by Neil White
Sam went in and nodded respectfully. The door closed behind him. The man in front of him, Mr Bullman, stood to shake hands. He was tall and gangly, and his jacket rode far up his arms as he stretched his arm out. His blond hair had thinned to barely a covering.
‘Thank you for seeing me at short notice,’ Sam said.
‘Anytime,’ Bullman said, and gestured for Sam to sit down. ‘An awful case. The pupils and staff here are struggling to come to terms with it. Keith Welsby was a much-loved teacher.’
‘I don’t need the press release,’ Sam said, crossing his legs. ‘Just some answers.’
Bullman’s eyes narrowed. ‘We haven’t met before,’ he said. ‘Have they brought in some new detectives?’
‘No, but I haven’t visited the school before. I’m working on his case and looking for a connection with some other investigations.’
‘Do they have any connection with this school?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ Before Bullman could bluster his way into a denial, Sam asked, ‘Have there ever been any complaints made against Mr Welsby?’
A pause. ‘We answered these questions before.’
‘I’m just checking up on some new information.’
‘There are complaints against teachers all the time. One of the hazards of the job. Kids make things up to deflect attention, or parents misrepresent a meeting. You’ll need to be more specific.’
‘Of a sexual nature.’
There was a look to the left, enough of a pause for Sam to know that he was right.
‘Why do you say that?’ Bullman asked.
Answering a question with a question.
‘The case I’m looking at may have some involvement with underage girls. Keith Welsby was a teacher of teenage girls, and single. There has to be a reason he was targeted. An angry parent or boyfriend?’
‘Or just a random attack when he was in the wrong place at the wrong time? These things happen. Being a teacher may have nothing to do with it.’
‘But that doesn’t answer the question,’ Sam said, meeting Bullman’s glare.
‘You’re not dragging this school into this,’ Bullman said, his voice rising a notch. ‘We’re the first choice for most parents on this side of Manchester. One of the best performing schools.’
‘I’m not interested in the school,’ Sam said. ‘If I need to, I’ll hang around the gates and speak to every pupil about Keith Welsby, get the rumours and the gossip. Once we have a few names, I’ll speak to those girls, because their parents become suspects. But of course for every person I speak to, it’s a new rumour, their parents finding out that Keith Welsby was a predator and that the school knew about it.’
Bullman’s nostrils flared but Sam bored into his glare, let the silence grow until Bullman realised that there was no avoiding the question.
‘If there is no link between this school and his murder, will you forget what I say here?’ Bullman said.
‘I can’t make any promises.’
Bullman sighed. ‘There were some concerns, yes. Nothing concrete, and no one made it official, but some of the other teachers said he was too familiar. Some of the year tens and elevens would go to his house for revision classes, and there were rumours of drink. And he liked it when the girls flirted with him.’
‘But what about relationships?’
‘Nothing we could prove. I know how it works, though. Teachers instil trust, and over time it becomes loyalty, so it’s easy to conceal.’
‘Any names of girls?’
Bullman shook his head.
‘Do you remember the Adrianne Morley case? Around eight, nine years ago.’
‘Of course I remember. It was a tragedy. For her, for her friends. Whenever a pupil dies, we remember. It was an awful case.’
‘Was she one of Welsby’s star pupils?’
‘Did the police investigation turn anything up?’
‘Please don’t deflect, Mr Bullman,’ Sam said, his impatience showing. ‘I’m asking you what you know, not what the police know.’
Bullman picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk as he ground his teeth. He said, ‘There were rumours. Unsubstantiated. Keith Welsby was a respected teacher.’
‘Were those rumours mentioned by the school to the police at the time of her murder?’
‘You can find the answer to that question by looking at your own records.’
‘Did you say anything, volunteer those rumours?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Bullman said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it was gossip, nothing more. This school had nothing to do with Adrianne’s death.’
‘And the school is all that matters?’
‘Don’t put words into my mouth, Detective.’
‘I need to speak to a teacher or pupil who knew Welsby. Knew him well enough to know his secrets.’
‘And if I say the school won’t cooperate?’
Sam smiled, but it was bathed with insincerity. ‘You know what I’ll do. I’ll put out a public appeal for former pupils of his to come forward with any information about his lifestyle.’
Bullman thought about that for a few seconds. He picked up his phone. ‘Can you get Lucy Watson and bring her to my office.’ He put down the phone and said to Sam, ‘I’ve been making my own enquiries and was going to tell the police anyway. You might as well have it early.’
Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘If you were forced.’
Bullman didn’t respond, just sat in silence, his hands clasped together on the desk. Sam was prepared to sit it out. He wanted answers.
