The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  “Ssh,” Kirsty says and leads her out of the shop. I’m fairly sure I’ve witnessed the rumour about Mr Brock being a junkie embarking on its maiden voyage.

  “Do lots of the Swan pupils come in here?” I ask the shop assistant, showing my ID card.

  “A fair few of them, officer,” the woman says, suddenly formal.

  “You must sometimes overhear what they say to each other, like we did just now.”

  “I don’t pay much attention. It’s kids’ stuff.”

  “Have you ever heard any of them mention Carl Brock?”

  “I’ve heard the name. Is he on the school football team? The girls are always on about those lads.” She spreads a hearty helping of butter over two slices of wholemeal bread. In the heat, the bread soaks it up like water.

  “Mr Brock was a teacher. He’s died.”

  “Oh, the murder. That’s why I’ve heard of him. Terrible business. I read it in the paper. But when the kids come in here, teachers are the last thing they want to talk about.”

  Given the interviews we’ve so far conducted, I’m not surprised at the pupils’ lack of interest in their teachers, even a freshly murdered one. Unless they think he was a junkie, of course. The good ship Gossip and her captain Kirsty Ewell will see to that. I fish out my notebook and find the names of the pupils in the homework club. “What about Sam Turner or Will Gleeson?” I ask. “They’re pupils. Do they talk about them?”

  “They sometimes mention a Will. A lot of the girls have taken a shine to him.”

  I remember the young man’s athletic frame from the first round of interviews. “I can imagine. Have they ever mentioned Joe Walker?”

  “Don’t think so.” She adds a dollop of mayonnaise to the filling.

  “Saul Hedges?”

  She stops shaking her head. “Is he the one who disappeared?”

  “Disappeared?”

  “It was a couple of weeks or so ago but some of the kids were buzzing about a boy who suddenly stopped coming to school and no one knew why. I think his name was Saul. I heard a couple of the girls say he’d missed an art exam. Apparently he was good at art.”

  I run up the marble steps into the school vestibule, clutching the sandwich bag and stop at the painting gallery that I noticed when we first entered the school three days ago. It dawns what’s been bothering me ever since Mrs Howden listed the boys in the homework club. I pass Daniel Turner’s Owl and Ned Downey’s Firework Fantasia and come to the vivid watercolour at the end of the row. The brushstrokes are certainly skilful but the whole composition seems somehow desperate, bordering on mad even. The artist is Saul Hedges.

  DS Matthews is already in the common room when I burst in. “Sarge, we need to interview Duncan Josephs again.”

  “Welcome back, Agatha. Had a nice lunch?”

  I’m getting good at ignoring his sarcasm. “Duncan might be able to tell us something about Saul Hedges.”

  “Saul Hedges. That’s the boy that Cunningham said was on long-term sick leave.”

  I catch my breath for a moment, then continue quickly, throwing out words before he can interrupt. “It seems he didn’t turn up to school one day and never came back. He missed an art exam. He likes art. One of his paintings is in the foyer. It’s wild and scary, sinister, delusional almost. I think it might be drugs.”

  “Creativity under the influence, you mean. What on earth did they put in your sandwiches?”

  “I haven’t eaten them yet,” I reply, missing his joke. “Shall I go and ask Mr Cunningham to get Duncan Josephs back?”

  “Explain to me first why you think Duncan Josephs will know more.”

  “He’s the only one who’s given us anything.”

  “But he’s told us everything he knows.”

  “How can you be sure?” I say, irritated by the finality in his voice.

  “He’s an anorak and doesn’t realize he’s not supposed to help the police. But, because he’s Billy No Mates, he’s not on the school grapevine and doesn’t know anything worth telling us.”

  I think of Duncan eating his lunch alone and grudgingly concede to Matthews’s logic. The bubble of enthusiasm in my chest deflates and I see it’s pointless to press for another interview with Duncan. I try a different tack: “Perhaps we should speak to Mr Cunningham then.”

  “Cunningham isn’t going to tell us if he’s got a pupil off sick with drug addiction. Not with his precious inspection coming up. No, let’s get Joe Walker in again.”

