The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  Kevin Bradshaw’s at his desk, chair pushed back, legs stretched out and hands tucked behind his head. Martin Connors and Darren Holtom hover near him, drinking from polystyrene cups. Danny Johnson’s looking out of the window, deep in conversation with his mobile phone. I give quiet thanks that there’s no sign of DS Matthews.

  Connors sees me. “Morning, Agatha. You missed a good night last night but it’s nice to see you back.”

  I wait for the punchline to go with the catching nickname but none comes.

  Then it’s Holtom’s turn. “The boss wants to see you but come over here first.”

  This’s more like it. They intend to marinade me before sending me to Bagley for spitroasting. I brace myself.

  “She’s brought in the champagne. Her idea of team building. We know she’s taken all the credit from the rest of us but at least it’s decent plonk.” Holtom raises the white cup to his mouth. “Hair of the dog stuff after last night. Cheers.”

  My first thought is that they’ve concocted another prank, this time with nice Kevin Bradshaw playing along too, but there does seem to be a sweet alcoholic smell in the air.

  “Is DI Bagley celebrating something?” I ask cautiously.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Connors says. “We’ve cracked the case. We started our celebrations at the boozer last night.”

  “And you’re back on the payroll,” Bradshaw says, taking up his cup from the desk. “The boss reckons we got a confession thanks to you.”

  “Me?”

  “She actually reckons it’s down to the sergeant over there,” he says, looking at Danny Johnson who’s putting his mobile in his back pocket, “and no doubt she’ll be offering him the proper thank you again later.” Throaty chuckles from Connors and Holtom. “But as you were with him at the church, you can have some of the credit, too.”

  “That’s right,” Danny says, approaching the group, his gait cocky. “She reckons he only confessed because we went in there on Saturday and rattled his cage. We gave him time to chew things over. If we’d arrested him there and then, he’d have been a tougher nut to crack. But he’d bottled it by Sunday.”

  The precariously constructed jigsaw in my head, the one I intended to pluck up the courage to present to Bagley and the one held together by shaky instinct, start to pull apart. “Are you saying Bartholomew Hedges has confessed?” I can hardly get the words out.

  “Cool as a cucumber he was,” Bradshaw says. “Danny and I went to the church yesterday and there he was up at the lectern, reading a lesson. He’d ditched the frock and dressed himself in his Sunday best. He saw us, and calm as you like he finished reading. Genesis 38: 14, appropriate in the circumstances: ‘So she changed from the widow’s clothes she had been wearing’. Then he walked straight up to us, leaving the congregation warbling, ‘Fight the Good Fight’.”

  “I interviewed him with Bagley,” Danny says. “He coughed straightaway.”

  “But what was his motive?” I’m bewildered, and fervently hope that I’m a victim of another joke. This can’t be true.

  “A pretty good one. He found out Carl Brock had introduced his son, Saul, to drugs.”

  “This can’t be right.”

  “You’re not going to start that ‘he’s a devout Christian’ crap again, are you?” Danny says. “The guy’s confessed and Forensics reckon the hair found in Brock’s hallway is a class match.”

  “The hair could be Bartholomew’s? He was in the Brocks’ house?”

  “Of course he was. He told us everything. He trussed up Brock’s wife and dragged Brock out of the house, took him to Martle Top and stabbed him to death. The only thing he won’t tell us is who his accomplice was. He’s adamant he acted alone despite Gaby Brock’s statement that there were two attackers in the house that night.”

  “This is awful,” I say, more to myself than to Danny Johnson.

  “This is a result. Come on let’s go and see Bagley, and get you your champagne,” he says. “You need to loosen up.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  “You don’t have any choice, girl.” There’s no sign of the twinkle in his eye. “If the boss wants you to have a drink in her office, that’s what you do.”

  “Give me a minute.” I head for my desk.

  “Don’t be long,” Danny says, waving his cup. “I’m off for a refill now.”

  “That’s what you call it, is it?” Holtom leers. “Let’s all go and tap her for more booze.” His red face says he’s already had plenty.

