Devil's Game

by Patricia Hall

  ‘She took a chance keeping these on her phone,’ he said, as they looked at half a dozen blurred images of people wearing very little and engaged in activities that would not have seemed out of place in a porn movie. ‘Her husband might have got hold of them.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s as inept as I am with these things,’ Thackeray muttered. ‘But are any of the participants recognisable?’

  ‘Not really,’ Mower said. ‘One or two of them are wearing things across their faces, look – a scarf there, a mask, even. Wasn’t there a famous case once involving a man in a mask? People tried to identify him by his willy?’ He grinned but Thackeray did not respond and Mower turned back to the screen with a slight shrug and flicked through more images.

  ‘They’re all a bit blurred, guv,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that,’ Thackeray said, sounding tetchy. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Mobiles don’t give you high-quality images, on the whole, especially if they’re being waved around pretty much at random like this one seems to have been,’ Mower explained. ‘Forensics may be able to enhance them a bit, but I doubt if any of these would stand up in court as a clear identification of anyone.’

  ‘Wait, look at that one again,’ Thackeray said. ‘There’s a couple of cars in the background. Ask them if they can get a better image of the registration plates. We might pin someone down that way.’

  ‘Here’s a couple she’s taken of cars arriving,’ Mower said. ‘It’s almost as if she wanted a record of what was going on. Perhaps she didn’t feel very secure going up there on her own. These were all taken the night she disappeared, apparently. There’s nothing any further back, unless she’s downloaded them onto a computer.’

  ‘Did the Bastables have a computer in the house?’ Thackeray asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, guv, but I’ll check.’

  ‘And has someone picked up Bastable’s shoes and clothes?’

  ‘He wasn’t best pleased about that, apparently,’ Mower said. ‘They came away with his only pair of proper shoes – a well-polished black pair, apparently, no doubt for weddings and funerals – plus a bag full of trainers, and several pairs of muddy tracksuit bottoms and trousers. The shoe size is about right, apparently. He takes an eleven.’

  ‘So we’re in the hands of forensics?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ Mower said. ‘I’ll print off these pictures and take them with me when I go to talk to Charlene and her boyfriend again. Maybe they’ll jog her memory a bit further. But I don’t hold out high hopes.’

  ‘The best bet is a car registration,’ Thackeray said. ‘So push the lab on that, will you?’

  ‘Right, guv,’ Mower said. ‘Will do.’

  The Murgatroyd Academy glittered in the pale morning sunshine as Laura approached it by car the next morning. It lay on flat land at the top of a long, gentle gradient above Leeds town centre, offering a panoramic view of the city with its domed town hall and sparkling modern blocks below. But its immediate surroundings were much more grim. Rows of tightly packed terrace houses had given way to more spacious semi-detached brick council houses, as she drove up the hill. But the signs of neglect and vandalism were the first thing which took the eye. Many of the gardens were overgrown and unkempt, here and there properties had been completely boarded up, and groups of teenagers hung about on street corners. The area was deeply depressing and in sharp contrast to the bustling, booming city below and to the new building that announced itself as the academy in letters a foot high on a board behind steel fencing and a firmly closed gate, which allowed passers-by only a glimpse of its glamorous modern facade.

  Laura had never before visited a school with this level of security and she stopped outside the main gate and got out of her car. There was an answerphone system beside the gate and a notice which announced that entry was strictly by appointment only. Laura pushed the buzzer and when she explained who she was the gate swung silently open, reminding her of the similar security at Sibden House. David Murgatroyd’s obsession with all things high-tech obviously extended across the whole of his empire.

  Once inside, she parked in one of the spaces designated for visitors and sat for a moment gazing in astonishment at the architectural wonders that lay beyond the concealing fences: plate glass and metal soared four storeys high, dwarfing the surrounding community, the main entrance led into a glass atrium which would have graced a five-star hotel, and beyond that the school itself, its playing fields and tennis courts, dozed surprisingly silently in the sunshine. Of students there was no overt sign.