  “Walker? The first boy we interviewed. He was monosyllabic.” Even my idea of trying Duncan is better than that.

  “Let’s ask him how he came to be detached from his chewing gum during Brock’s memorial yesterday.” Another point to Matthews. I’ve all but forgotten the spitting incident. “I was being too nice on Wednesday,” he continues. “We need to try an alternative approach.”

  Chapter 24

  Joe saunters in, chewing gum again.

  “Come in, Joe, have a seat,” I say.

  Matthews raises his eyebrows impatiently.

  I carry on. “We need to talk to you again about the homework club, but we just need to wait for—”

  Matthews interrupts. “We know you went to the club. Mrs Howden told us.”

  Just need to wait for the teacher. I close mouth again.

  Joe stares ahead mutely.

  “You went there with Saul Hedges,” Matthews says.

  Joe crosses his arms at the mention of the name but doesn’t change his defiant expression.

  “But Saul’s not here now,” Matthews continues. “Where is he?”

  My eyes slip to the coffee table. Silently I will Mrs Ferris to return. In the unlikely event that the boy speaks, it’ll be inadmissible without an appropriate adult present.

  But Matthews doesn’t seem to care. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what happened to your best mate?”

  The boy jerks his eyes off the wall and on to Matthews. “He wasn’t my best mate.”

  Matthews shifts in his seat, apparently pleased that he’s forced a response. “But you know about his drug addiction, don’t you?”

  Joe crosses his legs and begins bouncing the top one up and down.

  “Did Mr Brock know about it, too?”

  Joe watches his moving foot and still doesn’t reply. Has he realized we should wait for Mrs Ferris?

  “Was Mr Brock trying to help him?”

  His head shoots up. He glares at Matthews but remains silent.

  “Everyone tells us what a caring teacher he was,” Matthews says. “The sort of person to try to help a kid in trouble.”

  I look at the door, praying for the teacher to reappear. Joe Walker could cry foul at any moment.

  The boy continues to stare at Matthews, his face blackening.

  “I think Carl Brock found out who Saul’s supplier was. Is that what happened, Joe?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “But you know too, don’t you? You must do. You were a good friend of Saul’s, spending lots of time with him at homework club. Mrs Howden has told us that.”

  “Howden knows bugger all.” Joe leans forward in his chair, glowering at Matthews. “I left the homework club months ago.”

  “Why did you leave, Joe?” Matthews still sounds calm despite Joe’s outburst.

  “It was crap.”

  “I’d have thought you’d like a club for you and your mates with a laid-back teacher who even let you smoke in class.”

  Joe slowly leans back and folds his arms. He swallows.

  “You don’t know you’re born.” Matthews is almost shouting now. “There aren’t many teachers like Carl Brock who care about their pupils – all of them, not just the brainy ones. I’d have thought you would want us to catch his killer. It’s the least he deserved. He was a good man.”

  “He was pond life,” Joe whispers. His shoulders sink. “He wasn’t trying to help Saul Hedges get off drugs. He’s the one who got him started.”

  There is a moment of silence. Joe’s foot has sto
pped moving. I stay still, not daring to look at Matthews. His call. He’s brought Joe to this. He’ll have the skill to run with it if I keep quiet.

  “Go on, Joe, I’m listening,” he says eventually.

  Joe uncrosses his legs. “Brock let us smoke at homework club and he even bought us the fags. Then one day he brings in some cans of lager. It’s just me and Saul, Sam and Will. They got pretty raddled, but I can handle my drink.” His eyes lift towards me as if he’s hoping this last remark will impress me.

  “What happened next?” I ask, abandoning thoughts of waiting for the teacher. I’m as desperate as Matthews to hear Joe’s revelation.

  “Brock gets out some weed. Saul and Will take it. Sam’s too drunk. Pretty soon Saul and Will are giggling and climbing over the chairs. Brock sits there with his feet on his desk, laughing to himself.” Joe tries to sound angry but I sense something else in his voice. Relief that the truth’s out or pleasure at telling a convincing lie?

  “Why didn’t you smoke it?” I ask.

