A (Very) Public School Murder

by Parke, Simon;

  ‘But what a performance! I mean, why not just tell the truth, instead of that absurd . . . ? Well, you heard her.’

  ‘I think you’re being a little harsh.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s how I get results.’

  ‘But you have to imagine how you’d feel, Tamsin.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Why would I want to imagine that?’

  ‘How you’d feel if you had to recount the most embarrassing experience of your life to some stranger?’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Precisely. But the police – you expect people to do just that, and without deviation or emotion.’ Tamsin arched her eyebrows. ‘We all have embarrassment in our lives, aspects of our past we’d prefer not to recall – given what we did or how we behaved. Who wants to talk about their most shameful experience to anyone, let alone some nameless – and possibly aggressive – police officer, who they don’t know if they can trust?’

  ‘It’s not about trust.’

  ‘It’s all about trust. And you can multiply the shame by ten if you’re eighteen years old and life thus far has been about little more than appearance and survival. So Rule No.1 – you lie or cry when the police come knocking.’

  Tamsin gave him a ‘have-you-quite-finished?’ look. Peter contemplated the chair the girl had vacated.

  ‘So what was the confession of Holly Hope-Walker?’ she asked.

  Father Ferdinand took his seat

  in the waiting room. He had the hunched shoulders of one used to leading, but aware roles were now reversed and humbly content with these circumstances.

  ‘If I can help you, Sergeant, you can be sure that I will.’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Tamsin and Ferdinand smiled knowingly, having discreetly made his point. He didn’t agree with women bishops – a really most unfortunate development; and this policewoman seemed to imagine herself with similar powers, which, with the best will in the world, was not how God intended things to be.

  ‘It is, of course, a great tragedy,’ he added – though Ferdinand was the tragedy as far as Tamsin was concerned. So much about him irritated her it was hard to know where to begin. She was irritated by his attack on her status, by his pious words which sounded like a script . . . and by the dog collar he persisted in wearing during the investigation. It marked him out as separate, when really, he was nothing special – just another murder suspect . . . and not a popular one at that.

  ‘Isn’t the dog collar just for the pupils, Father Heep – so they know who you are?’

  ‘A calling is for life, Sergeant – not just for term time.’

  Heep smiled knowingly. He’d learned to defend himself from such attack. He was like the fish who muddies the water around it by ejecting sand from its mouth, obscuring itself until the threat has gone away. In like manner, Ferdinand had lines he could use until the danger had passed. But the danger hadn’t passed yet; Tamsin was a determined predator.

  ‘And part of your “calling”’ – it was said with disdain – ‘is a white piece of plastic round your neck?’

  ‘I can’t not be what I am . . . and I’m a priest.’

  More sand blown; perhaps they’d leave him alone now.

  ‘Which explains why Jesus wore his dog collar with such pride?’

  Ferdinand would not even bother to respond to that.

  ‘So are you a good priest?’ asked Tamsin, changing tack.

  ‘That’s hardly for me to say!’

  ‘Then shall we ask Holly?’

  ‘Holly?’

  ‘Head girl of Stormhaven Towers last year – she might have some insights.’

  Ferdinand’s heart beat hard, more defence needed . . . more sand in the water.

  ‘Well, you may know where this is leading, Sergeant, but I certainly don’t! Has Holly said something? I imagine she must have done. But she can be a rather – well, imaginative girl.’

  ‘She said that you touched her up.’ Ferdinand was silent. ‘So how imaginative was that? We found the money, you see.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The story started two years ago, didn’t it?’ said Peter. ‘This is what Holly says.’

  Ferdinand turned to him in disgust and then to Tamsin: ‘Does he have to be here?’

  ‘Yes, he does have to be here, Ferdinand.’

  ‘I do have a name,’ said Peter.

  ‘He’s not even a monk any more – he’s just some washed-up nobody, pretending to be . . .’