  She locked the car and made her way to reception, where a young woman was clearly waiting for her arrival.

  ‘The head will see you straight away,’ she said, shaking hands perfunctorily. ‘He has a short slot, as I think he explained. There’s a meeting of the management committee at eleven and Sir David is coming in for that.’

  Laura’s pulse quickened. Perhaps at last she might get a glimpse of the elusive David Murgatroyd, even get a quick word with him. That was a bonus she had not been expecting on this trip to see exactly how one of his burgeoning chain of academies functioned, and she knew that Ted Grant would be pleased. But first there was the head teacher to see.

  Gordon Masefield was an energetic man, small and plump but full of an almost childlike enthusiasm. He bounded across his office to meet Laura, shook her hand vigorously and offered her a chair, a cup of tea, which she declined, and a glossy prospectus, all within the space of thirty seconds.

  ‘I’m so glad to meet you,’ he said, as Laura glanced briefly at the photograph of Sir David Murgatroyd and Masefield himself that graced the first page of the brochure. ‘I’m sure we can help convince Bradfield that a school like this can only be an asset from which their young people can benefit enormously.’ Murgatroyd, Laura noted, was not at all as she had imagined him: he was obviously a tall man, dwarfing the head teacher in the photograph, and he seemed to be enjoying a well-preserved middle age, dark-haired, firm-jawed and not unattractive. Masefield, on the other hand, confident enough in person, was gazing up at his boss in the picture with an expression which could only be described as adoring. What was it, Laura wondered, that Murgatroyd did to ensure that men like Masefield, and his own assistant Sanderson, extremely competent men themselves, ate out of his hand? Was this what people called charisma, and if so, was it entirely a good thing, she wondered?

  She realised that she had not really been listening to Masefield, who was still talking fast and furiously.

  ‘I thought a quick tour of the academy first, and then we can deal with any questions you may still have at the end. Does that suit you, Miss Ackroyd?’

  ‘Yes, that will be fine,’ Laura said, and she obediently followed Masefield out of his office again. The tour was a whirlwind one, with Laura barely conscious of whom she was being introduced to, and what subjects were being taught in the rows of identical classrooms where ranks of neatly uniformed children stood up when the head opened the door in a way which recalled her own school days but which she knew was unusual in the current day and age. Here good order and industry were evidently imposed and she wondered quite how that worked in an area outside the school gates which was so obviously run-down and impoverished.

  ‘Can I speak to some of the students?’ Laura asked, after surveying a science class where young people in safety glasses experimented over flasks and Bunsen burners. ‘One or two of the sixth form, perhaps?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be possible without their parents’ permission,’ Masefield said blandly, waving her out of the lab and along yet another corridor. ‘Not that our parents are not uniquely supportive, of course, but I think press interviews would be an intrusion.’

  ‘It must be difficult to keep parents on board in an area like this, with all its social problems,’ Laura objected. ‘This is the local school for the whole estate, I take it?’

  ‘Well, in theory it is, but we have the advantage of having five applicants for every place,’ Masefield said. ‘We don’t se
lect on ability, of course; we’re a comprehensive school, after all, and we take all the talents, but we do expect our parents to support the school’s ethos.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Oh, a Christian ethos, of course. We make no secret of that. Sir David runs his academies on biblical precepts. Everyone knows that. What they don’t seem to appreciate is how successful that is in educational terms.’

  ‘So who might not be welcome here?’ Laura pressed. ‘Muslims?’

  ‘No, no, we find Muslim parents very often appreciate our approach to discipline and morality. We have a number of Muslim students here. As we do West Indians from more traditional families. So far, they are doing very well. Very well indeed.’

  ‘But not the children of drug dealers?’ Laura asked evenly. ‘Or members of local gangs? Or single parents on benefits who can’t afford the school uniform?’

