renewed warmth in the now cloudless sky, I put my hand up to undo my raincoat.
“And keep that mac on,” he growls. “We aren’t here to provide the cabaret.”
Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I scan the crowd. The teachers have edged their way to the sides of the playground and formed two lines against the wire mesh fences. Mrs Howden and Mr England take up sentry posts on either side of the open gates to the car park.
“Carl Brock was a charming colleague and true friend,” Cunningham continues.
A few teachers raise eyebrows, reacting to the “true friend” description from a head teacher who doesn’t seem to know any of his staff, including Carl Brock. Most of the male teachers balance with feet apart and heads bowed, concentrating on the patches of drying tarmac. The women’s eyes dart across the sea of pupils. Mrs Ferris, who’s been provided with a chair, engages in this activity too. Her hands rest on her enlarged belly but her gaze is animated.
“I greatly respected his abilities as a teacher and as a man.” Cunningham’s eulogy continues.
There’s a new ripple through one group of girls, the word “man” having set off a mild hormonal frenzy, which is quelled by a sharp glare from Ms Yardley.
“He was a fine teacher. He imparted a great love of his subject, English, to all of you.” Cunningham stretches out his upturned hand towards the children. Complete bafflement seems to be their only discernible response. “And he achieved excellent results for our already high-achieving school.” This rocks even the dozing male teachers into shifting their weight. “And he was a caring teacher. Always eager to go that extra mile to support all of you in whatever way you needed.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ms Yardley push through the crowd, holding a box of tissues. She hands one to a small boy who wipes his face and blows his nose. Bless. At least one pupil feels the need to mourn his teacher.
Ms Yardley is about to place a maternal hand on his back when the scruffy teenager next to him takes her attention. Her expression hardening, she holds a tissue up to his face, then waves it towards the ground and hands it to him. The scruffy boy hesitates as if about to defy her but drops to his knees and wipes the tissue across the floor. He stuffs it in his pocket as the teacher moves away. He’s Joe Walker, our first interviewee, his chewing gum presumably now residing in Ms Yardley’s tissue in his trouser pocket. Why did he choose that precise moment to spit it out?
“I would now like to hand over to Superintendent Naomi Chattan to say a few words.” Cunningham turns to his neighbour. The panther uncurls her legs and reaches her full height.
“Thank you, Mr Cunningham. I am most grateful for this opportunity to add my words of comfort to you all at this sad time.” Her lilting accent works like a charm on the children and she has their rapt attention. “I did not meet Carl Brock but from what I’ve heard here today I do know he was a first-rate teacher. I’m sure he has instilled in all of you your own sense of worth and dignity. I am grateful to those of you who have already spoken to my officers. I thank in anticipation those of you who are still to be interviewed. I am confident that with your help we will get justice for Mr Brock.” She sits down gracefully.
Cunningham’s on his feet again. “Whatever your tradition, please join me in a minute’s silent contemplation for our dear colleague and teacher, Mr Brock.” Eyes down, he assumes the same stance as his male staff.
The women teachers reluctantly leave their lookout positions and bow their heads. The younger pupils follow their lead. Some of the older ones hunch shoulders in semicompliance, others look about them for guidance from their peers. Two youths with cigarette papers, use the cover of prayer to roll their own. The scowling face of Joe Walker stares towards the car park. Kirsty Ewell, standing close to me, plays on an app. But no one speaks.
The sound of a throaty car engine breaks the silence. I can’t see which car’s moving but Mr England and Mrs Howden edge towards the noise in the car park. When a car door opens, the two English teachers lean into a dark coloured car, holding onto the driver’s door so it can’t open further. Mr England shakes his head and Mrs Howden appears to pat the driver’s arm.
Back in the playground, the PA system springs into life with a reprise of the organ music. Cunningham dismisses the assembly with an expansive wave of his arms. The female teachers siphon off some of the children to a side entrance and lead another posse round to the front of school. I look back at the car park in time to see the dark car reverse out of its space and speed to the exit. The driver comes into view for a split second. Blonde and glaring.
Chapter 21
As the last crocodile of children leaves, Trish pushes the tape recorder away on its trolley. A man in a brown jacket, the police press officer, steps forward to escort the press visitors onto the stage. The longhaired cameraman lifts his equipment onto the blocks and clambers up behind it. The press officer puts out more chairs as Trish passes them up the steps. I stay in the playground with my colleagues.
The press officer sits beside Superintendent Chattan and whispers something to her. Then he looks across her to Cunningham and nods. All set, the superintendent faces the press pack.
“Thank you for coming,” she purrs. “I’d like to thank Mr Cunningham for letting us use his school for the press conference.”
Glancing only occasionally at the note cards in her long fingers, she launches into her formal press statement. “Carl Brock’s body was found just after eight o’clock on Monday morning on a stretch of the B456, known locally as Martle Top. We now know that he was stabbed and killed there during the previous night. His blue Ford Mondeo was parked close by and we are anxious to hear from anyone who saw it during that night
or early on Monday morning.” She pauses to find the car registration number.
“We would also like everyone to come forward who drove along Martle Top between midnight and eight a.m. on Monday.” She talks directly into the TV camera held by the longhaired man. “Even if you don’t think you saw anything, you can still help with our enquiries.
“At approximately nine twenty on Monday morning, my officers visited Mr Brock’s house and found his wife bound and gagged. Mrs Brock has been able to tell us that two men entered their bedroom in the middle of the night, tied her up and took Mr Brock away with them.”
“Was she able to describe them?” the stocky, middle-aged journalist asks, his digital camera now slung over his shoulder.
“We have an initial description,” the superintendent continues, unfazed by the interruption. “The men were both black, approximately six feet tall and of heavy build. One spoke with an Afro-Caribbean accent, the other sounded local.” She stresses the “rib” in “Caribbean”, causing the man to give her a good-natured smile.
She looks into the TV camera again. “Both of them appeared to be wearing woollen hats. We are anxious to hear from anyone who thinks they may know who these men are. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence.
“They may have arrived at the Brocks’ house on foot, so they could have been seen walking in the Southside area before the crime. Or someone may have seen them later in the night with Carl Brock in his Ford Mondeo. There is a recent photograph of Carl Brock in your press pack. Do you have any questions?”
“Will we get a Photofit of the suspects?” One of the young women, with shiny hair, holds out a microphone.
“We hope to issue a more accurate description later today.”
“Has a murder weapon been found?” The other shiny girl joins the questioning.
“A long, kitchen-type knife found at the scene has been confirmed as the murder weapon. It was produced by a leading manufacturer and is widely available at department stores nationwide.”
The Good Teacher Page 11