  Peter watched him. The sand-blowing fish now a fish on the end of a line, thrashing about, this way and that. Tamsin cut in: ‘So shall I tell you the story? Or will you tell us?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, I’m afraid.’ He grimaced in bemused defiance. ‘Holly is presenting a tissue of lies. I don’t know what they are, but they appear to have fooled you – just as she fools everyone else, drawing them into her pretty little thrall.’

  ‘You’re making her sound like a witch.’

  ‘I’m making her sound like a misguided and deceitful teenager, which is exactly what she is.’

  ‘You find teenagers difficult?’

  ‘Have you not noticed that everyone wants to be Holly’s friend?’ said Ferdinand. ‘Perhaps she took you in as well?’ Tamsin paused for a moment, thinking back to their meeting. Had they been suckered by her? Ferdinand continued: ‘I have some experience of these things, and there’s a pattern – certainly with the allegations of sexual impropriety against celebrities – which I follow closely.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘A strange hobby, Father.’

  ‘And the truth is – it’s the number of witnesses that tends to make the case.’ Peter could hear his growing confidence, as if this was a common room discussion he’d had a few times – and perhaps he had. Common rooms across the land lived in fear of the nightmare allegation of sexual impropriety . . . and the suspension that followed, while the investigation was carried out. It was always the beginning of the end, with no way back for the accused. ‘Of course we believe you one hundred per cent, Malcolm, you know that – we just have to go through the process, be seen to be taking it seriously. And if you want to use the time to consider other schools – or perhaps another career – then do!’

  One spiteful teenager – no shortage of those – and there was your career gone.

  ‘If there are a number of allegations,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘allegations from more than one child, then it doesn’t look good. There’s no smoke without fire, as they say.’ This, sadly, had been the case with his predecessor at Stormhaven Towers. ‘But when there’s just one allegation – and from a rather insecure girl from a broken home – then you have to start wondering about the motive. Are they really to be believed over the word of an adult, and not any adult – but the school chaplain?’

  Absolutely, thought Tamsin, who’d believe anyone before him. But without the necessary evidence on this occasion, she was struggling. And where was such evidence to be found? One word against another was not a good way to proceed in sexual harassment cases; the chaplain was right. Corroborating evidence was required, evidence that built the story . . . like other victims coming forward. But the ones who might do so in this case – the other pupils – were long gone, driven away in their BMWs and 4×4s and now holidaying in the Alps . . . and with Chief Inspector Wonder already pressing for a result. She could still hear his voice.

  ‘Wrap it up quickly, Shah, for God’s sake,’ he’d said on the phone earlier. ‘Half the Rotary Club seem to have a grandchild at the school, which did not make for an easy lunch today.’

  ‘My sympathies are with you.’

  ‘All sorts of comments over the prawn cocktails! They don’t want the name of the school tarnished. “A local jewel” as one of them called it and we have to look after that jewel. I mean, are we sure it wasn’t simply two suicides – unfortunate, but hey-ho, life goes on?’

  She’d put the phone down soon after, but the pressure was st
ill growing in her head. And now here was Ferdinand posing more questions, when she just wanted answers.

  ‘Wherever Holly got her money, it wasn’t from the chapel collection,’ said Ferdinand, like a barrister winding up the case for the defence and he left soon after.

  ‘We need that letter,’ said Peter.

  ‘If it exists,’ said Tamsin, with the air of the defeated. ‘Who do you believe?’

  Bart Betters was irritating.

  He was the last to be interviewed and couldn’t keep still. It was painfully apparent in the confined space of the waiting room, where his twitching ankles pushed his knees up and down at some speed. Peter was vexed by the movement, as restless as a monkey; and so he asked him if he could perhaps calm his legs. Bart asked what he meant by that and Peter leaned across and placed his hand on Bart’s knee until it stopped its frenetic movement.

  ‘It’s just an informal chat, Bart,’ said Tamsin, even more irritated than the abbot. ‘There’s no need to be tense.’

  ‘I’m not tense.’

  ‘Your legs were just a bit restless.’

