Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  Lynne swung around with equal anger. “Look, Terry, don’t try and push me around. Everyone knows there was no love lost between Sybil and Bill. It’s natural the police would be interested. That’s their job, poking and prying into other people’s business.”

  “You just do it for a hobby, Lynne, do you?” asked Edwina.

  “Honestly, Edwina, you can be a perfect bitch,” Lynne drawled, shaking a bottle of purple-red nail polish with languid vigor. “Frankly, I can’t wait to have my interview with the famous Inspector Carol Ashton. With a bit of luck, we’ll all be on television. After all, not only do we have the Inspector the media love to love, we also have Bill’s father. He’s famous enough in his own right.”

  The bell rang to signal the start of afternoon lessons. When no one moved, Alan, always conscious of his position as head of the English Department, roused them with admonitions. “Come on, everyone. You know what the kids will be like after what’s happened. Control, we must keep control. Please go to class promptly.”

  “I have a free period,” said Sybil.

  The others left with various shades of reluctance, except for Terry. He stood behind Sybil’s chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. He said, “Why did you go to see Bill last night?”

  “How do you know I saw Bill?”

  Terry’s hands tightened. “It doesn’t matter how I know. What did you tell that woman?”

  Sybil sighed with weariness. “I took your advice. I said I didn’t see Bill last night.”

  “Tell me about it so I can help you. That Inspector won’t let it rest, you know. She’ll keep asking questions. She’ll ferret away until she gets something. She likes success. She won’t care about you.”

  “Leave me alone!” said Sybil with a savagery that surprised them both.

  “Tony isn’t back, is he?”

  Sybil swung around, astonished. “Tony? You know he’s in England. What makes you think he’s here?”

  The phone rang. Exclaiming impatiently, Terry snatched it up. “What? Oh, all right. As soon as I can. Look, I said I’d come, okay?” He slammed the receiver down. “The Gestapo want me for my interview,” he said to Sybil. He took her hands. “Don’t worry, Syb. I won’t say anything about last night.”

  You always want me to owe you something, thought Sybil as she watched him leave.

  Bellwhether High was a showpiece school, often used by the Education Department to impress overseas educational experts and sundry dignitaries. It was set in a large expanse of landscaped grounds close to the spectacular sandstone cliffs and beaches of the Peninsula area north of Sydney. At times this was a disadvantage, because when the surf was up, the attendance was often down. The school itself was made up of a series of courtyards, each bounded by two stories of classrooms. Concrete causeways connected the upper stories of each separate block, covered walkways the lower. At the northern end of the site was the administration block, bearing on its face huge letters proclaiming Bellwhether High School, strategically placed so that it could be easily read by those travelling on the major coast highway.

  Cynics said the unaccustomed luxury of this government school was related to the fact that it was located in a marginal seat and electors had to be bought or bribed. True or not, a state government election had coincided with Bellwhether’s official opening by Sir Richard Pagett shortly before he retired. Much mileage had been given to the fact that Sir Richard’s youngest son, Bill, was joining the Industrial Arts staff—proof positive that the state government supported public education. The electorate dutifully returned the appropriate member of Sir Richard’s party and Bellwhether High faded from the news until the Monday when Bill Pagett died.

  Mrs. Farrell stood uneasily in Workroom 2 with Carol Ashton and Jim Madigan, the head of the Industrial Arts Department. The body had been removed, but the chalk outline was an uncomfortable reminder of the near panic she had felt when she found Bill Pagett slumped on the floor.

  “Really, Inspector, do you need me here?” she asked.

  “It would be a help.”

  There was no answer to that. Mrs. Farrell waited grimly as Carol Ashton questioned Jim Madigan. “Are these sliding doors to the room kept locked when there’s no class in here?”

  Madigan shot a look at Mrs. Farrell. “Well. . .”

  “They certainly should be,” said Mrs. Farrell tartly. “Those are my instructions, but I’m afraid they are not always followed, even though tools and the like are easily stolen.”

