The Reborn

by Lin Anderson

  There was a whirring sound, then the wall screen was washed with white light.

  Bill continued. ‘Did we take a note of names before we let people leave?’

  ‘We recorded the names of those who were there, but some would have left before we arrived,’ said Janice.

  ‘Put out a request for anyone in the vicinity to come forward, even if they think they didn’t see anything. Imply that we have CCTV footage.’

  ‘We haven’t.’

  ‘They don’t know that. Guilt might urge some to come forward in case we turn up on their doorstep. The place was crowded with teenagers, and teenagers take mobile phone pictures on nights out. Let’s put out a call for any images of that night to be emailed to the police website. We might get lucky. Kira’s mobile wasn’t found with the body. I take it she had one?’

  ‘Top of the range, according to her parents.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘Perhaps the killer took it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe there was something on it.’

  ‘Has it been used since it went missing?’

  ‘No record of usage since that night, Sir.’

  ‘What about a handbag?’

  ‘We didn’t find one with her. There was a purse in her pocket containing approximately twenty pounds, a couple of receipts, a bus pass and a credit card.’

  ‘A credit card?’

  ‘The family’s well-off, Sir.’

  Of course. Morvern School for Girls was anything but cheap.

  He now offered up the evidence of the mirror writing and asked them what they thought. The responses sounded like a rehash of Wikipedia: pacts with the devil, secret codes, Leonardo Da Vinci. He was interested in the small number of people who had the ability, and also wanted to know everything there was to know about the term ‘daisy chain’.

  ‘DC Campbell. Find out which hookers offer daisy chaining to their clientele here in the city. Also anything about it you can find online. Look in places where young people hang out. Facebook, Bebo, sites like that.’

  A cheer went up as Campbell blushed furiously. Bill ignored it.

  ‘Carmichael, find out where she got the tattoo, and get the name of anyone else they tattooed with a daisy.’

  A voice called, ‘We’re ready, Sir.’

  Bill turned to face the screen.

  13

  After the briefing, Bill decided to visit the school. Independent schools insisted they knew their pupils on an individual basis, so it would be interesting to see how well Morvern School for Girls had known Kira Reese-Brandon.

  He and Margaret had visited the school a couple of years back, and he had to admit he’d been seduced by it. Even Margaret, a staunch advocate of state education, had been swayed. If he’d said he wanted Lisa to go to Morvern, she would have gone along with it. It wasn’t hard to see why.

  The façade itself was impressive. Where most secondary schools, particularly those built in the Seventies, looked in danger of falling to bits, Morvern was housed in a beautiful, century-old building, carefully maintained.

  He climbed the four wide steps to the pillared entrance, the school flag fluttering above him, and pushed open one of the double doors. The scent of wood polish met him as he entered the panelled reception area. Ahead, a second set of doors led to a spacious marble-floored entrance hall. There was a kind of hush, an air of quiet application, that he’d noticed before in other places of learning.

  This school had a history, all of it good. It sold itself on a reputation for intellectual and professional excellence, and it had plenty of evidence to back up its claims; a cursory glance through the top names in the Scottish medical and law professions would find a high proportion of Morvern old girls. That was why they had considered sending Lisa here for her senior years. Bill felt a momentary twinge of regret.

  He gave his name to the receptionist, who lifted a receiver and relayed his message to someone. A few minutes later a woman appeared from the direction of the entrance hall.

  ‘Detective Inspector Wilson.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Diane Porter, Principal of Morvern.’

  Her voice had a rich timbre, but it was difficult to place the accent. It wasn’t received pronunciation, more a cultivated Scots, he decided. She was tall and well-proportioned, her hair a springy black sprinkled with grey. Unlike many women in the professions, she wasn’t wearing the customary dark power suit, but a smart skirt and sweater, casual yet chic.

  ‘If you would like to come through to my office?’

  She led him into the entrance hall. Two senior girls appeared from a nearby corridor and she exchanged pleasantries with them, using their first names. The girls eyed him curiously, but Ms Porter did not introduce him.

  To the right was a substantial wooden door with a brass plate that read ‘Principal’s Secretary’. She opened this and led him inside where a woman sat behind a desk.

  ‘Joan, this is Detective Inspector Wilson.’ The secretary seemed unfazed by the arrival of a policeman and merely smiled a welcome.

  ‘Can you order us some tea please?’

  ‘Of course, Ms Porter.’

  He was finally ushered through a further door marked ‘Principal’ and into a large, high-ceilinged room filled with winter sunlight and the scent of hyacinths.

  Near the window stood a leather-topped walnut desk with intricately carved legs. On it sat a laptop, a phone and a tray of papers. On the neighbouring wall hung a row of portraits of what he took to be former Principals. All of them wore black gowns and looked down on him with piercingly intelligent eyes. Before the desk was spread a rectangular rug which featured the school crest and the words of its Latin motto.

  She followed his gaze. ‘Sapere aude. Dare to be wise.’

  He remembered the motto from the school prospectus. He’d thought it appropriate for a school that had promoted women’s education in the sciences when it hadn’t been popular or advisable to do so.