  ‘My legs? I’ve done it all my life!’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve been restless all your life,’ said Peter. ‘Perhaps your muscles have never dared to relax?’

  ‘Why would I be restless? I’ve had a great life.’

  ‘I’m very glad,’ said Peter, allowing the foolishness for now. The ‘great life’ narrative would perhaps need questioning at some point, but it could wait.

  ‘I’m just a very active guy,’ said Bart. ‘I don’t like keeping still, too much to do in the world, too much to see – it’s like there’s a carrot in front of me!’

  ‘What’s like a carrot?’

  ‘The future! It’s there to be chased, I’m always chasing it. That’s wellbeing for you – seeing the carrot up ahead and striving to get there.’

  ‘That’s not wellbeing, Bart, that’s an illness,’ said Peter, who couldn’t be doing with this and felt the murder enquiry could wait. ‘Have you never learned to be still?’

  ‘Still? Why would I be still? Still is dull.’ Yes, Peter was afraid he might say that. ‘I like to run, as I believe you do, Abbot. Do you run far?’

  ‘Me? Oh well, I manage seven or eight miles a day . . . while the world is slowly waking.’

  ‘I prefer the shorter run, the sprint – faster! But I could catch you, Abbot, over any distance – and shoot past you!’

  ‘That’s possible. There’s the short-haul and the long-haul, Bart – the hare and the tortoise,’ said Peter.

  ‘We should try it! I use the barefoot running style, do you?’

  ‘I’ve read about it.’

  ‘Reading about it doesn’t help, Abbot – you need practice not theory! You should join the Stormhaven Striders – it’s a great running club, we run together twice a week.’

  ‘I prefer to run alone.’

  ‘No, this would be better for you. You’d enjoy it more.’

  That was not a good line to offer Abbot Peter.

  ‘I’m one of their lead runners now,’ continued Bart. ‘But all ages are welcome, you just find your own level. We have members older than you – and they’re learning the barefoot style! You should come down on the ball of the foot rather than the heel – which is, like, the last place you should be placing your weight when running. You should try it.’

  ‘That’s a lot of “shoulds”,’ said Peter, smiling through the pain.

  ‘Just trying to help.’

  ‘Is that why you walk in that odd way?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You walk in an odd way. I was just wondering if your barefoot running caused it?’

  Bart did look a little effete as he walked, apparently proceeding on tiptoe. But he had a reply: ‘From where I’m sitting, it’s you who has the odd walk, Inspector. All that heel-crunching! You wouldn’t have survived as a cave dweller – absolutely no way. You’d never have caught an animal with all your heel-crunching.’

  ‘Then how fortunate I have a Waitrose nearby – they catch the animals for me.’

  ‘You don’t like to be trapped, Bart – is that it?’ asked Peter, still dwelling on his restlessness. Bart did seem like a man on the run from something . . . never calm, never settled. Beyond the determined smile were hollow eyes . . . and now his knee shake had started again. It was as if this small circle of chairs was oppressing him.

  ‘Who likes to be trapped?’ he asked with a laugh. ‘I mean, c’mon, guys!’

  ‘And who likes it when the head thinks you’re a waste of space?’ said Tamsin, wishing to move on.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Bart was punctured but managed to keep smiling. ‘It was nothing like that.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘He didn’t understand wellbeing, anyway – he smoked, he drank, that’s how he relieved the tension.’

  ‘While your knees go up and down . . . cheaper, I suppose. And, of course, Jamie did have his running machine.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Bart pulled an odd face.

  ‘Anyway, I preferred the previous head,’ he said. ‘He was more understanding. He was old school, sure – but he listened to the advice of others, who told him that wellbeing is where it’s at now. A truly visionary leader.’

  ‘You mean he agreed with you,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘We were just starting some really, like, creative work when he left. We actually had “Woodland survival” as a core subject at Stormhaven Towers.’