  The Inspector indicated the preparation room that served as a connection between Workrooms 1 and 2. “In a similar way I imagine the preparation room doors are supposed to be kept locked?”

  “In a similar way no doubt they are not,” said Mrs. Farrell with irritation. Madigan looked glum.

  “So someone could enter this workroom at any time, either through these sliding glass doors that the students use, or through the preparation room from Workroom 1?”

  “Obviously, yes,” said Mrs. Farrell, thinking of the last Industrial Arts inventory. Madigan had the grace to look embarrassed, but she was sure he took the continual loss of valuable equipment far less seriously than she did.

  Madigan cleared his throat. “I’ve heard a Black and Decker drill . . .” he began, trailing off into a red-faced silence.

  Mrs. Farrell glared at him. The man was a fool, but she had never had much time for his department anyway and, as for Bill Pagett, she had paid him very little attention until the anonymous letters had started arriving. Even then, Bill Pagett had never known about them, so her acquaintance with him had been essentially superficial. She had already decided to ignore the subject of the letters. No one else knew about them, and she had enough problems without adding to the list. Besides, she had destroyed the nasty things.

  Her thoughts were broken by Carol Ashton’s clear voice. “Mrs. Farrell?”

  “Sorry. Yes?”

  “Both you and Mr. Madigan saw the drill by the body’s head. Could any of the students have touched it?”

  Mrs. Farrell permitted herself a wintry smile. “I imagine you’ve met Cassie Turnbull, who discovered the body. She’s well known to me, unfortunately, because of her aversion to discipline of any kind. However, having been brought up on a steady diet of television crime, I doubt very much if she would allow anyone to touch anything. In fact, she surprised me by the way she took charge of the class when she realized what had happened. It showed leadership I had, frankly, not suspected before.”

  Mrs. Farrell winced when Carol Ashton showed a Polaroid photograph of Bill Pagett’s head with his half-open dead eye staring at the point of the drill. She agreed with Madigan that the position of the drill corresponded with her memory.

  “You can see it was pointed at his eye,” said Madigan, looking sick. “Are you telling us someone drilled into his head, then arranged it that way?”

  “Yes,” said Carol Ashton.

  Even before Carol Ashton had reached the top of the drive she could hear angry voices. She turned and looked back towards the sea, listening closely. The air was still, hot and clear, and the white breakers rolled with delightful precision to the shore. The heated words were indistinct, so after a moment she went up the stone steps and rang the bell. The voices stopped.

  “Mrs. Quade. Sorry to interrupt you at home, but our interview was cut short, and I’d like to get your statement completed so it can be typed and signed.” Carol was inside with practiced ease, nodding pleasantly to Terry, who stood behind Sybil.

  Terry’s face was too carefully blank. “I’ll stay,” he said to Sybil. She shook her head. He hesitated. “I’ll ring you later, okay?” Ignoring Carol, he lingered reluctantly on the steps, then slowly walked down the drive, looking back.

  Carol refused a drink, accepted a seat, opened a notebook. The room was flooded with light and air, the house set so high that the wide glass doors opened to a stunning view of headlands, sea and sky. “You said your husband was still in England?” she said mildly, her eye
s on the line of the horizon where the two blues met.

  “Tony? I think so, yes. We don’t keep in contact.”

  “You haven’t heard from him?”

  “No. Why?”

  Carol knew the value of silence. She smiled pleasantly, and watched Sybil closely. You’re a knockout, she thought, enjoying the long line of thigh revealed by the white canvas pants. A large ginger cat stalked into the room, inspected Carol imperiously, and amused her by swishing his tail dismissively and stalking out again.

  Sybil ran her fingers through her short curly red hair. “Why are you asking me about Tony? What has it got to do with . . . what’s happened?”

  Carol consulted her notebook. “Passport control shows that your husband entered Australia through Melbourne airport a week ago.” A pause, then, mildly: “You haven’t spoken to him?”

  Sybil looked away, biting her lip. “No.”

  “Would you have expected him to contact you?”

  Sybil looked up to meet Carol’s steady green gaze. “I don’t know.”