Five awkward minutes passed before there was a knock at the door. Bullman bellowed, ‘Come in,’ without taking his eyes from Sam. When it opened, there was a girl in a school uniform, blue skirt and V-neck jumper. ‘Lucy, this is a detective looking into Mr Welsby’s case. I’d like you to talk to him.’
‘In private,’ Sam said
Bullman shook his head. ‘If you talk to her in school, I stay in the room.’
Sam sighed. He knew he had no choice. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
Lucy went to a chair at the side of the room, a padded seat with wooden arms. She crossed her legs, long and slim, her brown hair straight and over her shoulders. She was elegant and mature, but in her eyes there was fear, still a little girl.
‘I’m going to be in trouble and I don’t want to be,’ Lucy said. Her accent had no northern edges, perhaps she’d been taught to lose it, her parents hoping that some refinement would take her further.
‘Just tell me about Mr Welsby,’ Sam said.
She glanced over at Bullman, who nodded for her to continue. ‘We were in love,’ she said.
Sam didn’t have to hide any surprise, because there wasn’t any. He’d guessed the answer as soon as she walked in.
‘So tell me about Keith.’
‘He was a lovely man.’
‘But you were a pupil of his.’
‘I’m sixteen. Why should the law apply differently to him?’
Sam knew all the answers, that teachers held a position of trust and schools shouldn’t be treated like somewhere to collect conquests, but he didn’t voice his thoughts. It was time to let Lucy speak.
‘How did it start?’ Sam said.
‘I was in his drama club. We put on a big performance every year. West Side Story this year; I was Maria. We rehearsed after school, and sometimes at his house. When you see people at home, it’s different. They’re more relaxed, you see the real man, and he was warm and kind.’ Tears brimmed onto her lashes. ‘It wasn’t his fault. I started it. We were talking and it was late, sitting together on the floor, when I kissed him. I shouldn’t have done it but the moment was right; I could see it in his eyes.’
‘Were you sleeping together?’
‘Yes.’ She blushed.
‘How many people knew?’
‘No one, until he died. I told a friend, who told a teacher, who told Mr Bullman.’
Sam glared at Bullman, wh
ose lips were pursed, fingers steepled under his nose.
‘How long had it been going on?’ Sam said.
‘About three months.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He loved me. He told me so.’
And all the ones before you, too, Sam thought, but he didn’t say it.
‘Did he ever mention someone called Henry Mason?’
Lucy shook her head.
‘Or that he was frightened of anyone?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Is there anything about him that would cause someone to attack him?’
‘No – he was so gentle,’ Lucy said, and wiped her eyes. ‘Are you going to tell my parents?’
‘You’re part of the case now,’ Sam said. ‘I have to. Don’t think of yourself, though. Do the right thing by Keith. You might not know it, but you could help us find his killer.’
‘Do you think?’
‘I do.’
Lucy seemed happier with that. As Sam stood to go, she said, ‘He was my first. He said it was important to him, because it showed that we meant something to each other.’
‘I’m sure,’ Sam said, and headed for the door.
Fifty-five
Joe put his phone away. Gerald had told him that Proctor was in the city centre. Joe reckoned he had thirty minutes to look around his workshop. He stepped out of his car and tried to close the door quietly, but the clunk seemed to echo along the empty street. He didn’t want any curious neighbours checking to see whether it was a delivery van or some relative coming round for a chat.
His clothes were innocuous: jeans and a hooded top. Forgettable, that was the look he was trying to achieve. As he reached Proctor’s home, he paused and tried to take in the building.
Most of the houses around had been turned into flats and bedsits. Joe had lived in accommodation like it when he first started out as a young trainee, living out of a studio flat in Salford that made his clothes smell damp. There would be at least one flat on every floor, and maybe more, every available space rented out. Proctor’s house was different, because it was one of the few that was still a house, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t neglected and old. Paint flaked from the stone window sills and the door was faded with age.
He looked around. He couldn’t see anyone paying attention, although whether anyone was watching him from the houses opposite was something he could only guess at. He cursed himself. He would attract suspicion as he looked around. He knew that from every shoplifting CCTV he’d watched, from every statement from store detectives he’d read. Looking around gives the game away but it was human nature too strong to ignore; know the risks to have the chance to back out.
But backing out wasn’t in his plan.
He turned into Proctor’s drive and went straight along the path at the side of the house. His head was down. Straggly rose branches snagged at his clothes. His steps echoed between the walls. He paused when he got to the corner.
Joe closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No one had come out.
He peered around the corner, ready to duck back, his fingers gripping the edges of the bricks. There was no one there. He let out a long sigh. His heart was thumping hard.
