The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  We draw up between two other cars. One’s a brilliant blue Mercedes, the other a dark green, rusting Citroen. Matthews eyes me quizzically as I open my notebook and jot down their registration numbers.

  “Still thinking like a plod?” He scoffs. “I suppose it is only your first week out of uniform. I’ll let you off.”

  We exit the car, step round the bollards and set off up the shingle track beyond them. When the pathway begins to climb, I have to rub sweat from my forehead, hoping Matthews hasn’t noticed. Dancing keeps me in shape, but I’m struggling with the lack of shade and bits of grit have got into my deck shoes. I’d stop and shake them out but don’t want to give Matthews the satisfaction of seeing me hop about stupidly on one leg and work up an even bigger sweat.

  We reach the top of the hill and catch our first glimpse of Alderley Lodge, a Georgian house with a geometrically perfect mix of beige chimneys and white window frames.

  “Thank God for that. It’s time we got out of this sun. I’m ready to melt,” Matthews declares and, when the gravel track becomes a concrete drive, he empties stones from his shoes, balancing awkwardly on one leg as he does so.

  Just when I think I’ve got the measure of the disagreeable sergeant, he becomes almost human again. I slip off one of my shoes and tip out the gravel. With one foot clear of the ground, I stand stock-still. Why was I worried about hopping? Have I forgotten I’m a ballet dancer? So graceful is my one-legged pose that Zelda used to say I had flamingo feet. But flamingos don’t have detective sergeants watching them. My leg buckles. Matthews catches my arm. Before I can fully register the movement of his upper arm muscles through his cotton shirt, he strides off towards the building. Despite the odd constrictive feeling in my chest, I set off after him. It must be the heat, that’s all.

  Two young men with close-cropped hair and wearing grass-stained jeans and baggy Tshirts are kneeling over a flowerbed by the main entrance. They grunt an acknowledgement but carry on turning the soil with their trowels.

  The front door, framed by a white-pillared porch, is wide open, as are most of the windows. The indistinct thud of a bass guitar comes from upstairs. We ignore the All visitors ring bell notice and step inside the long oak-panelled hallway. A woman with two thin teenage girls in jogging suits exits a room at the far end. The girls’ skeletal frames remind me of Kirsty Ewell and her friend from the sandwich bar, but their eyes don’t have Kirsty’s spark. They cross into another room with a green door without looking at us.

  No sooner have I obeyed a second notice to ring for attention, than a plump young woman with braided auburn hair appears at the reception desk. “Hello, how can I help you?” she asks pleasantly.

  “Police. We need to speak to one of your patients, a Saul Hedges,” Matthews explains.

  Her smile vanishes and she disappears into an office behind her without another word.

  R&B music blasts from behind the green door. I wander up the hall towards the sound and peer through a porthole window into the room. The blinds are closed, but I make out half a dozen people lying on their backs and waving their limbs in the air in time to the music.

  “Can you come back here and wait for the manager,” the receptionist calls out when she reappears. I duly return to the front desk.

  Another door down the hallway opens and a white couple emerge with a mixed-race teenager. The man leads the woman and the emaciated boy to the room where the music’s playing. He stops by the door, squeezes them both on the shoulder and then walks purposefully towards us. Early forties, dressed in faded denim. Behind him, the woman embraces the boy, who stays still, neither resisting nor reciprocating the hug. A good few inches taller than the woman, he bends forward as she holds him but when she lets go of him, his stance remains stooped. He slopes away into the music room.

  “I’m Kyle Stewart, the senior care manager,” the man says when he reaches the reception. “Do you have a warrant?”

  The woman who said goodbye to the boy also heads down the corridor in our direction. Her dyed blonde hair is scrunched into a ponytail. Despite showing a healthy tan on her arms, her face is grey and her eyes red and swollen. She looks at the floor as she passes us.

  “Take care, Sonia. I’ll ring you later,” Kyle Stewart calls after her, but she doesn’t respond.

  I think for a moment that we’ve met before but the woman’s out of the front door before I have chance to place her.

