Retribution

by Jay Nadal

  The team had convened around the large oval table, Raj and Mike had both loosened their top buttons and their ties and had rolled up their sleeves. Mike seemed to be suffering the most, his face a tomato red, with small beads of sweat erupting on his forehead. Even though Abby and Sian also suffered in the stifling heat, they were still able to maintain a degree of decorum.

  Raj had brought a packet of chocolate Bourbon biscuits, which although welcomed by all gathered, seemed to cause everyone to slug on their water bottles more frequently, as they battled the dryness the aftertaste left in their mouths.

  “Okay, the victim is a Christopher Johnson age forty-five,” Scott started as he pinned a picture of Johnson to the briefing board, adding his name, age and title alongside it. “He was the assistant principal at Edmunston-Hunt boarding school and he had held that post for four years. You’ll hopefully have seen the body cam images Abby relayed back to the office?” Scott asked looking for an agreement from those around the table. Whether the heat caused the lethargy, or the time of day, his team appeared a little flat and unengaged. He took the lack of response as a general agreement that they had seen the footage and pushed on.

  “Did you glean anything from the school?” enquired Mike.

  “Not as much as we would have liked, Mike. We spoke to Mr Collier, the principal, and he wasn’t able to shed much light on Johnson. Sorry, let me rephrase that, he either wasn’t able to shed much light, or wasn’t willing to in my opinion. I got the impression he was being economical with the truth. That’s my hunch anyway,” Scott added. “According to Mr Collier, Johnson was well-liked by both pupils and staff alike. On the face of it, Johnson didn’t have any pressing worries or concerns around his job, money or relationships. His mental health appeared good, he was a grafter and a well-trusted member of staff, so it’s a bit of a mystery.”

  “I’ve checked his history, Guv. He had been with the school for five years, promoted after one year to assistant principal whilst also being the housemaster for Ditchling. I’m still doing a bit more digging around on him,” Raj added.

  Scott wrote the extra information on the whiteboard. “Abby and I will go and speak to the other teachers at the school to find out a bit more about our man. I’ve also got a few more questions to ask the principal. Sian and Mike, I want you to speak to the pupils in the Ditchling House, find out what type of man Johnson was. Kids sometimes have an uncanny knack of saying a lot more than they are supposed to.”

  Scott crossed his arms as he looked at the picture of Johnson staring back at him. It was a formal photograph obviously taken as part of the staff photos. He was standing side-on against a backdrop of an external brick wall. The formality of his grey suit, light blue shirt and yellow tie, were offset by a slight, but friendly smile. He still had a full head of dark hair, but with age it was slowly creeping backwards exposing a larger than normal forehead. What was so bad that you needed to do this?

  “The forensic team found a Latin inscription on paper together with a white feather stuffed in his pocket. Now I’m no expert in Latin, but we need to find out what that inscription means. Raj, can you look into that for me? I’d suggest touching base with someone at Sussex University. Start with the languages department. We need to find someone who can decipher this for us.”

  Raj nodded in agreement as he brushed away biscuit crumbs from his notepad and wrote down Scott’s instructions.

  The low rumbling vibrations of Abby’s phone as it bounced around on the table interrupted Scott’s train of thought. Abby couldn’t tell if Scott’s glare was one of curiosity or of annoyance. The interruption and subsequent centre of attention caused her cheeks to blush as she looked at him apologetically, fumbling with her phone. Before she had time to do that, the phone signalled the arrival of another message. Scott raised an eyebrow in her direction to suggest I’d expect better of you.

  She silently mouthed “sorry”.

  Scott turned towards Raj. “Check in with the high-tech unit. We need to pull off a list of all phone records from Johnson’s phone and identify multiple callers. My guess is someone called S will be one of his most frequent callers. I found several messages in his wallet, and they weren’t any old messages. They appeared to be love notes, which were pretty racy in places.”

  This revelation led Mike to whistle the way builders on a building site would when they saw a sexy woman walking past. Mike’s response drew smiles from those around the table.