  ‘And yet school numbers were dropping . . . because for better or for worse, not that many people live in woods these days.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘And certainly not those who can pay thirty thousand pounds a year for their children’s education – plus add-ons for exotic school trips. I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but people like that don’t tend to live in tree huts. Where would they park the BMW?’

  ‘More fool them. I once lived in a tree hut for a week in Tuscany. Amazing experience.’

  ‘But back on the ground, Bart, how long do you think you would have lasted in your present post, had Jamie had his way? Until Christmas? One more year tops?’

  Bart went on the attack.

  ‘So I’m the obvious murderer, am I? You really think I’d tell you these things if I killed him?’

  ‘Everyone’s an obvious murderer in my book,’ said Tamsin. ‘The abbot here – everyone.’ Peter looked slightly aggrieved but she’d made her point. ‘And you only tell us what you know we’ll find out. Isn’t that so? The head’s issues with your particular post are hardly a secret.’ She wouldn’t repeat Jamie’s comment to Ferdinand that the Director of Wellbeing post was ‘just a job for a teacher who can’t teach’. But she knew Ferdinand would be a willing source for other such anecdotes, should they be needed . . . anything to nobble Bart. And she knew Bart knew this too.

  ‘So where did you go when the head gave everyone two hours off on Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘I went for a run.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘I ran to Loner’s Wood beyond Cuckmere Gap. I fancied some dark leafy paths and the rich aroma of rotting bark. It’s a special place, you should try it, Abbot . . . as long as you don’t mind being alone in the dark!’

  ‘And you didn’t come back via Stormhaven Head, by any chance?’

  ‘It was hardly on my way.’

  ‘Only a ten-minute diversion, I suppose,’ said Peter.

  ‘But not one I took, all right?’

  He was eager in his denial.

  ‘On this occasion, perhaps. But you are often up there, I’m told – often seen around Stormhaven Head in your running kit and your rucksack weights. It is very beautiful, I grant you.’

  ‘It’s about the history.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s about feeling connected to the past in some eternal now.’

&nb
sp; An eternal now is what this conversation feels like, thought Tamsin, with the sense of one who has gatecrashed a Stormhaven Striders social night.

  But Bart wasn’t done: ‘There were Bronze Age and Iron Age forts there, you know. Think of that! All those years ago, people going about their lives in this place where we now live. Such different lives! Yet the same really, seeking peace and oneness, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you feel happier in the past?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I think you should honour the past.’

  Another ‘should’, noted Peter.

  ‘Because who’s now aware that the Romans settled here, for instance?’ asked Bart, now on a roll. ‘No one! Stormhaven doesn’t remember the Romans. But they took over the place, they were here, looking out on the same horizon that we do . . . Italians far from home, longing to get back . . . but many never did. They lived out their days in a foreign land – and died in a foreign land. You wouldn’t guess what’s beneath the Stormhaven Head golf course!’

  ‘A Roman burial ground?’ said Peter.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Bart would have preferred to surprise his interrogators. ‘A very large one. And most people here don’t know that.’

  Tamsin was now thinking fondly of Peter and decided to join in.

  ‘I can’t think which is more useless,’ said Tamsin. ‘A Roman burial ground or a golf course? Both feature the dead, of course. And one other thing, Bart,’ she continued, managing the transition without any change of tone, ‘how can you afford such an expensive car? I mean, on your wages?’

  The smart black Porsche, admired on their arrival, turned out to be owned by the Director of Wellbeing.

  ‘I believe in the Law of Attraction,’ said Bart. ‘What we are on the inside, we draw to ourselves on the outside.’

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t. ‘So you’ve been getting in touch with your inner black Porsche, Bart?’

  It remained a crime scene,

  the usual police tape, closing off the area – though forensics were long gone. And tomorrow, the haunted ruins that were Tide Mills would again be open to the public – open to walkers, to children and to the ghoulish, fascinated by recent death, voyeurs on murder. Some stood around the perimeters even now, trying to get a view, phones and binoculars straining for a sight of blood.