  As they reach the office door, Connors turns back to me. “There’s a large brown envelope on your desk. It’s addressed to the Brock case detectives. None of us fancied it so we thought you could do the honours. It looks like Dr Tarnovski’s scribble. It must have been quite a change for him to write on anything other than a betting slip.”

  I slump into my chair, sending it wheeling backwards. I sigh and lift the envelope to push my finger under its gummed edge. Of all the scenarios I’ve pictured for this morning, I couldn’t force this one into my worst nightmare. I will the scene to rewind and restart as it should have done. I long for the abuse I expected from Bagley. And I’d have welcomed an earful from Danny Johnson, too. And what about Matthews? Dour and angry, “Read any good books, lately, Agatha?” Even that would be preferable to what’s really happening.

  I force the scrappy-looking form out of the envelope and make out the words Medical Report but refuse to focus on anything else. Something’s very wrong. I try to concentrate. I jump when Danny Johnson sticks his head round the door again.

  “The boss wants you now.”

  “I’ve got to go out,” I say, standing up as I come to my senses with a jolt. “Get Gaby Brock in to pick Bartholomew Hedges out of a VIPER line-up.”

  “Who made you chief inspector? Bagley’s prepared to forget Saturday if you go to her now.”

  “It’s important. Make sure Gaby Brock views the line-up. I have to go.”

  “Don’t get on the wrong side of Bagley,” Danny shouts to the closing door.

  I run on. I have a script to rewrite.

  Chapter 37

  Fifteen minutes to wait at the bus stop outside the police station, but it seems like an age. I squint at Tarnovski’s form, my hand hovering above the page to reduce the glare of the sun. As I decipher the contents, I feel a desperate need to act. The sensation grows more intense with every sentence I read. It coils itself in my chest like an urgent, nagging indigestion.

  I fall into the bus, launch my bus fare at the driver’s hand and have to scramble about the floor to retrieve it. I leap out again at the stop in Danescott and hit the ground running. But the heat soon slows me to a half walk.

  Hare Close is as drab on a warm Monday morning as it was on a balmy Friday evening. Just as well I haven’t driven. No teenagers to guard the hubcaps. Perhaps they’re in school or playing truant at the Dynamite. A cold shudder runs through me as I force my sticky body up the concrete steps. I shake off the memory of McKenzie’s squalid nightclub and knock on the door of 19a. I listen for movement inside but hear nothing.

  Knock again. Silence. The coil of unrest within me threatens to unravel. I raise my hand to give one final dispirited knock. I hear the door catch move.

  “You bitch!” Sonia Hedges screeches. She’s wearing the same old shirt and her lank hair’s pinned behind her ears, which are devoid of their usual hoop earrings. Her face is peppered with blotches. Her lips and nose are sore.

  “Have you come to arrest me, too?” she screams. “You might as well. This family’s ruined.”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “Talk. That’s all you lot ever do. That’s all anyone does. That’s what they do with Saul, but talk isn’t going to make him better.”

  “I want to listen more than talk. Can I come in?”

  Sonia steps back, leaving the front door open for me to follow. There’s a large holdall on the dining table. Untidy piles of women’s clothing surround it.

  “Are
you going away?”

  “I’m not doing a runner if that’s what you mean,” Sonia snaps. “I’m going to Alderley Lodge. Kyle Stewart, the care manager, says it’s better for Saul if I stay there. He’ll be on suicide watch when he finds out you’ve arrested his father.” Loud sobs cover most of her words and she busies herself with the piles of clothing.

  I place a hand on her arm.

  She shakes it off. “If you want to talk, make it quick. My son needs me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Sorry for what? For getting my husband arrested for murder?”

  “He’s confessed.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “So why did he confess?”

  Sonia doesn’t answer but begins throwing the clothes into the bag.

  “He had a good motive,” I venture.

