Geoff confirmed the phone story.
He’d found it on the side when washing his coffee cup that morning.
‘I like to give a lead,’ he said.
‘A lead?’ said Tamsin.
‘A communal kitchen can quickly become a messy place if people don’t take individual responsibility for washing up.’
‘So you always wash your cup?’ asked Tamsin, trying to keep mockery out of her voice. What a prig!
‘Always,’ said Geoff, with some satisfaction. He was Director of Boys, a man with many responsibilities in the school . . . but he also washed his coffee cup. ‘You set an example. It’s something I try to do.’
‘Because some don’t?’
‘Not everyone, no,’ said Geoff, shaking his head with disappointment.
‘So who doesn’t wash their coffee cup?’
‘And they’re the murderer, are they?’ he replied, with mockery.
‘Everything’s material,’ said Tamsin.
‘Though, no doubt, a psychologist would trace their inability to wash the cup back to some childhood trauma – imagined or otherwise!’
Peter noted the anger. Here was a man whose own childhood was a confused and confusing affair, still begging for resolution.
‘So who doesn’t wash up, Geoff?’ said Tamsin. ‘Who are the traumatized among us, as you say?’
‘Is this really important? I didn’t mean this to become—’
‘As I said, everything’s material.’
Geoff paused – would he play this game? Oh, why not? He’d kept his counsel on the matter for a while now and it hadn’t helped. It wasn’t as if he was being vindictive, the police wanted to know – and perhaps they had a right to know. He was only telling the truth.
‘Bart hardly ever bothers.’
‘Bart Betters, Director of Wellbeing?’
Geoff nodded.
‘It never occurs to him that wellbeing might start at the sink, with a dirty cup being washed.’
No love lost there, thought Peter. But then who did like Bart?
‘You’d think the Director of Wellbeing would wash everyone’s cup,’ said Tamsin, with a good shot at innocence. No one at HQ washed their cups. It was left to the cleaner at the end of the day, the lowest of the low in the feudal police hierarchy. They’d steal other people’s yogurts from the fridge; but washing their cup was beneath them.
Geoff grunted in response, he’d said enough on the matter.
‘But you had no reason to kill the headmaster yourself, I suppose?’ said Tamsin, casually.
‘I had no reason at all!’ What sort of a question was that? You help the police and this is how they thank you. ‘We were shoulder to shoulder leading this place forward.’
‘That’s a lovely phrase,’ said Peter – ‘“shoulder to shoulder”.’
‘I took him under my wing when he arrived,’ explained Geoff. ‘I helped him through those tricky first months, when there weren’t many other volunteers, I can assure you. He wasn’t a popular man at first.’
‘Oh?’
‘He arrived in a reverie of negativity towards the place, which isn’t always the best way.’
‘No,’ said Peter.
‘He was full of what we were not and how we were failing – and that got people’s backs up. But he grew to trust me, confided in me.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘All sorts of things.’
‘And this weekend past? Any particular issues of concern for him?’
Geoff had had ‘a particular issue of concern’ . . . but he wouldn’t be mentioning that.
‘He was worried about Ferdinand.’
‘Really?’
Tamsin saw a new road opening up.
‘Yes, he said he was in a mess – I don’t know what sort of mess, he didn’t say.’ Geoff pondered for a moment. ‘Last thing he said to me, in fact, before the afternoon break.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said Ferdinand had been a fool – and he didn’t know what to do. A worried man . . . and now he’s gone. Still can’t believe it.’
‘Shoulder to shoulder,’ said Peter, allowing Geoff his maudlin moment.
‘I’ve been here a long time, you see. Seen a lot of comings and goings, seen a lot of change – and you can’t buy that sort of experience.’
‘Though you can demote it,’ said Tamsin, like a silver stiletto. ‘And that would be very difficult to take, I’d imagine.’
Geoff’s face spoke of rising rage.
‘Only for a diva,’ he said looking pointedly at Tamsin. ‘Are we done?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I am.’