The garden was long, bordered by a high wall on one side. In better times, there would have been a neat lawn and beds teeming with shrubs and flowers, stone circles making stepping stones across the grass. Better times were a long way in the past, though. The grass grew long and was strangled by thistles, the stone circles like small interruptions, bald patches. The bushes around it overhung the lawn, making it gloomy, with weeds like a green tangle.
At the end, there was a building. It was the size of a small garage, with a sloping roof covered in moss and lichen. There was one window, dusty, a curtain on the inside. The walls were pebble-dashed but it was patchy and cracked.
He had one last check along the back of the house. There was a door, solid wood, no way to see who might be on the other side. He moved closer, looking around as he did. He couldn’t see anyone. He had to start with the window.
His feet crunched on the stone patio as he crouched down, his back against the brickwork, his tongue flicking onto his bottom lip with nerves. He edged along slowly, his hands feeling his way, the stone sill getting closer. Once he was next to it, he closed his eyes and swallowed. He had to be ready to run if he was seen.
He rose slowly until he was standing, stretching and grimacing at the aches in his leg muscles, and let the room creep into view.
It was dim inside. It was a back room, with a dining table and a dresser. There were plates inside a glass cabinet, a dusty decanter and glasses. The room was empty. No one was watching.
He stepped away from the window and moved quietly to the garden. He tried to keep his footfall light, avoiding the paving stones and relying on the grass. It swished against his legs, the rustles loud as he went. When he got to the workshop, he looked back to the house. Still no one there.
The doors were large and wooden, painted green, but old and faded. He cursed. They were locked together with a shiny new clasp and large brass padlock. Gerald said there’d been a burglary. It must have been put on after that.
Joe looked around the door, hoping to see a weakness. He pushed at them. They moved against each other and clattered loudly.
He looked to the doorframe. It was rotten in places, the hinges rusted. He rattled the door again. The hinges rocked against the frame. That gave him an idea.
His took his keys from his pocket and used the end to scrape out the dust and dirt from the head of the screws holding the top hinge to the frame. Once done, he dug the tip of the key into the groove and pressed, turning slowly.
The screws had little purchase in the rotting wood, and once they began to turn it didn’t take long to remove them all. Joe pulled at the top of the door and was able to make enough of a gap to lift his leg into and then squeeze his body in. He pressed his hands against the frame, his whole body jammed into the small gap, and pushed. As he pushed, the bottom hinge started to come away from the frame.
There was a tinkle as the hinge fell to the floor, followed by the loud scrape of the door as it swept over small stones.
Joe ducked inside and pulled the door closed again, panting through exertion as he leaned back against a wall. He was a burglar now, there was no getting away from it. He was trespassing; if he was caught his career would be over, he might even lose his liberty for a short while, but none of that seemed important. A memory of Ellie’s grave came to him. He’d promised to do the right thing by her. That was driving him.
It was dark inside – a rag of a curtain at the dirt-covered window blocking out any light. Joe let his eyes adjust. There was a large black leather chair in the middle of the room, standing on a thick red rug, with small tables around the rest of the floor, large candles on each. There was a gas heater in one corner.
Joe used his phone to create some light and dust moved in the faint shimmer. He looked along the walls, hoping for some kind of display, a memento board that Proctor could gaze at all night, but there were just tools: rusted old shears, a strimmer with no twine, a dirt-covered spade. A wheelbarrow with dried cement caked on the inside. A lawnmower was propped up against the wall, a yellow toolbox was alongside, the lid open, screwdrivers spilled onto the floor.
There were some cupboards but they didn’t reveal anything. Boxes of lawn-feed and weed-killer, unopened, and empty boxes that once held beer cans.
Joe was disappointed. He’d expected something more than Proctor’s hideaway, for when he wanted to be alone.
There was a noise outside.
Joe crouched down and held his breath. It was the sound of a door and footsteps on the patio. He looked over to where he’d forced his way in. The door was pulled back to the frame, kept upright only by the padlock holding the loose door to the one still attached to hinges. Through the small gap, he could see the two hinges on the floor.
He shuffled across to the window, listening for the sound of movement outside. He wai
ted for the heavy footsteps to get closer, or even to hear the soft thuds of feet on grass, but there was silence. He moved the curtain just enough to give a view. He lifted his head carefully, the wall in front of him getting lighter as he got higher, knowing that he was coming into view of whoever was outside. He swallowed.
It was a woman. Helena Proctor, Joe presumed. She was putting something in the rubbish bin and tidying up some loose twigs on the patio. If she looked along the garden, she would see that the doors weren’t as they should be, and the hinges nearby. Joe’s fingers gripped the sill as he watched, waiting for her to turn towards him.