  “You need a warrant. This is a care centre not a prison,” Stewart says, turning back to us.

  “We are investigating a murder,” Matthews says.

  “Our residents are all here of their own free will. They haven’t committed any crimes. They’re here to get control of their lives.” He’s speaking quickly in anger, making it difficult for me to understand his accent.

  “We’re not here to arrest anyone. We believe that one of your residents, Saul Hedges, may have information which could catch a brutal killer,” Matthews explains.

  “Saul Hedges is a frightened young man who has to face his own monsters before he can sort out anyone else’s.”

  “How long will he be here?” I ask.

  “That’s entirely up to him. Those who make good progress stay about three months and then they attend as out-patients for a year or so.”

  “And after that they stay off drugs?”

  Stewart’s mouth softens and he launches into a well-practised reply. “It works for some, but it has to be the right time. Recovery is about life change. Addicts have to be ready to change their entire belief system about themselves, their relationships and their need for drugs. Not everyone can do that straight off.”

  “Is there a waiting list?”

  “You bet there is. We have a higher success rate than most of the nonresidential drug services available. That’s why so many people want to come here. Detox only goes so far. It’s what happens after that which makes the difference. Our waiting list is ten weeks and growing. Every kid who asks for help faces a wait with more time on the downward spiral of addiction.” He shakes his head. “You police come here talking about crime, but it’s a criminal outrage that desperately needy kids have to wait because the great and the good of Brigghamshire Health Authority have seen fit to cap our budget. If you want to arrest somebody, start with them.” He waves his arms around the foyer. “We’ve got the space here to open up another wing. We could accommodate ten more people easy but we don’t have the funding for staffing. Saul was lucky. He got in early due to a cancellation.”

  “A cancellation? Someone changed their mind about getting help?” I ask.

  “Either that or else they died of an overdose,” he says, his jaw tightening.

  “How’s Saul settling in?” I ask, hoping that the man will relax again.

  Instead his voice hardens. “I won’t discuss patient details.”

  “Look, Mr Stewart,” Matthews seems to struggle to keep his approach polite, “our killer is probably a drug dealer who’s not only got into Saul’s veins but also into other kids at Saul’s school. You could help us get him off the streets. One less dealer could cut your future waiting lists. We’re not your enemy or Saul’s.”

  Stewart frowns at Matthews, pondering his words. When he replies, his tone’s conciliatory. “All I can offer you is a chat with Saul’s key worker, Raz. He won’t tell you much more than I’ve said already, and you’ll have to apply in writing. I’ll get the paperwork. Wait here.” He and the auburn-haired receptionist head into the office behind reception.

  When they don’t return, I peer into the music room again. Six figures writhe on the floor but the boy sits with his arms wrapped round his knees, rocking backwards and forward. An Asian man kneels behind him, massaging his shoulders. The boy’s so thin I’m surprised the man doesn’t snap him in half. For a brief instant the boy looks up at the window before he returns his soulful gaze to the floor. Through the gloom, I get the impression of a pair of scared eyes amid the gaunt features of his face.

  “I said
wait here.” The angry Scottish voice resonates along the corridor. I scurry back to the desk.

  “We promise our patients absolute privacy.” Stewart screws up the printed form he’s holding. “You’ll have to get a warrant if you want my cooperation. We run this place on trust. I think we’re done now.”

  “We’ll return with a warrant if necessary, sir.” The vein in Matthews’s neck pulses but he keeps his tone civil. “We’re on the same side. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  He remains silent as we leave the building, but as soon as we’re on the drive and out of earshot of Kyle Stewart, he starts. I dodge his insults as we trudge down the track.

  “Unprofessional … no thought … Miss Marple … back in uniform.”

  The sun’s even higher now. Is this man, his smooth hand and powerful arms a distant memory, about to combust?

  He flings open wide his car door, the Citroen having gone. Careful not to catch the Mercedes, I squeeze in my side and get blasted by the baking hot air inside the car while the other blast, the one from Matthews, continues.

