by Jay Nadal
Scott sighed heavily and held out his hand towards Abby, palm down. Abby gently slapped it. “Consider yourself told,” she said with a reassuring smile.
“Thank you,” were the only words Scott said before starting the car and continuing their journey. What would I do without Abby? Friends like her are hard to find.
Longhill High School was situated in the middle of a cluster of four small towns that merged into one another making it hard to determine when one town stopped and another started. The school bore some loose similarities with Edmunston-Hunt School. Both had a sizeable sports field in front with undisturbed views across the fields, and a large, impressive sprawling light brown brick and glass main building. But that’s where the similarities ended. Edmunston-Hunt carried centuries of traditions and memories, it carried architectural grandeur and it smelt expensive. Longhill on the other hand looked functional, boxy and cumbersome.
“This looks a bit like my old school,” Scott remarked as they parked and made their way over to the main building. “I remember my first day in year seven; I was crapping myself, the sights, the sounds and a whole bunch of new people around me. I used to literally break out in a sweat trying to find my way from classroom to classroom in my first week. God, it gives me the shivers just thinking about it now,” he added, staring up at the fabric of the building.
Abby kept quiet. Her experiences of high school were different from Scott’s. The deprived area she grew up in meant her school had a higher percentage of pupils that had been excluded from other schools. Teachers looked weary and disconsolate from the constant barrage of abuse and lack of discipline from pupils. School buildings bore the hallmarks of years of neglect. Paint curled and peeled off the walls from damp ingress, leaky roofs left damp puddles on the floor, and the heating system barely gave off more than a lukewarm ambient temperature in the coldest winter months.
Yes, her experience of school was much different. The fact she’d made something of herself was testament to her determination, grit and resolve to crawl out of the urban ghetto she once called home.
After a short wait in reception, Stephen Barrington came through some opaque swing doors, and greeted them with a wide, chubby smile.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mr Barrington. I’m Detective Inspector Baker and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Trent,” Scott announced as they produced their warrant cards. “We’d like to ask you a few questions in relation to an ongoing investigation that we’re dealing with. We believe you may be able to give us some useful insights.”
Stephen Barrington glanced briefly at their cards before ushering them to a meeting room off the main reception.
“Please take a seat,” he said, guiding them towards a large oval teak table with silver legs that had six dark brown leather chairs loosely arranged around it. The soft leather squeaked as they took their seats, catching Abby by surprise. She looked slightly embarrassed, much to Scott’s amusement.
Barrington was a heavy man, who clearly liked his food. He belly spilt out over the top of his trousers. His belt did a sterling and vital job of keeping his rotund belly in check. His white checked shirt strained at the buttons, and his collar disappeared into his thick double chin that accentuated his neck to the same thickness as his head. His hair was cropped short, grey to the sides, with a hint of brown still on the top. He took the full width of the chair as he leant back and placed his arms on the rests.
“How can I help, Inspector?”
“We’re investigating the death of several teachers at Edmunston-Hunt School, and we understand that you were there for a short spell three years ago. Is that correct?”
Barrington’s face went ashen. He had the look of someone who’d been hit by a truck. The expression and life drained from him, a reaction both officers picked up on. Barrington shifted uncomfortably in his chair and licked his dry lips.
“Mr Barrington, are you okay?” Abby asked.
“Yes…yes, I’m okay. I’ve not heard that name for a long time,” he replied, wringing his hands nervously.
“You weren’t there for long, two terms I believe,” Abby said. “Any reason why it was such a short posting?”
“It was never meant to be. I was delighted to have secured my post there. Not many teachers can migrate from state education to the elite private sector. I felt like all my Christmases had come at once.”
“So what changed?” Scott asked.
“Everything…”
39
Barrington let out a huge sigh and buried his head in his cupped hands. The memories weighed heavy on his shoulders. “I don’t know where to start.”
“What was your first impression of the school?” Scott asked.
Barrington’s eyes glanced up towards the ceiling, a sure sign in Scott’s opinion that the man was tracing back through some visual images and memories.
“I couldn’t have been more proud. I felt like I’d reached the pinnacle in my teaching career. In case you don’t know, teachers with military backgrounds are recruited in to the teaching staff,” Barrington said. Scott nodded to confirm he was aware of this point already. “It was everything I could have ever wanted. It was a big school, with big budgets and exclusivity. To begin with everything was great. The support from other teachers was great, even if a little rigid. The mark of respect that pupils showed teaching staff was amazing…you’d never get that in a state comprehensive!”
“And then?” Abby prompted as she looked quickly at Scott.
“And then I got to see the real school, something I never saw when I was given a guided tour during my interview process. I can’t put my finger on it, but it wasn’t right. Something just didn’t feel right. It was the culture of the school. The kids almost seemed like zombies, regimented, disciplined, even fearful at times. And that fear was the problem I soon realised. It was the discipline; there was this underbelly of fear and conformity. You did it their way or no way at all.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Yes, Inspector, that’s not hard to do. I recall on one Saturday morning, my year group were required…no told actually, with less than thirty minutes’ warning, that they needed to prepare for six laps of the school playing field. One lad, I can’t recall his name, wasn’t feeling well. Asthma I think. The school didn’t care. It was seen as a weakness to not do as you were told, or not take part because of ill health.”