  “Mike, grow up will you,” Scott said sharply. “As much as you’d like the goings-on between Johnson and this mysterious person to descend to a laddish level, whoever this person is could be vital to our investigation. Considering this seems to have tickled you so much, find out what you can about this mysterious S. See if there are any other teachers with a name beginning with S.”

  “I presume that could be male or female?” Mike replied sitting up straight having been suitably put back in his place.

  “That’s a fair assumption, but in this case it’s female unless you know of any man who likes to wear heels and stockings whilst having sex, and has a vagina that’s wet at the thought of you! See what you can dig up from Johnson’s past. We know he was probably seeing someone, but what about relationships in the past? Was he married at one time? Any acrimonious splits?”

  Sian raised her pen, a fixed concentration on her face. “What did the pathologist and forensic team conclude at the scene regarding the method of death?”

  “Well, until the post-mortem is done tomorrow morning, we’ve been led to believe it was strangulation by hanging. The loose end of the rope had been tied around the base of the tree, and the way in which it had been positioned seems to suggest that he had gone to great lengths to have the noose accurately positioned so that when he fell off the branch he landed just a few inches above the ground.”

  “You’d have to be pretty determined to go through with something like that.” Sian grimaced. “You’d have to have some pretty heavy shit going on in your life to string yourself up.”

  It’s a thought that had crossed Scott’s mind several times and no doubt the rest of the team’s too. “That’s what we need to find out. He could have had money worries, personal relationship issues, terminal illness or even a mental health illness.” That last point caused Scott to research another avenue. “Sian, get banking details, job history and medical records. His doctor’s records could help us to eliminate or determine whether something like a terminal illness or depression had a part to play in his death.”

  “We’re going into a lot of detail for what could be a straightforward suicide?” Sian asked.

  “We have to cover every possibility here, Sian. We don’t know enough about him to conclude that it was just the taking of his own life. We’ve not found a suicide note either.”

  Abby could tell that Scott was mulling over another theory as his eyes darted around the room processing what he’d seen at the crime scene plus subsequent conversations. “Care to share what’s on your mind, Guv?”

  Scott thought for a moment, biting his bottom lip as he tapped his temple with two fingers. “The scene that we saw this morning was perfectly plausible, but…there was something about the way in which the rope was positioned that didn’t sit right with me. Call it a gut feeling.”

  The vagueness of his reply seemed to stir up more curiosity in the minds of those sitting around the table.

  “Okay, let’s get to work first thing tomorrow. Get yourselves home and get an early night. I’m stopping in to brief Harvey now.”

  Abby switched her phone on once they were back in the corridor. She hissed in a shocked breath as her phone went through a series of continuous bleeps that signalled the arrival of one message after another. She began scrolling through them, not paying much attention to the direction of her walking feet. Her concentration was interrupted as she collided with another officer coming out of an office. Her phone flew out of her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said, smiling as her face heated over
her embarrassment.

  Scott had been about two paces behind her, watching as she swayed along the corridor deeply engrossed in her phone. “Seriously, what is it with you and your phone? You’re up to something; I can tell.”

  She knew she couldn’t hide it from Scott. He’d find out sooner or later. “Don’t laugh, but I took your advice. I joined Match.com. Now my phone won’t stop. The amount of email alerts I’m getting from guys on there is crazy.”

  Scott raised a brow. “Welcome to the 21st century. You’ve finally taken the plunge for the whole Internet dating thing?”

  “Yeah, I’ve not met anyone yet, but I’ve been chatting to a few guys online. Just as I thought, I’m getting sent pictures of fucking knobs. Don’t get me wrong, some guys have been really nice to chat with. But for some reason the male psyche seems to think that the way to open a conversation with someone is to send them a picture of their cock,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No wonder they’re bloody single.”

  Scott grimaced and pursed his lips. “Seriously, blokes do that?”

  “Yep and I’ll show you if you want?”