  “I grew out of that stuff in Year Eight.”

  “So what have you grown into now?” Matthews says.

  “I’m not that bloody stupid.”

  “Is that why you left the homework club?” I ask.

  “Brock looked like such a dickhead, sitting there. He was supposed to be teaching us to spell not to score.”

  “Did the others leave, too?”

  Joe shrugs. “Saul was my mate but he changed, got hyper. He kept asking me to stay out all night with him and did his nut when I wanted to jack it in and go home. Other times he’d crash out, fall asleep in class. Twice he started crying. I don’t do mates like that.”

  “Cannabis did all that to him?” Matthews asks, scepticism in his voice.

  “Brock got him on speed and God knows what else.”

  “Speed? You’re telling me that your form teacher, Mr Brock, was supplying Saul Hedges with amphetamines?”

  “Saul said Brock could get him wraps for cheap.”

  Matthews shuffles his papers. He seems to be trying to suppress the incredulity that’s setting in. The battle won, he looks up impassively and asks: “Why did Saul leave school?”

  “Don’t know. I went round to his house when he’d missed a couple of days. No one answered the door, but I’m sure his mum was in. I guess she knew that we weren’t such good mates anymore.”

  “What about Will Gleeson. Did Brock supply him, too?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Don’t want to grass on a mate. Is that it?”

  The boy shrugs again.

  “Right, Joe. You can go back to your class,” Matthews says, unexpectedly halting the interview. “We’re going to check out everything you’ve told us, so you’d better be telling the truth. Giving false statements to the police is a serious offence.”

  “I’m quaking in my boots.” Joe takes back the mantle of surly teenager and ambles out.

  “Why did you let him go?” I say. “I thought you’d want to cross-examine him more.”

  “What he said would be disallowed without a teacher present, as you were itching to point out. I want to get some corroborative evidence first in case the little toerag is spinning us a yarn.” He leans back in the chair, rubbing his chin. “In many ways Brock does sound too good to be true. The homework club could have been a good cover to cultivate friendships with vulnerable boys and later offer them drugs.”

  “Boys like Duncan Josephs?” Itching to point out? How dare he?

  “Exactly. From what Duncan says, Brock pestered him to join the club but then dropped him, probably when he realized that he could never keep a secret. Sooner or later, a boy like that would end up blabbing. And according to Joe, there’s plenty to blab about. But Joe Walker could have made the whole thing up. He’s had two days to invent this fantasy since we last questioned him. Despite his protestations, he could well have taken drugs himself. And if he’s still a user, he’ll want to distract attention from the real supplier – out of fear of reprisals and the need to keep getting his own fix.”

  “Should we see Will Gleeson again? He doesn’t look vulnerable, but we should try to help him if he is on drugs.”

  “He looks healthy enough to me at the moment. Surely you haven’t forgotten those rippling biceps of his, Agatha? I don’t think he’s progressed beyond the occasional spliff. He’ll keep for now. First we need to find Saul Hedges. Let’s go and ask Sir.”

  Chapter 25

  “I’ll call you back. Something’s come up.” Cunningham drops the phone into its cradle when we walk into his office without knocking. “Good afternoon, officers. Would you like to sit—?”

  “Where is Saul Hedges?” Matthews says without a greeting.

  A brief look of anguish clouds Cunningham’s face but it’s sandwiched between two of his usual smarms. “Saul Hedges,” he says. “Now let me see.” He heads for the filing cabinet behind him.

  “Cut to the chase, Mr Cunningham. Where is he?”

  He faces us, a man unused to being challenged. “Well, I … how dare … student details are confidential. I don’t know whether I should say.”

  “Just tell us, Mr Cunningham. Or we can apply in writing to the governors.”

  The threat works. He sighs. “His parents are keeping him at home until he can get a place at Alderley Lodge.”

  “The drugs rehabilitation centre near Briggham?” I say. I know of it from the drugs talks I gave to schools.

  He nods. “Mrs Hedges phoned me about three weeks ago to say that Saul had confessed to having a problem – a minor problem – with drugs.”

  “Did she mention Mr Brock?”