  ‘Their parents would be unlikely to be able to meet our expectations, I fear,’ Masefield said. ‘Some of the local children choose to go elsewhere.’ I bet they do, Laura thought, recognising the evidence here of what Bradfield parents feared would happen there: the price of a gleaming new school would be the exclusion of ‘difficult’ pupils to ensure that exam results looked good.

  ‘So what happens if a few of the less desirable students slip through the net?’ she asked, not disguising her scepticism.

  ‘We have a very firm policy on school rules. Three strikes and you are out, basically, with no exceptions.’ Masefield’s expression had hardened now.

  ‘So you filter the children coming in, and then keep on filtering the difficult ones out again as they go up the school?’

  ‘We feel no particular obligation to families who find it impossible to commit to our objectives,’ Masefield said flatly. ‘We don’t apologise for making demands. That is the price of a successful education. It requires effort on both sides.’

  Laura did not feel she could argue with that, but she wondered at a head teacher who saw no merit in going the extra mile for children who had no support from home, punishing them twice, in effect, for factors over which they had no control. Then she remembered the Bradfield head Debbie Stapleton’s other objection to David Murgatroyd’s approach to education.

  ‘And what about the curriculum, Mr Masefield? You mention biblical precepts. What does that amount to? Creationism in the science lessons?’

  ‘Intelligent design is a valid means of looking at the world,’ Masefield said, slightly defensively. ‘In many American schools that is completely accepted now.’

  ‘But not part of the National Curriculum here yet,’ Laura said mildly. ‘And what about sex education?’

  ‘Like all schools, the governors discuss this with parents. So far we have had no objections to our conservative approach, which is based on biblical precepts.’

  ‘No sex outside marriage?’

  ‘Precisely. Many of our girls are part of the silver-ring movement, promising to remain pure until marriage.’

  ‘You promote that?’ Laura asked.

  ‘One of our female staff members is very keen. She is responsible for sex education.’

  ‘So you’ve cracked the problem of teenage pregnancy?’ Masefield glanced away, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘Not quite yet, it has to be said,’ he admitted.

  ‘So, tell me, what happens if one of your teenagers concludes that he or she is gay? What is the school’s reaction to that?’ Laura knew she was being provocative but Masefield’s bland certainties were beginning to annoy her.

  ‘It is not a lifestyle choice which we would in any way condone,’ Masefield said. ‘Our general view of sexual activity within marriage would obviously not include same-sex relationships. Fortunately, praise the Lord, it’s not a problem which we have met during the time we have been open.’ They had by now come full circle and were outside the head teacher’s office door where he consulted his watch ostentatiously.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have time for today, Miss Ackroyd,’ he said. ‘I hope that has given you some idea of the sort of school we are running here. You will find the first set of GCSE examination results in the brochure I’ve given you. We were very pleased with them. They far outstrip anything which has been achieved in this area before. I’m sure, with Sir David’s sponsorship, Bradfield could be just as successful, just as quickly. You can reassure your readers of that.’

  Dismissed like a naughty school pupil, Laura walked thoughtfully out through reception, but at the top of the steps she stopped and watched a sleek Jag manoeuvre through the electronic gates and park next to her own dusty VW Golf. Even before the door opened, she guessed that this was the school’s millionaire sponsor come to visit his fiefdom like a viceroy his colony. Taking a deep breath, she waylaid Sir David Murgatroyd as he strode towards the front door.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m Laura Ackroyd from the Bradfield Gazette, and I wondered if we could have a word about your plans for Sutton Park School in Bradfield?’ She thought for a second Murgatroyd was going to brush past her, swatting her away like an irritating fly, but for a moment he hesitated, looked her up and down, with an appraisal which Laura found disconcerting, and then stopped.

  ‘Miss Ackroyd?’ he said. ‘I thought you had been told that I don’t normally give interviews to the press.’

  ‘But this isn’t normal, is it, Sir David? There’s quite a head of steam building up in Bradfield against your plan. I wondered if you had any comment on that, at all?’