  “He didn’t kill anyone. When we realized that Saul was taking drugs, Bartholomew’s first reaction was to go to church and pray.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Saul was puking in his bedroom, in agony and terrified. It panicked him into telling us he’d taken heroin. He said it was his second time, but he’d been taking speed for months. Suddenly everything made sense. His extreme mood swings, from not eating and lounging in bed all day to stuffing himself stupid and staying up all night. He had a thing about his clock radio, always taking it to bits and putting it back together. Obsessive.

  “How could we have been so blind? We thought it was teenage stroppiness. I even thought the squares of paper I found in his trainer were to plug a hole.” She breaks off from the packing to wipe her eyes. “Things had gone missing and I thought I was going mad. But it wasn’t me. Saul had taken them for drugs money. He even flogged his father’s steam wallpaper stripper for a fiver. Bartholomew needed it for work. It was worth far more.”

  So Saul Hedges moved from amphetamines to heroin in a few short months. A drug career like that normally takes years to establish. But when the pusher is a teacher, someone kind who Saul saw every day, the downward spiral can be rapid.

  “Did Saul tell you that Brock was his supplier?” I try to catch her eye but Sonia won’t meet my gaze and continues to pack. I put my hand over her wrist. “Did he tell you?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Sonia says, her voice cracking. “My husband had never lifted a finger to that boy but we needed to know who was responsible. Bartholomew beat the shit out of him.” Tears drip onto the holdall.

  “And Saul admitted that his teacher, Carl Brock, had introduced him to drugs?” I ask gently.

  Sonia nods.

  “Did your husband confront Brock?”

  “I went. Bartholomew was too fired up. He didn’t trust himself. I phoned the school. Told them we needed to get some homework off Brock.”

  “You didn’t tell Mr Cunningham the truth?”

  “What was the point? It was Saul’s word against his teacher.”

  “What happened when you met Brock?”

  “He laughed in my face.” She chokes on her words. “He said it was Saul’s choice. He was just meeting demand.”

  “He admitted it?”

  “He boasted about it. Said we needed him. Reckoned it could be four months before Saul got a place in Alderley Lodge. Said we’d have to keep him in speed until then.”

  I wince. If only they’d gone to the police or their GP, they’d have known about the range of help available, not just at Alderley. But, too afraid, too ashamed, their only source of information was the pusher.

  “We became a drug family. We had to sell everything: the microwave, my one decent coat, the silver bracelet Bartholomew gave me when Saul was born.” Sonia rubs her bare wrist. “We didn’t get anything like what they were worth. Bartholomew had to flog his old radio for two quid and he even tried to sell his gold-embossed St John’s Gospel but no beggar round here wanted it. Carl Brock bled the life out of us and the worst part was having to keep going to that filthy man’s house to get the stuff Saul needed.” She wraps her arms around her body. “It broke Bartholomew. It was worse than finding out his son was a junkie.”

  “Why did you go to the memorial service for Brock?”

  “Joe Walker knew what Brock had done to Saul. When he heard that Mr Cunningham was going to hold an assembly to tell everyone how marvellous Brock was, he phoned me. He told me there’d be TV cameras. We decided to disrupt the service, make a noise, shout about what sort of low-life Brock really was. I knew I’d be carted off and Joe would get suspended, but it would be worth it. Cunningham wouldn’t be able to cover it up.

  “But Cunningham was ready for me. He might not have known about Brock but he didn’t want the mother of his junkie pupil turning up. He got two teachers to meet me in the car park and send me away.” Her shoulders drop and she clutches one of the piles of clothes. She speaks again, gasping for air. “Why should he keep his precious school reputation intact while my son becomes a drug addict?”

  I’m at a loss to reply. How can I reassure this wreck of a woman? Even now I can see Cunningham charming his way around the school governors, ensuring that nothing sticks to his Teflon suit. But who could Sonia Hedges charm? Who would believe that a respectable teacher like Carl Brock peddled drugs to his most vulnerable pupils? Sonia didn’t even trust me when Matthews and I asked her to confirm Joe Walker’s story. She could have told us everything then. But, no, her only hope was a humiliating public protest and even that was denied her.