  “Is there any reason why he would go to Melbourne, and not Sydney? It’s over a thousand kilometers away.”

  “Tony has friends there. When he first came to Australia he lived in Melbourne. He said the climate was more like the one he was used to, but after he’d visited Sydney a couple of times, he moved north.”

  “You haven’t heard from any of his friends in Melbourne?”

  “No. I’ve told you I haven’t.”

  Carol’s expression didn’t change at the note of anger in Sybil’s voice. What are you hiding? she thought. She let the silence last a moment, then said, “You’ve hurt your face.”

  “Yes, I banged it on a cupboard door.”

  “This morning?”

  “Yes,” said Sybil firmly. She glanced at the open notebook. “Why are you interested, anyway?”

  Carol didn’t answer her question, flicking over a few pages, and saying, “As I mentioned in our first interview, we’ve been told your relationship with Bill Pagett was the reason you and your husband separated.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Carol raised her eyebrows. “The person was very positive.” Don’t lie to me, she thought.

  Sybil flushed with anger. “Does everyone tell you the truth?”

  “Of course not. Some people lie outright, or twist things to put themselves in a favorable light, or to try to get even with someone they dislike. I’m not taking this information on face value. I’m asking you if it’s true.”

  “It’s not.” Did Carol Ashton believe her? Did she think she was lying? Sybil stood up, determined to end the interview; but Carol remained sitting, steadily surveying her. Terry had left his cigarettes, and although she rarely smoked, Sybil fumbled, lit one, and coughed as she inhaled.

  “Have you instituted divorce proceedings? No? How long ago did you separate?”

  “What has this got to do with Bill? What does it matter whether I divorce my husband or not?”

  Carol looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry to have to ask these questions. I know they intrude into your personal life, but in a case like this, I’m afraid they’re essential.”

  Sybil didn’t trust her sympathy, but she was willing to play along just to get through the interview, so she replied in a calm and reasonable tone, “Tony and I separated a few months before he went back to England. The reason was quite simple—we found our marriage was a mistake—we’d grown apart. No one came between us—we just realized we were incompatible.”

  “All very civilized?” said Carol.

  Sybil looked up sharply. Was that sarcasm? But Carol Ashton’s attractive face was reflecting neutral interest.

  “Very civilized,” Sybil agreed.

  Carol Ashton stood up. Apparently the interview was over. At the door she turned to Sybil, handing her a card. “Please keep this. When your husband contacts you, I would very much appreciate it if you would ring me immediately.”

  Sybil absently noted that Carol Ashton had beautiful hands. She took the card without comment, and watched her walk unhurriedly down the steps. At the bottom she turned. “Oh, and Mrs. Quade,” she said, “just as a matter of routine, we will be requesting your permission to search your property.”

  Sybil stood at the open door until she was out of sight.

  Chapter Three

  Because Carol had woken at daybreak and gone for a run in the welcome quietness of early light, she arrived at the school before seven. Even so, the cleaners were there before her. “What time do you start?” she asked a middle-aged man in overalls.

  “Five-thirty.”

  Carol unlocked the door to the principal’s office. “Could I speak with you for a minute?”

  He put down his bucket and mop and followed her into the office. She picked up the folder with the outline of the cleaning roster, smiling as she said, “I’m Inspector Carol Ashton.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  He treated every word as if it was worth a dollar and not to be squandered, so it took her half an hour of pleasant questioning before she had all she wanted: an outline of the cleaners’ responsibilities, their relationships with the staff and students and, most interesting of all, some gossip and opinions about Bill Pagett.

  When Mark Bourke came in he put a folder down in front of her, saying with a grin, “There you are, boss-lady. The fruits of my midnight labors.”

  Carol had asked for Mark Bourke when the Commissioner had told her she could have anyone she wanted to assist her investigation. He was good-natured, painstaking, and deceptively mild when interviewing suspects: many had found to their cost how dangerous it was to underestimate him. They had worked on several cases before, and she valued the easy informality of their working relationship and the fact that Mark never made the mistake of trying to be too familiar, understanding that Carol had created a rigid division between her work and her private life.