“What happened to him?”
“That evening he was made to stand in the middle of the field from six p.m. until nine p.m. and forgo supper as a punishment. He wasn’t allowed to move or sit down. Just stand there to attention. Bloody savage if you ask me.”
“Did you not say anything?” Scott asked.
“I dared not; I’d not been there long. If I’m honest, I was scared to speak out. And now I feel like a bloody coward for not sticking up for the poor lad.” Barrington dipped his head in shame, shaking it in disbelief.
“Did you notice any bullying amongst the pupils?” Scott said.
“All the time, I’m afraid. I wanted to stop it on more than one occasion, but several times the principal caught me as I was about to intervene, and he’d do this thing with his head. He’d shake it very slowly and deliberately, almost as if to say, don’t intervene.” Barrington mimicked the principal as he demonstrated it to the officers.
“Are you suggesting that you believe that bullying was an accepted and sanctioned norm in the school?” Scott asked leaning on the table, as Abby furiously jotted a few points in her notebook.
“I think so. It seemed like a tradition-type principle carried through time. It was so weird, like something that was acceptable back then…if you lived in the era of Oliver bloody Twist!”
“What do you think was the principal’s role in all of this?”
“To be honest, Inspector, I think it was all his doing. He’s a dinosaur from a bygone era. It was the way the school was run from the very beginning, even when he was a pupil there, and being an
old fart, he’s doggedly carried on those traditions…all is not well behind those grand walls, Inspector.”
“Clearly not, Mr Barrington. As you know, we’re examining the case of several deaths amongst the teaching staff. Do you have any idea why those particular teachers were targeted?”
Barrington averted his gaze to stare at a blank wall behind Scott, his eyes searching for anything that would help. “I don’t know. I read about their deaths, and it’s both tragic and alarming. But that school seems to be plagued and haunted by mysterious deaths.”
Scott shot Abby a curious and excited glance. “Mysterious deaths? What do you mean?”
“I thought if you’re digging into the school’s past, then you would have come across a death of a pupil many years ago. Probably a good thirty years, if not more, but I can’t be certain of the exact date.”
“Anything you might know could be extremely helpful to our investigation, Mr Barrington, no matter how small a detail,” Scott highlighted in an avid tone.
“Well, I heard from the caretaker, God knows how he knew, but there was talk of a group of prefects who ruled the school with an iron fist. I mean proper intimidation. Anyway, the image of the school was tarnished after the drowning of a pupil allegedly by the prefects. At the time, the school covered it up and said it was a tragic and unforeseen accident. It never became public knowledge; it was all made to go away. They said that he’d taken a midnight dip in the pool which was against regulations.” Barrington paused to reflect on his memories. With a shake of his head, he continued, “Apparently, the boy was naked when pulled out by staff. They, the prefects, hid the boy’s clothes and as far as I know, they’re still hidden in the old music room.”
Scott gave Abby the slightest of nods. She left the room to pass this information onto the rest of the team.
“Thank you, Mr Barrington, you’ve been extremely helpful. Can I ask you to keep this meeting confidential whilst we conduct further enquiries? I’ll arrange for one of my officers to take a formal written statement from you later today.”
Scott and Abby hastily made their way over to Edmunston-Hunt taking shortcuts around the back of Brighton to circumnavigate the traffic and speed up their journey to Ditchling. Abby had instructed Sian to meet them there, but to go ahead and start searching the music room for the missing garments.
Scott felt progress was in the air. “I can smell it,” he’d said as he drove.
More good news had been relayed to them en-route. Mike had been calling around food manufacturers and food distributors. He had some interesting news for them from the oil traces found on the packaging tape used in one of the murders. Through his enquiries, Mike had narrowed down the use of the refined spice-infused oil to the production of a halal and nut-free tikka paste that was used to marinate chicken. It was specially prepared to meet the strict needs of Asians and those with nut allergies.
Further investigation had identified one particular Sussex-based catering supplier who distributed this paste to schools nationwide. The interesting point that Mike had discovered was that only three schools in the Sussex area used this paste, one of them being Edmunston-Hunt, the others being Ardingly College and Worth School, neither being in close proximity.
“Relay that information to Sian, will you Abby? I want her to have a look near the kitchens and storerooms, anywhere that tape could be used or has been used,” Scott instructed.
40
Sian assumed she’d arrived long before Scott and Abby as she glanced around the grounds and saw no trace of Scott’s car. She stood for a moment in awe looking up at the grand splendour of Edmunston-Hunt’s façade. Its impressive red brickwork and windows set into stone surrounds felt historic. It felt like the building had been happily situated since time began and had stood firm and resolute through wars, storms and natural disasters. She thought that even an earthquake wouldn’t shift this old pile of stone.