  Scott turned and began walking off in the opposite direction, raising his hand in the air. “Erm…I’ll pass on that. I’ll leave you with that pleasure.”

  As Scott ducked through the back door towards his car, his phone pinged. It was Abby.

  I’ve got a date tonight with Phil. He’s an electrician. What happens if he doesn’t like me? Wish me luck!

  Scott shook his head. Once again glass half-empty, Abby.

  6

  Nocturnal life broke the silence of the night. The eerie and distinctive sound of an owl perched high up in the trees no doubt sent a wave of panic through the small rodents that called the overgrown forest floor their home. The predator watched and observed, on alert for any movement that could suggest a possible meal.

  The sounds of a busy school, the energetic life of boys rushing between lessons and enjoying outdoor games of cricket had long faded, replaced with a calm stillness as tired bodies rested and recovered from their busy days.

  In the Stanmer House dormitory, eight boys slept like logs. The only sound permeating the stillness was the occasional creak of a bed as one of them turned over to get more comfortable, or the escape of wind as another fart erupted from under the covers.

  The bedroom door opened and the faint shadow of three boys came into view. Three pairs of menacing eyes locked in on their prey. They too preferred to hunt at night, taking their victim by surprise, using stealth to attack.

  They circled the bed of Matthew Edrington, waiting for their moment. He was fast asleep, his bedding pulled tight up around his neck, cocooned to keep him warm and cosy. A luxury that was soon shattered. James Rollings gave the others a nod. Tobias Ford ripped the bedcovers away and Stephen Hunter plunged his hands around Matthew’s neck, pinning the boy to the bed and muting any noise from his mouth as he jolted awake in terror from his deep slumber.

  Fear gripped his body, his heart threatened to explode from his chest as he gasped for breath. His legs thrashed across the bed as he fought to rip the strong, powerful hands from his neck. Despite his bravest efforts, he couldn’t free himself. He was weak; he’d always known that. His mind spun as oxygen deprivation blurred his vision and muddied his thoughts.

  As his hopes of surviving slipped away, he was thrown a lifeline as the crushing weight on his windpipe eased off. Hunter and Ford unceremoniously dragged Matthew out of bed, each grabbing an arm, and forced him to the floor. Matthew lay in shock, not quite comprehending what had just happened to him, as his conscious mind fought to jolt him to his senses. Hunter pushed Matthew’s face into the floor and sat down hard on the boy’s back, pushing the air from his lungs. He pinned the frail boy down with a knee in his spine causing Matthew to wince as lightning bolts of pain raced up and down his back.

  Ford threw a pillowcase over Matthew’s face, robbing him of what little he could see in the blackness of the room. Rollings, who up until this point had been directing the assault, stepped forward and with a swing of leg, delivered a hard kick that buried itself deep into Matthew’s stomach. The pain erupted through Matthew’s torso, forcing him to draw his legs up into a foetal position, hoping his legs would offer some degree of protection.

  His assailants remained silent as their punches and kicks rained down on his body from every angle. He winced in pain as he threw his arms up around his head to shield himself. He pulled his body as tight as he could into a protective ball like a hedgehog would if under attack. Unfortunately for Matthew, he wasn’t as well armed to repel his attackers.

  The attack only lasted a few seconds, but felt like minutes in Matthew’s eyes as his body ached. Rollings knelt down pinning the boy’s neck to the floor from behind. He leant in close, “You lost our house the race…you pussy,” he hissed. “You’re a waste of space. There’s no room here for weak, pathetic girls like you. Man up or else…” he threatened, delivering his warning with a slap to Matthew’s face.

  Matthew fought the bile that crawled up his throat, his mouth watered and his jaws ached from being clenched tight. Now his cheek stung, burning red hot. There was silence around him, the boys had released him, but had not gone, that he was sure of. But what now? he thought. Dread filled his racing mind once again as he heard the familiar sound of trouser zips being undone.