And with that, he got up from his seat and walked out.
‘He handled that question well,’
said Tamsin, smiling.
‘Surprised you let him go.’
‘He left without resolution – that will hurt him more than staying.’
‘Ah, Tamsin chooses the crueller way!’
‘Are you revving up for a sermon?’
They sat together in the school waiting room. It was tucked away behind the school reception area, comfortable chairs, occasional tables, with a full set of magazines about the countryside and glossy school brochures. And on the walls hung framed photos of vibrant teenagers – all hope and health with the confidence of the rich. Here they were at the Under-15s national hockey finals; there, in the school production of Macbeth – and by the door, a sun-drenched scene of a diving trip to Malta.
‘Angry man,’ said Peter and then, looking around at the photos to relax the atmosphere, added, ‘The children do get up to a lot at this place. Never a dull moment here.’
‘Just one lethal one,’ said Tamsin, despising the pupils for the opportunities they had. Her teenage years had been a harder road, one less paved with opportunity – and then her phone rang and she took the news with barely a flicker of reaction across her face. ‘Make that two lethal moments,’ she said. ‘Jennifer’s dead.’
The grinning teenagers now looked insensitive.
‘Where?’
‘Tide Mills – found by a dog walker an hour-and-a-half ago.’
‘What was she doing at Tide Mills?’
‘A history project? How do I know?’
Tamsin could be flippant under stress.
‘Everyone was asked to stay in. So what made her leave?’ Peter was talking more to himself. But Tamsin was thinking about Chief Inspector Wonder, about a spiralling disaster – and about her insistence on the abbot when perhaps a proper detective would have been better.
‘And how?’ asked Peter.
‘And how what?’ There was frustration in her voice.
‘How was she killed?’
Tamsin stared at him, irritated by the question. She was suddenly looking at an old man in stupid clothes. He held her gaze. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.
‘Only another murder, when we’re supposed to be protecting everyone!’
‘And I was here last night, so I’m responsible? Jennifer murdered on my watch. Is that the accusation that’s choking you?’
Tamsin’s breathing was tight, she needed to calm herself and share the information – this is what she told herself. The therapist had said, ‘Sometimes you just need to count to ten, Tamsin, and let the panic pass.’ And though the advice grated a little, it was true . . . or true in a way. The abbot was all she had at the moment, and it had to work.
‘It’s strange,’ she said.
‘What’s strange?’
‘The murder.’
‘How strange?’
‘A blow to the head – but death by asphyxia; her respiratory system broke down.’
Peter absorbed the information. He thought of Mrs Docherty – and Gerry, the gardener. And then he thought of the effect of this news on the common room cabal.
‘We need to speak with the others now, as a group,’ he said.
‘I’d prefer we got on with the interviews.’
/>
‘This is going to unsettle them.’
‘Good.’
Peter paused. How to sell this to Tamsin?
‘Tamsin, you may be a brilliant detective.’ He didn’t believe this at present; he merely needed to calm the panicking child. ‘But if you want to avoid a heady mix of hysteria and delusional assumptions in the interviews to come, you will gather the group together now and settle them down.’
‘Settle them down? We’ll be doing centring exercises next!’
‘We’ll just be talking with them,’ said Peter, without adding the thought, and by the way, you’re sounding ridiculous.
‘They started doing centring exercises at my yoga group – and I was off, out of there in flash.’
‘I don’t understand the offence,’ said Peter. ‘But beyond your personal issues – and it’s a big beyond, the land of the sane, in fact – we have to do this. We have to meet with the suspects now – and tell them about Jennifer.’
And they did, gathering everyone together in the common room where Tamsin had the task of announcing another death. The room smelled of coffee, years of its aroma soaked into the wooden chairs and panelled walls. Though they hadn’t needed gathering. They’d all been there anyway, finding some sort of refuge in each other’s company. Well, all apart from Crispin and Holly who were lying in the sun on the grass outside, swatting flies and laughing together.