  ‘There’s always a groundswell of opinion amongst people who are prepared to settle for the mediocre when they could have the excellent,’ Murgatroyd said. ‘Bradfield won’t be any different. But in the end they will see the light.’

  ‘Do you mean that in a religious sense?’ Laura jumped in. ‘Is that what you expect in the long run – to convert whole neighbourhoods to your own views, the views I’ve just been hearing about from Mr Masefield?’

  ‘Yes,’ Murgatroyd said flatly. ‘I believe that is precisely what the Lord expects me to do.’ He glanced at his watch and hesitated.

  ‘Call Winston Sanderson,’ he said. ‘Come up to Sibden and I’ll give you that interview you’re so determined to have. You look like an intelligent young woman, not like so many of your colleagues. I’m sure you’ll understand that what I am doing is a noble cause.’ And he turned on his heel and strode up the steps to the doors of the academy, leaving Laura feeling gobsmacked in his wake.

  As she drove away from the academy, her mobile rang and she stopped to take the call. It was the teacher who had agreed to meet her in the local coffee bar.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the young woman said. ‘I saw you leaving, but I don’t think I can meet you, you know. It’d be more than my job’s worth if anyone found out. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ Laura said. ‘Call me again if you change your mind.’ She was about to start the car again when she noticed two young boys, obviously of secondary-school age, kicking their heels on the corner of one of the neighbouring streets. She wondered why they were not in school, or even in school uniform, but was reluctant to stop and ask them given the spate of juvenile violent crime that had recently convulsed the country. But as she hesitated, two women joined the boys, one with a pushchair, and she could see, even from a cautious distance, that some sort of argument had broken out.

  She pulled up at the kerb and wound down her window.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the older of the two women. ‘I’m from the Gazette in Bradfield. I was wondering what local people think about the new academy.’ The woman looked at her for a moment and then laughed harshly.

  ‘Mystic Meg, are you?’ she asked. ‘Why d’you think these little beggars are hanging around here getting into bother?’

  Laura switched off the engine and got out of the car to join the group on the pavement.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, looking at the two boys, who could not have been much older than twelve and who flushed under her scrutin
y.

  ‘They got bloody chucked out, didn’t they? Hadn’t been there five minutes before they were in trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Owt and nowt, weren’t it?’ the older woman said, obviously the mother of one of the boys and clearly furious. ‘Jackie here never had that sort of trouble with Darren at t’old school, did you?’ The younger woman with the pushchair shook her head.

  ‘They told us at primary he were a bright lad, should do well,’ Darren’s mother muttered.

  ‘Different place altogether, that were,’ the older woman went on. ‘These two were late once or twice, didn’t have their ties on once or twice, rubbish stuff, but there were nowt we could do about it. I went up there and spoke to t’new head but he weren’t listening. Summat about three strikes, that’s all he were interested in. Not just suspended, neither. Expelled. And when I complained to the council, they said there were nowt they could do about it. It weren’t their school anymore. They’re not the only ones, neither. There’s ten or a dozen of them around the estate been chucked out, roaming around wi’nowt to do. The council’s not come up wi’owt for them, neither. They offered our Craig a place at some school right over Beeston way. How’s he supposed to get over there? This were our local school before these God-botherers got hold of it. It’s been bloody hijacked.’

  ‘Are you doing anything about it?’ Laura asked.

  ‘What can you do? There’s some sort of parents’ group getting set up at the community centre, but I don’t reckon they’ll get anywhere,’ the woman said. She waved her arm in the general direction of the half-boarded-up shopping parade that lay at the heart of the estate.

  ‘It’s not as if these are bad kids,’ she said. ‘They’re not in gangs or owt like that. I’ve just told Craig he’s to come home wi’ me now I’ve finished work. I’ll not have him roaming around getting into all sorts, the way some do. He’s not a bad lad, he did well enough in t’primary. I want him back in class but I reckon that lot up there are more keen on pulling kids in from other parts o’t’town. Posher parts. The long and short of it is, they don’t want kids from round here and they make any old excuse to get rid of them.’