  ‘I understand you’ve come about Kira. Such a terrible business.’

  There was a quiet knock at the door.

  ‘That will be the tea.’

  Joan entered, carrying a silver tray with a china teapot, two delicate cups and saucers and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Obviously the fees of nine grand a year could stretch to such niceties. She set the tray on a glass surfaced coffee table that sat between two leather armchairs and a couch near an ornate fireplace.

  He took a seat as requested while she poured the tea. The civilised setting seemed at odds with the reason for his visit.

  She handed him a cup and saucer. He took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey. One of Margaret’s favourites, but not one normally served up at the police station. His team preferred builders’ brew. He relinquished the fragile china, setting it safely on the table.

  ‘What kind of student was Kira?’ he began.

  ‘Very able. Gifted, I would say. Her strength was mathematics, although she was good at everything, including music. An all-rounder. She planned to do maths at Cambridge.’

  ‘Before she became pregnant.’

  A pained expression crossed Ms Porter’s face.

  ‘I believe, after the birth, she intended to continue with her studies.’

  ‘How would that work?’

  ‘The baby was to be put up for adoption.’

  ‘How did Kira feel about that?’

  ‘Initially, I believe she wanted to keep it, but eventually she came round to the idea.’

  ‘She was persuaded?’

  ‘Not by the school.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the father of the child was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t ask?’

  ‘I felt that was a matter for the parents.’

  ‘There was no question of an abortion?’

  She shook her head. ‘Kira’s family are practising Christians.’

  ‘Who don’t approve of abortion?’

  ‘Kira agreed with them. She didn’t want the child
aborted.’

  He changed tack. ‘Does the expression “daisy chain” mean anything to you?’

  She seemed taken aback by his question, but when she answered, her voice bore no trace of nervousness.

  ‘There’s a support group for parents of autistic children which uses that name. We have some very able pupils here who exhibit some of the features within the autism spectrum, so I’m aware of the group.’

  ‘Savants?’

  ‘Some have areas of brilliance which are not necessarily reflected in other aspects of their life.’

  ‘Was Kira one of those pupils?’

  ‘Kira was a mature, well-adjusted girl with a very good brain.’

  ‘Who should not have got pregnant?’

  ‘We were surprised, yes.’

  ‘You don’t have many teenage pregnancies at Morvern?’

  ‘Not normally, no.’

  He decided to press further. ‘How many of your pupils have become pregnant in the last decade?’

  She hesitated. ‘Five.’

  It hadn’t mentioned that in the prospectus.

  ‘So one every couple of years?’ It was still higher than he’d anticipated.

  She shook her head, her cheeks flushing a little. ‘No. Five this year, in fact.’

  Bill was stunned.

  ‘You’ve had five pregnancies within the last year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s extraordinary. Have you any idea why?’

  ‘Teachers are often confronted by copycat behaviour. Fads, for the most part, which usually confine themselves to fashion. Jewellery, hair styles, body piercings. Dieting is the one we tend to look out for. Self-harm is another.’ She paused. ‘The atmosphere between sensitive, emotional, bright adolescent girls is often highly charged.’

  ‘You’re suggesting getting pregnant was the fashion fad this year?’

  ‘I assume we are speaking in confidence?’ She looked to him for confirmation, and he nodded. ‘I suspect it was more of a pact.’

  ‘A group of girls got pregnant as a pact?’

  ‘Our experience during the last six months or so suggests this may have been the case. The girls here are all high achievers, expected to succeed. There is a lot of pressure on them from parents, from their peers.’

  ‘And from the school?’

  ‘Morvern supports its pupils in every way we can, but we do expect them to make the most of the gifts they’ve been given. However, it is not always easy being clever.’

  ‘And getting pregnant is one way out of the clever club.’

  ‘It may appear to be.’

  ‘Did you ask Kira to leave the school when you discovered she was pregnant?’

  ‘No. We supported her when she wanted to stay.’

  This surprised him. An obviously pregnant girl wearing the Morvern uniform was not a great advert for the school.

  As if interpreting his thoughts, she said, ‘Kira came in in normal dress.’

  It was one way to save face, both for Kira and the school.

  ‘And what about the others?’

  ‘It wasn’t apparent at the time that there were others. That came later.’

  ‘So there have been four reported pregnancies since Kira?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what happened to those girls?’

  ‘In view of the circumstances and after discussions with their parents, they all left, including Kira.’

  ‘I take it these girls were friends?’

  ‘Yes. A small clique of very high achievers.’

  ‘You suspect Kira’s pregnancy started a trend?’

  ‘We became aware of two more pregnancies six weeks after Kira’s was revealed.’

  ‘And the remaining two?’

  ‘A month after that.’

  ‘Did you bring the girls together as a group and try and work out why this had happened?’

  ‘The parents decided that wasn’t appropriate.’

  ‘And they removed their daughters from the school?’

  ‘Yes. If they hadn’t, the governors would have asked them to.’

  One pregnancy could be attributed to a wayward pupil. Five pregnancies in so short a time would look like the school’s fault.