Unsure of the layout of the school, Sian followed the boundary of the building and assumed that the kitchens and storeroom would probably be around the back somewhere tucked out of view and the refuse area not far from there. She’d start with the bins first before heading inside and towards the old part of the building as instructed by Abby.
I get all the glamorous jobs, she mused when she found what looked like a coal bunker of some sorts with three walls and a tin roof. One side was fully exposed to facilitate the easy access to four large, black wheelie bins. She turned up her nose in protest as the waft of rotting scraps of food drifted over in her direction carried by the light breeze that swirled around her. The warmth of the sun no doubt accelerated the decomposition of the discarded food.
Lifting the first lid, she screamed as a swarm of flies escaped and flew straight at her. The shock forced her to take a few steps back and flail her arms around her head like a woman possessed. It no doubt looked comical from a distance.
“Disgusting creatures,” she fumed as she composed herself once again. Peering into the first bin, her day wasn’t getting any better. A slurry of decaying food greeted her. Hastily dropping the lid, she held the back of her wrist up to her nose in a desperate attempt to stem the assault of the smells creeping up her nostrils.
The next bin offered no respite, more shit. She breathed a sigh of relief as she opened the third bin, crushed and flattened cardboard boxes were stuffed into this one. Cartons that once contained fruit juices, boxes that had fresh chicken pieces and cereal packets were all piled upon one another. Result. Sian had found some packaging tape inside a box which once had chicken tikka paste from a manufacturer called Ashrafs. This could be what we’re looking for.
As Sian sifted through the material, unbeknown to her, he waited…and watched. They were getting a little too close for comfort.
Having safely stored away the packaging tape in clear plastic evidence bags in the boot of her car, and still with no sign of Scott and Abby, Sian went into the main school and followed Scott’s instructions in order to find the old part of the building. Pushing through a storeroom door, she found herself staring at a decaying, worn, dusty corridor.
Plaster puckered and crumbled from the walls as damp sapped the strength from them. The odd strip of parquet floor that once adorned this well-trodden and magnificent corridor, now lay loosely discarded and kicked to one side. In its place, an exposed, dusty, uneven concrete floor that felt like coarse sandpaper through the soles of her shoes. A heavy stench filled the air and clung like an invisible mist that closed in on her from all sides. Sian scrunched up her nose once again. The eeriness and silence haunted her, enough to send a shiver down her spine.
Sian found the door that Scott had described, the same door that creaked open once again, its lower swollen edge dragging on the uneven floor. Her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, dust from years of neglect drifting aimlessly in the air, dirt gathering in a fine layer like grey snow on the windowsills. The place felt creepy to Sian. She clenched her teeth trying hard to fight off the urge to shiver with fear. Spiders…I hate spiders. Where there were cobwebs, there had to be spiders, she convinced herself. She was only grateful Mike wasn’t here or she’d never hear the end of it. The great lumbering oaf would have had a field day taking the piss out of her, and playing cruel tricks on her like shutting the door behind her, or throwing a spider at her. Bastard.
There wasn’t much for her to look at. A few wooden crates lay stacked upon one another. Discarded tea lights sat upon the old mantelpiece above the fireplace. There were a few cupboards that she plucked up the courage to peer into by opening the doors just wide enough to shine the light from her phone in, before closing them with a sigh.
“Try Sian again will you, Abby? She probably expected us ages ago, Sod’s fucking law we get stuck in roadworks,” Scott fumed.
“I’ve tried twice already, Guv. It just goes straight to voicemail, signal must be shite where she is. I’ve tried her on the job radio, too. It’s just crackling. I’ll try again when we’re around that bend up ahea
d. We’ll only be a few hundred yards from her then.”
Sian became increasingly frustrated. She didn’t want to stay here any longer than she needed, and as for any evidence of clothing, she’d turned up a big fat zilch after peering into cupboards, looking under the fire grate and turning over wooden crates. The silence in the room was briefly broken by something that she thought she’d heard.
“Hello? Guv, is that you?” Sian called out, before making her way out into the corridor. She looked up and down in both directions and saw nothing. Probably a rat…oh, fuck, if I see a rat, I’m out of here. “Hello, it’s the police. Anyone here?” she said, raising her voice. The silence continued.
A loud, crackling static noise caused her to jump as her Airwave’s job radio sprang into life. “For fuck’s sake,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Sian, it’s Abby. Blimey, we’ve been trying to contact you for ages.”
“Sorry, Sarge, must have been in a dead spot. Where are you?”
“We’re on our way; we got stuck in roadworks. We’re just approaching the gates of the school. How you getting on?”
“Nothing to report so far. I’ve looked around the music room, bit dark to see much, but there’s nothing of interest that I can see, Sarge.”
“Okay, well stay put and we’ll be there in a few minutes. We’ve got a searchlight in the boot we can use. Hold tight.”