‘Rather sweet, isn’t it?’ said Penny, watching them. ‘The freedom of youth!’
‘That’s what I envy in teenagers,’ said Geoff, ‘the gift of excess.’ He seemed to have forgotten that he’d recently stormed out of the police interview. Who cares? was his feeling . . . perhaps he should try a bit more excess. ‘The freedom to be full of themselves,’ he said, ‘without a thought for others – to go with how they feel, no need to apologize! The head’s been killed, smashed on the rocks and there they are, out in the sun, life goes on, swatting flies, having a laugh – too full of their own life to care too much! That’s what I envy.’
And then he froze, remembering Cressida, who was reading in the corner. Oh God! He immediately turneds towards her, full of remorseful rage at himself.
‘I’m sorry if that sounded – well, insensitive, Cressida.’
But Cressida was smiling.
‘I’m sure we share your envy, Geoff. No need to apologize. The gift of excess – we lose it, don’t we? Or perhaps we never found it and have some catching up to do! We can learn from those two.’
Then Tamsin and Peter arrived – and once Holly and Crispin had been called in from their idyll on the grass, Tamsin spoke: ‘I need to make an announcement. And it’s not good news, I’m afraid.’ They were all silent, motionless. ‘We have just heard that Jennifer Styles is dead – has been found dead in suspicious circumstances.’
‘Murdered?’ asked Ferdinand.
‘It appears so, yes.’
There was an anguished squeal from Penny and incomprehension from everyone else.
‘To show an unfelt sorrow is an office which the false man does easy,’ said Crispin, with the confidence of one who recently sat English A level. ‘Malcolm in Macbeth. He says it after the murder of his father, King Duncan. He suspects Macbeth of crocodile tears. Like now – everyone looking sad . . . but there’s a false man here somewhere.’
‘Or woman,’ said Geoff.
It was Cressida who recovered first from Shakespeare’s sharp arrival.
‘Where was she found?’
‘At Tide Mills.’
Another gasp from Penny and Cressida was across to calm her.
‘And how did she die?’ asked Geoff, ‘if we may be allowed to know. Though presumably someone here already knows?’
‘I’m afraid we can’t say anything more at present – but we . . . the police are treating the death as suspicious.’
‘So definitely a murder,’ he said quietly. ‘Or rather, another murder . . . there really is a psycho sharing this common room with us.’ He looked around the room, smiling. ‘Well you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? Laugh – or scream.’
‘We’re pursuing every lead, but it’s true that, at the moment, we don’t want anyone to leave this site. You’ll stay in the East Wing – for your own security.’
‘Or closer to the killer,’ said Geoff, ‘depending on how you look at it.’
‘I’m just worried about Cressida,’ said Ferdinand Heep, the chaplain. ‘Stuck there at home by herself.’
What he was really thinking was something different. If freedom of movement was a factor, then if anyone had got down to Tide Mills last night, it was most likely to have been her. But he preferred his accusations passive, shrouded in the cloak of concern.
‘We are in the East Wing for our protection,’ said Peter, ‘not for our holding. We each have a window in our room – a window without bars. So that if we wished to open it and leave by it . . . then we could. I checked everyone’s door was locked at eleven – but I didn’t check everyone was in their room. You could have been at Tide Mills as well as anyone else.’
‘Perhaps your checking should have been more thorough,’ said Penny, still distraught.
‘Yes, perhaps it should have,’ said Peter. ‘But there are police . . .’
‘I knocked on Jennifer’s door last night and there was no reply.’
‘So you say.’
‘You could have done the same with everyone – the killer’s room would have been a silent place.’
‘That’s not a helpful image, guys,’ said Bart.
‘I cannot change the past, Penny,’ said Peter. ‘But I can attend to the present and I’m wondering about your phone.’
‘My phone?’
‘You said Geoff was the first person to see it, by the sink in the kitchen area here.’ Peter walked across to the small kitchen area. ‘And that was at . . .’