  He thought about the mirror writing on Kira’s hands and the daisy tattoo on the small of her back. He didn’t want to reveal either fact but he was interested in finding out if they could have had anything to do with this supposed pact.

  ‘Did any of these girls have a tattoo?’

  ‘Parents are advised that tattoos and piercings other than in the earlobe are not permitted.’

  In his experience, forbidding a teenager to do something often achieved the opposite result. You needed evidence of being eighteen to get a tattoo in a licensed parlour but fake ID wasn’t uncommon.

  ‘I’d like the names of the other pregnant girls.’

  ‘You plan to interview them?’ She looked concerned.

  ‘You said these girls were close friends, maybe even close enough to form a pregnancy pact. I need to speak to them about Kira. I also need to see their school records.’

  ‘Our student records are normally confidential . . .’

  ‘But not to the police,’ he said firmly.

  She rose. ‘Everything’s on computer now. We don’t store hard copies. I’ll organise Joan to help you access them.’

  ‘Thank you. Also, did Kira have a guidance teacher, someone responsible for her pastoral care?’

  ‘We have a tutee system in our sixth form. Dr Frank Delaney was Kira’s tutor.’

  ‘May I see him before I look at her records?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She walked over to the desk and buzzed through to her secretary, summoning Dr Delaney to her office.

  ‘This may take a few minutes. If he is with a class, his Head of Department will have to organise cover.’

  She returned to the coffee table and asked if he wanted more tea. Her calm demeanour had returned, her hand steady as she poured.

  ‘Do you have any idea why Kira was killed?’ she asked.

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘And what about the baby?’

  ‘We’re still looking for it.’

  Dr Delaney arrived a few minutes later. He was very tall, easily six foot four, and stick thin. His face was all angles, the nose prominent and sharp, the look penetrating. Bill imagined him flapping the black gown as he strode around the classroom like a giant raven.

  The Principal introduced them, then said, ‘I’ll have Joan retrieve Kira’s records for you. If you just come through when you’re finished here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Bill thought he glimpsed concern in Delaney’s eyes at the thought of being abandoned, but it didn’t last long. When Ms Porter had closed the door behind her, Delaney folded his long frame into the seat.

  ‘This is a terrible business. I still can’t believe it. Kira was so alive. Her parents must be devastated. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘That’s easy. Multi-talented. Fun. A powerful intellect, particularly in Maths. She was one of my best pupils.’

  ‘Is that why you became her tutor?’

  ‘The girls are allowed to choose a tutor. Provided not too many choose the same one, they are usually matched with their first choice.’

  ‘So you had a special bond?’

  Delaney gave him an inscrutable look. ‘It’s not unusual for a pupil to choose a tutor who is an expert in her area. It’s a sensible career move.’

  ‘That’s why she chose you?’

  ‘I assumed so.’

  ‘Do you have any other tutees?’

  He looked a little uneasy. ‘I had three originally, including Kira. Only one remains.’

  ‘What happened to the other one?’

  ‘Samantha left for the same reason as Kira.’

  ‘Because she was pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you thi
nk the group of girls who got pregnant had formed a pact?’

  He didn’t look surprised by the question.

  ‘“Pact” is probably too strong a word. Despite being brainy, Kira was also regarded as cool. That’s one of the advantages of single sex education for girls. They don’t need to pretend they’re not good at something to be cool. No boys in the classroom to play down to.’

  ‘You think Kira had influence over the other girls?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t mean she told them what to do. She was like a celebrity to them. Someone to emulate. If Kira did something unusual, then it was an OK thing to do.’

  ‘Why do you think the girls got pregnant?’

  ‘You mean was it accident or design? I have no idea, I’ve been asking myself the same question ever since Kira sprung her news.’

  ‘She told you first?’

  ‘I suspect I knew before her parents, but not before her friends.’

  ‘Was she upset?’

  ‘Not in the least. She was pleased. I was the one who was upset. I knew she could go far in Maths.’

  ‘And a baby would stop her doing that?’

  ‘Mathematicians do their best work early in their career. She knew that. In fact, she told me she was thinking of switching to Medicine instead.’

  ‘That must have disappointed you.’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘All teachers live through their protégés in some way. Yes, I admit I was disappointed.’

  ‘You said you had three tutees?’

  ‘Sandie’s the only one still here.’

  ‘Did she know Kira?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, she was with her the night she died.’

  An Alexandra Stewart-Smith had been on the list of friends with Kira that night. Sandie, David Murdoch and another boy, Owen Hegarty. He’d glanced over their statements but hadn’t yet met any of them. David he would speak to later today, but if Sandie was here, he could chat to her now.

  ‘I’d like to meet with Sandie if she’s in school today.’

  ‘She was in Maths first thing.’ Dr Delaney rose.

  Bill was struck again by his height. His presence dominated even a room as large as this. An ideal requirement for a teacher, although Bill’s own maths teacher had been a tiny, bird-like woman they’d christened the Hen because of her rotund shape and stick-thin legs. The Hen may not have been tall, but she had scared the living daylights out of him and everyone else in the class.