  As she opened the folder, Carol said, “Two things of interest. Had a talk with one of the cleaners this morning. Among other things, he said that a Mrs. Grunewald, who cleans Block C where the English staff room is, mentioned that she heard some kind of argument between Pagett and a senior student last Friday. She’s away today sick, and it mightn’t be anything important, but I think we should check it out.”

  “I haven’t interviewed any of the cleaners yet. What’s the other thing?”

  “The medical report will arrive this morning, but I got the main points by phone, and it pretty much confirms the preliminary examination. Pagett was hit across the right side of his head with something like a length of pipe. Unfortunately nothing the scientific squad took from Pagett’s woodwork room matches the dent it made. This blow almost certainly knocked him out, but it didn’t kill him. The attack was probably unexpected, as there are no marks on his hands or arms, so he didn’t try to protect his head. Then, some time later, possibly only a minute or so, his head was tilted forward and someone used a power drill to put a neat hole in the base of his skull. The drill penetrated its full length into his brain, killing him immediately. The Black and Decker artistically arranged by his head is the weapon—no fingerprints, but plenty of brain tissue on the drill.”

  “If you wanted to kill someone that way, why not drill through the side of his head?” asked Bourke, pointing to his temple. “I mean, it’s much more spectacular, especially if you left the drill in place.”

  “Yes, I asked that. Apparently, unless you’re lucky enough to hit a major blood vessel in the process, all you’re likely to do is accomplish a frontal lobotomy, which might have changed Bill Pagett’s personality, but wouldn’t have killed him.”

  “You think our murderer’s done some brain surgery as a hobby?” asked Bourke flippantly.

  “Either by luck or intention, he or she certainly chose the most efficient point to drill a hole,” said Carol, doodling interlocking circles on a notepad. “I want you to find out if anyone’s got a background or special skills in anatomy or medicine or s
ome related field.”

  “Okay. But why use a power drill? Look at the disadvantages: it needs a power source, it’s noisy, and your target has to keep still—you won’t be very successful if your victim keeps dodging around.”

  Carol reflected, adding a series of arrows to the circles. “Perhaps a power tool symbolizes Bill Pagett, industrial arts teacher?”

  “What if it’s some sort of bizarre sexual thing with the Black and Decker standing in for a penis?” said Bourke with a wide grin.

  “That gives new meaning to the expression, fucked in the head,” said Carol drily.

  “Anything else interesting?” asked Bourke, laughing.

  “Yes, possibly. The body had a bruise on the left side of the jaw, as if someone had punched him, but it was a few days ago, not just before he was killed. Also there was a cut inside his mouth on the right side, but done a few hours before he died, suggesting that someone hit or slapped him,” said Carol, checking the notes she had made.

  “The right side would make it likely he was hit by someone left-handed. Are any of them?”

  “Sybil Quade’s left-handed,” said Carol.

  Bourke whistled. “And she looks like she traded punches with someone recently. That bruise on her left cheek is pretty bad, Carol. How did she say she got it?”

  “Accident with a cupboard door.”

  “Believe her?”

  Carol shook her head. “No,” she said.

  Alan Whitcombe’s tight mouth twisted with distaste. “Have any of you read it?” he asked, waving a copy of the Peninsula Post. His staff looked up from their desks.

  “What would you expect from a scandal sheet like this?” said Lynne, waving her copy. “Get this headline: STUDENTS SICKENED AT SLAUGHTER OF EX-PREMIER’S SON. And if that isn’t enough, there’s a picture of that revolting little Cassie Turnbull squinting at the camera.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Pete. He looked considerably better as his soft, handsome face had regained its usual high color and he had stopped nervously grooming his mustache. He laughed as he read. “I don’t believe it! Our Cassie has strung together a few words in a sentence or two! Hear this: Twelve-year-old Cassie Turnbull, still shocked by the gruesome discovery of her slaughtered teacher’s body, told our reporter, ‘It was dreadful. I felt sick all day and can never forget Mr. Pagett’s dead face.’”