  “Now we’ll have to phone Cunningham and get the parents’ address. See if they know anything, as we can’t interview Saul, or his key worker without a warrant. You can ring Cunningham. I’ve had enough of jobsworths for one day.”

  I pick up the car radio set.

  “You need your mobile,” he snaps.

  “Come in, Control,” I say, ignoring him. “Can you do a PNC check on a Citroen? I’ve got the index.” I read from my notebook and then fan my face with it. This action does nothing to cool the heat.

  Even with the windows open, it is impossible to escape Matthews’s stream of expletives. He jerks the car into reverse and takes off down the road, leaving tread marks on the deep grass verge.

  But when Control informs us that the Citroen’s registered to Bartholomew Isaac Hedges of 19a Hare Close, Danescott, Penbury, he slows to a snail’s pace.

  I stay silent for several seconds, savouring Matthews’s predicament. Then I explain: “Bartholomew Hedges must be Saul’s father. I think the blonde who passed us in the rehab centre was his mother. She must have driven off in the old green Citroen that was parked here when we arrived. Because I’m a plod, I noted down the registration.” I look cheerfully out of the window as I say this, unable to meet Matthews’s gaze. “I half recognized her from the school car park yesterday. She was the woman having an argument with Mr England and Mrs Howden. I remembered she was driving an old, dark car.”

  “Well don’t just sit there,” Matthews says. “Get on the mobile and double-check the address with Cunningham like I asked you to.” He presses down the accelerator and doesn’t speak again.

  I gaze out of the open window and rerun my preferred version of our dialogue in my mind: Well done, Constable Adams. Excellent observation … Thank you, sarge. It was nothing really. Just doing my job.

  The excited radio voice wavers and crackles. Dr Tarnovski reaches for the tuning dial. In his haste he knocks the transistor off his desk. It crashes against his overflowing wastepaper bin and lands on the floor. He makes no attempt to retrieve it. It was on its last legs before the fall, so this is surely its death throes. Besides, he’s unsteady enough in his chair without bending towards the grubby carpet. The wretched cleaner refuses to vacuum until he’s cleared enough floor space to make it worth her while. Confounded woman. Science doesn’t allow for empty space. Every pile of meticulously collated data represents a significant breakthrough in the development of his system.

  The dying hum from the radio makes his head throb. He stabs at the offending noise box with his foot. The kick sends it spinning into a pile of graph paper. He holds his breath and then relaxes. Old computations, defunct, disproved by more recent explorations, discounted by one experiment in particular: the 11.30 a.m. at Lingfield. He retrieves the whisky bottle from his drawer and pours a large measure into his paper cup. Back to the drawing board, and the overdraft. A temporary setback. Until his system kicks in again.

  He gets anxious without the radio. He can’t even ring to hear the results. The telephone people are working on the line. And he still has evening surgery to do. Another hindrance to be endured. He gulps the whisky and moves towards his computer. He closes the file on the screen. The report on the assault victim can wait another day. He has to prioritize. His system comes first. It isn’t as if the report will tell the police anything. She was well and truly beaten up. Even the most illogical of brains would have deduced that from the bruises – in every shade of black and blue, and some were green. And she was threateningly nauseous, no doubt from the shock.

  “Blast,” he shouts. No phone line, no internet connection. A wave of pain crashes against his skull. Without website access, he’ll have to follow up the racing results when he gets home, when Mary isn’t watching. It rankles that a scientist of his brilliance has to conceal his investigations from his wife.

  He thumps his hand on his desk and knocks a large brown envelope to the floor. Why do they keep sending him chapter and verse on every patient that passes across his examination couch? He kicks the envelope towards the waste bin. Then he has a better idea: he’ll send it to CID. It’s their investigation. They can pore over the inane minutiae of the victim’s life. Just because the law, in its usual ass-like fashion, says medical matters are confidential, it’s no concern of his.