‘Nine o’clock this morning,’ said Geoff. ‘There it was, by the sink. Soaking . . . well, destroyed.’
‘Did anyone here put it there?’ asked Peter. ‘Or see it earlier?’ Blank faces.
‘Does a phone matter?’ asked Terence. ‘I mean, really! She’s found it, end of story surely? The headmaster’s dead – murdered! And now Jennifer!’
‘I hear your frustration, Terence. But I’m just thinking that either the phone put itself there last night, after a quick swim in the washing-up bowl – or someone in this room is lying.’
‘Is the idea that Penny simply left it there so impossible to believe?’ said Terence. ‘I mean, really!’
‘Well, she says she didn’t,’ said Peter. He glanced at Penny who was glaring at Terence. ‘And I believe her . . . in this matter.’
‘And for obvious reasons, we now ask that everyone hand over their phones,’ said Tamsin.
Silence.
‘You’re not having mine,’ said Holly.
‘I’m afraid we need everybody’s, Holly.’
‘No way. It’s against my human rights.’
It was always one of the harder aspects of an investigation: asking people to let go of their phones was like asking people to say goodbye to a limb.
‘But what am I going to do without it?’
It was a cry of abandonment from the head girl, who could not conceive of a meaningful existence away from the most important relationship in her life.
‘We’ll get them back soon enough,’ said Cressida, in a warm manner. ‘We must all just be brave.’ And with that she got up, walked forward and placed her phone on the table by Tamsin. Others followed suit, like defeated warriors handing over their weapons to the victorious commander. Holly was the last to let go.
‘When do we get them back? It’d better be soon, I need my phone.’
‘We’ll get them back to you as soon as we possibly can,’ said Tamsin.
Holly’s trauma made it easier for the adults; they could play the strong and mature role – though inwardly they screamed quite as much as the girl and there was a fresh sense of bereavement in the common roo
m as the phones were placed in a bag.
‘So what now?’ asked Geoff, feeling a change of subject might be useful. He wasn’t happy about losing his phone. It was where he did most of his shopping – well, his more unusual shopping, at least. But best just to get on with things. ‘The summer holidays are postponed for another day or five?’
‘I think they are, Geoff,’ said Peter. He didn’t want Tamsin jumping in at this point with a ‘You’ll stay until I say you can leave!’ speech. ‘It’s a very difficult situation for us all and we’re all going to have to dig deep. You’re being asked to stay on site, keep as calm as you’re able, stay in contact with each other . . . there’s strength in the group. Avoid private encounters, though, if you can – and when alone, keep your door and window locked.’
The group assimilated this new set of orders but Ferdinand had a question: ‘Why Jennifer? Can anyone tell me why Jennifer had to die?’
‘And is it so obvious why Jamie had to die?’ asked Cressida pointedly.
‘Well . . .’
‘You’re talking as if Jamie’s death was quite normal!’
‘No, I mean – it’s just that, well – Jennifer. Not perhaps my favourite person, but . . .’
‘Who is your favourite person, Father?’ asked Crispin.
‘The Virgin Mary,’ said Penny, under her breath.
‘Or someone closer to home?’ asked Crispin, archly.
Where did that confidence come from?
‘Let me tell you all why Jennifer died,’ said Tamsin, intervening. ‘Jennifer died because she knew something.’ It was like throwing a rat in the snake pit and watching reactions.
‘She knew how to stop anyone getting to Jamie,’ said Geoff, jokily . . . but no one laughed. It was reckoned inappropriate, given the circumstances . . . though they all knew the truth of it and had raged often at her behaviour.
‘Murder is not a leisure activity,’ said Tamsin. ‘It has its own dark reasons. And one murder can lead to another, once the awkward track-covering begins. The murderer looks around them and must consider: Who knows what? And can what they know harm me? If it can harm them, they may well kill again – killing does get easier, though less assured. Mistakes get made in the cover-up operation.’
She looked around her, seeking panic in one set of eyes.
A (Very) Public School Murder Page 11