  His pyjamas clung to his body from the wetness that soaked his body as the three assailants stood over him enjoying the pleasure of urinating all over his small, thin, cowering body. As the strong smell invaded his nostrils, he gagged yet again. His fragile confidence and self-esteem ebbed away even further.

  He paced nervously in the dark, waiting for the others to turn up. The gravel beneath his feet felt firm and uncomfortable. The ornamental gardens skirted the far right flank of the grounds, a place that offered elegance, quiet and solitude. It was a sanctuary he often escaped to when he felt the burning need to get away from everything and everyone. The gardens were the product of many years of dedicated care and attention from resident gardeners and groundsmen.

  Watchful Istrian stone lions and the giant leaves of kiwi fruit framed the wrought-iron gates that marked the impressive entrance to the walled gardens. Over the years, the gardens had been designed and redesigned with a vast and colourful array of plants chosen for their aesthetic pleasure and appearance. A mix of flowering plants and bulbs in addition to foliage plants, ornamental grasses, shrubs and trees all combined to recreate the splendour and smells of yesteryear as they surrounded the central feature, a splendid lily pond. Yew hedges provided the final outer ring to the gardens before they nestled up against eight feet high weather brick walls.

  The cloudless sky and natural light from the moon allowed his eyes to adjust easily to the semi-darkness that surrounded him. The rusty creaking wrought-iron gates drew his attention as they opened, followed by the sounds of footsteps, moving swiftly in the darkness even before the figures came into view.

  “You took your bloody time, didn’t you?” He barked at the men who joined him. “Now I know one or two of you, in particular, are concerned by what happened to Johnson,” he began, staring in the direction of one particular man who seemed slightly inebriated. The smell of whiskey hung in the air. “But we have remained steadfast and resolute for many years. We all swore to keep this buried and keep our mouths shut,” he stated, glancing at each man in turn. “At the moment, we have no evidence to suggest it was anything more than Johnson bottling out, and taking the easy route.”

  The men mumbled amongst themselves, shifting nervously, staring at the ground and flicking gravel with the ends of their shoes, rather than lock eyes with their leader.

  The drunken visitor perhaps buoyed by the alcohol in his system chose to speak out. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit. You made it very clear that this problem would go away,” he growled through gritted teeth.

  Stepping forward and now nose to nose with the drunken visitor, h
is jaws clenched tight, the leader seethed. How dare he challenge my authority? “Let me make it very clear to you. I will not tolerate dissent in the ranks. You listen to me and no one else. Do I make myself clear?”

  The drunken visitor trembled, a combination of fear and a fuzzy head causing him to clench his fists and breathe rapidly. “Okay, I admit it. I admit I’m bloody scared. What happens if someone’s found out?”

  “No one is going to find out. No one is going to open their mouths. We are all going to act normal,” he said, looking at the three men in turn, “and you are going to stop drinking,” he said, jabbing his finger in the chest of the inebriated visitor. “Your tongue is far too loose, especially when you’ve had a drink. I will not tolerate that. If anyone steps out of line, they could wind up like Johnson. Do I make myself clear?”

  The threat hung loosely like a heavy rain cloud hovering overhead, as the men turned and headed off in different directions. The three visitors knew that it wasn’t bravado or a veiled threat but a consequence. And they’d do well to remember it.

  7

  Laurence Goddard unlocked his front door before stumbling in, coming to a rest against the wall in his hallway. His head pounded, spinning wildly. He fought hard to focus but his eyes wouldn’t let him. Everything appeared blurred, hazy and off-balance. The sidelamp seemed to be defying gravity as it tilted to one side, and the bannister newel post lurched precariously as he reached out to steady himself. He needed another drink. Whether his body could tolerate another was a different matter.

  He walked slowly, his feet dragging on the floor, weighed down with imaginary bags of sand. The drinks cabinet loomed into view. He jerked his head backwards in surprise as two cabinets seemed to be sitting in the corner of his lounge. I’m sure I didn’t have two, he thought, as he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and ripped the stopper from its neck.