  I was powerless once and vowed never again. Yet here I am, overwhelmed by Sonia’s misery and wanting to leave. Something stirs in my mind and I remember why I’m here, defying DI Bagley and risking my career. Self-pity isn’t the answer. I resume my questioning. “Was Brock always alone when you went to his house?”

  “I never saw Brock again. Meeting him at the school sapped the life out of me. I couldn’t be near him. Bartholomew said he’d do it. I always stayed in the car outside.” Her face hardens. “I sat and looked at Brock’s neat little house in his neat little street while my poor husband had to go in and do business with the most odious piece of scum to crawl the Earth.”

  “Did your husband see anyone else there?”

  “He never talked about what went on, and I never asked.”

  “Please, Mrs Hedges, this is very important. Did he ever see other people there?”

  “One night when we went round, we could hear Brock shouting. It sounded like furniture being turned over. We figured he was rowing with another dealer. We went back home and called on Brock the next day.”

  “When did your husband last see Brock?”

  “We visited on the Friday before he died. He was alive and slimy when Bartholomew left him.” She breaks off from the packing and looks straight at me. “He didn’t kill him.”

  I take a breath. “I know he didn’t. Brock was killed on Sunday night but Bartholomew wouldn’t have murdered him then. As abhorrent as it was, you still needed Brock’s drugs. You were expecting to need him for several more weeks. Saul was unexpectedly offered a rehab place on Wednesday. Two days after Brock’s murder.”

  “That’s right.” Excitement sounds through her sobs. “That’s it. We needed that vulture. He told us it would be weeks before Saul would get a rehab place. And he put his prices up. It was me who sold our television to pay Brock. We couldn’t kill him, even though we longed to pulverize every vile bone in his body. You can see that, too.” She grabs my arm. “You’ve got to help us.”

  I smile but then check my rising enthusiasm. There’ll be no happy ending yet.

  “Why did he confess? I can help you, but you have to tell me.”

  “I’ve nothing to tell you.” She takes her hand away. She presses down the packed holdall and forces up the zip.

  “It’s the same reason he disguised himself at the church, isn’t it?” I say softly. “He’s an honest man, a Christian. He didn’t want to miss his cleaning duty and he didn’t want to lie to the police. If we’d found and questioned him that d
ay, he’d have felt compelled to tell us the truth.” I seek eye contact with Sonia. “That truth is why he hid from us and it’s what’s made him confess now, isn’t it?”

  Sonia clasps the holdall to her chest and looks away.

  I sigh, knowing that what I say next will break the broken woman into even smaller, sharper pieces. “You and your husband knew you had to maintain a relationship with Brock to make sure Saul got his fix. But, given his condition, Saul might not have been so rational in his thinking.”

  Sonia puts down the holdall and faces me, sheer terror in her eyes.

  I wish I could stop and save the woman’s anguish, but everything has to be said. “There is only one reason a man would confess to a murder he didn’t commit. To protect someone else. To protect his son.”

  Chapter 38

  Steve Chisholm sits at his desk in Forensics, sipping his coffee and scratching his chin. He should have shaved before he came in, but there wasn’t time. Still it was worth oversleeping after a good night out with the CID lads. A bit of a rarity for him. The coppers don’t always want Clockwise Chisholm along to celebrate a case result. He knows they all think of him as the resident anorak, but he doesn’t care. While they’re playing cops and robbers, his forensic evidence solves most of their cases for them.

  He showed them last night that he knew how to party, and they enjoyed his anecdotes. He likes to inject his stories with a touch of science and technology every now and then. Most other people don’t.

  After Liz Bagley went home, the evening really got going. She’d been doing one of her “Look how many lagers I can drink” routines. Steve grunts into his cup. Trollop. He hates senior officers who join the DCs in the pub. All fake. They happily get them bladdered in the evening and then bollock them for being five minutes late the next morning. Women officers like DI Shagley are the worst, using their sexuality to manipulate men and then pulling rank when they’ve got what they want.