  “Actually she did. She said to thank Mr Brock for his help and that her husband would be in touch to get some extra homework for Saul.” He resumes his seat behind his desk as if taking back his throne.

  Matthews doesn’t seem impressed. “Mr Cunningham, you do realize I could charge you with wasting police time. Why didn’t you tell us about this in the first place?”

  Cunningham finds his patriarchal school assembly voice. “I don’t see the relevance to your enquires. Saul Hedges left three weeks ago and I’ve heard nothing from his parents since the phone call.”

  “So Mr Hedges didn’t come to school to collect the extra work for Saul?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “And you didn’t feel the need to check? One of your pupils is seriously ill, awaiting treatment and you don’t think to ring the parents?”

  “He was an addict. School rules are very strict,” Cunningham speaks rather weakly for a patriarch.

  “Who else knows about Saul?”

  “No one. The parents didn’t want it broadcast. Mr Hedges is a proud man. He’s a reader at his church. He’ll be devastated if you make it public now. Can I rely on your discretion for his sake?”

  Matthews ignores the question. “We may need to interview you again. Don’t go on holiday. Oh, I forgot you can’t with your inspection coming up. I’m not sure we’ll be finished here by then.”

  A look of horror creeps onto the headmaster’s face.

  “There’s one more question for now. Who were Mr England and Mrs Howden talking to in the car park during the memorial service?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. You’ll have to ask them,” Cunningham blusters, still reeling from Matthews’s implied threat to his inspection. “I instructed them to look out for any unexpected visitors. It was paramount that the press conference ran smoothly. I have Swan Academy’s reputation to uphold.”

  Matthews is unappeased. “I wonder whether the governors know how valiantly you guard the school’s name. Perhaps someone should tell them of your dedication.”

  For a moment Cunningham is silent.

  “Goodbye for now,” Matthews says, running his hand along one of Cunningham’s filing cabinets.

  Cunningham leaves his chair, opens the office door for us and offers up a few closing pleasantries as he battles to regain his voice.
He manages to ask me to collect from reception the flowers that the teachers have bought for Gaby Brock.

  “Tight wads,” Matthews says, pointing to the posy of red roses and white gypsophila as I lay it on the back seat of the car. “How many teachers work at that school? They must have only coughed up a few pence each.”

  “I think they’re rather pretty, better than a grand bouquet.” But then I don’t suppose DS Mike Matthews appreciates subtlety.

  “DS Matthews to Control,” he says into the radiophone. “I need a check on whether a patient by the name of Saul Hedges has been admitted to Alderley Lodge. Out.”

  “So it looks as if Joe Walker was telling the truth,” I say. “And I wasn’t itching to tell him to wait for an adult before answering your questions.”

  “What he said about Saul Hedges being on drugs seems to be true, but I’m not sure I believe the rest. If Brock was the supplier, why didn’t Mr and Mrs Hedges phone the police or at the very least tell his head teacher? And they’d hardly ask Brock for extra homework. I know you weren’t itching.”

  I pinch myself. Has he just apologized? “Thank you.” The words are awkward in my throat. “Perhaps they did tell Mr Cunningham and he decided to hush it up.”

  “I don’t think he’d dare mess us about anymore. He knows we could make trouble for his inspection. Failing to tell us about a pupil’s drug problem is one thing, turning a blind eye to a teacher being the pusher is quite another.”

  “Maybe Saul didn’t tell his parents who the supplier was.”

  “Control to DS Matthews.” The car phone crackles into life.

  “Come in, Control.”

  “Alderley Lodge has confirmed that Saul Mark Hedges was admitted as an in-patient on Wednesday.”

  “Thanks, Control. Out.” He turns to me. “We’d better get some fuel. We’re driving to Briggham.”

  Chapter 26

  “It’s a good job this is a pool car,” Matthews says as the exhaust scrapes on another speed bump.

  I feel queasy, although I can’t blame his driving. He crawls along the private road, alternating between first and second gear, and breathes a sigh of relief when the way’s finally blocked by a row of metal bollards, displaying the notice: All visitors to Alderley Lodge park here.