  Chapter 27

  Hare Close is a series of apartment blocks inhabited by people with despair and pride in equal measure. Graffiti-covered walls flank freshly painted doors; boarded-up windows hide behind neatly planted window boxes; and makeshift washing lines attach themselves to state-of-the-art satellite dishes.

  “We can say goodbye to our hubcaps,” Matthews says, turning off the ignition. He looks at a group of teenagers lounging on a patch of grass by the parking area.

  Kirsty Ewell and her friend from the sandwich bar have changed out of their school clothes into ripped jeans and cropped tops revealing bony and pallid midriffs. Kirsty taps furiously into her phone and the other girl nestles against one of the two boys with them.

  “Hello, Kirsty,” I say warmly.

  “Yeah,” Kirsty replies, looking nervously around her, aware of her friends.

  “And I recognize you from Swan school, too,” I say to the other girl who assumes an equally anxious expression. “It’s good to see you actually. And to meet your friends.” I smile at the boys and watch their bored, indifferent faces grow pink with embarrassment. “You could do me a big favour. Could you keep an eye on the car? We won’t be long. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “How much?” one of the boys pipes up, suddenly interested in talking to the police officer.

  “You can have a fiver to share. I know it’s not much but it’s all I’ve got with me. It’s better than nothing, don’t you think? If the car’s okay when we get back and you’re still here, you can have it.”

  I take the indistinct shrugging of shoulders as confirmation of the done deal and catch up with Matthews who’s already on a flight of steps beside one of the blocks of flats.

  The concrete stinks of urine and is peppered with chewing gum and broken glass. Flat number 19a on the first floor is unremarkable in its shabbiness – yellowing net curtains, peeling woodwork. But the glass in the windows is clean.

  Mrs Hedges answers our knock almost immediately. Since getting back from Alderley Lodge, she’s changed into an old shirt and is carrying a duster. Her face is swollen with recent tears.

  “We’d like to come in and talk to you about Saul,” Matthews says, after showing his ID card.

  “Oh my God. I was with Saul earlier. What’s happened?” the woman grips the side of the door.

  “It’s nothing like that,” I say quickly. “We’ve just left Alderley Lodge and he’s absolutely fine.”

  Mrs Hedges stares at me, as if deciding whether to accept my reassurances. Then she invites us in coldly. An act of resignation.

  The front door opens straight into
the tiny lounge. A teak wall unit displays biblical textbooks on its open shelves and mismatching crockery behind glass doors. A print of The Madonna and Child hangs above an ugly gas fire. We remain standing, choosing to swerve the sagging, brown sofa and a small dining table with chairs pushed under the front window.

  “You think he’s absolutely fine,” Mrs Hedges says, picking up on my words. “I can’t remember the last time he was fine. What do you want to know?”

  “We are investigating the murder of Carl Brock.”

  She makes a dismissive noise, then looks away and rubs the duster stiffly over the dining table. “He was Saul’s form teacher. We hardly knew him,” she says eventually.

  “It’s possible that Mr Brock was killed by a drug dealer.”

  “I see.” She loosens her grip on the duster and smooths it over the edge of the table.

  “We wondered if you knew who supplied Saul.”

  “I never asked him. I didn’t want to know. And neither did my husband,” she adds, continuing with the dusting.

  “We think Mr Brock may have been killed because he found out about Saul’s drug-taking and confronted the supplier.”

  Mrs Hedges doesn’t look up but there’s an angry expression on her face when she says, “We don’t know anything about the drugs scene.”

  “Did Saul like Mr Brock?”

  The woman folds the duster, considering the question for a moment, and says, “He never mentioned him.”

  Matthews rocks on his heels, apparently uncomfortable about having to stand for so long. “But Saul went to his homework club. Didn’t he tell you about that?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Saul went to it for the whole of this school year and he never talked to you about it?” Matthews asks.

  Mrs Hedges throws down the cloth. “Saul’s not big on talking.”

  “Did you like Mr Brock?”

  “I never met him.” Her voice is clear but I note obscurity in her face. I recall what Ms Yardley told us about Carl Brock’s angry visitor.