Crime in the School

by Catherine Moloney

  He’d get the Community team to do a discreet recce. Hadn’t Noakes mentioned that Hope was on PC Doyle’s beat? Yes, Doyle and Burton could pay a visit tomorrow – do a talk on drugs or some such as cover for sniffing around and getting the lie of the land.

  The decision made, Markham reluctantly turned his attention to the day ahead. Miss Purcell, his punctiliously correct PA, was no doubt hovering in the vicinity.

  Hope Academy would keep.

  3

  A Discovery

  FIVE P.M. ON FRIDAY afternoon.

  After a day of frenzied mayhem, Olivia was trying to keep a low profile.

  Located at the far end of the English wing, her classroom E1 was on the third floor of the ‘bunker’, with a bird’s eye view of the Children’s Memorial Garden in Bromgrove South Municipal Cemetery. She never failed to be touched by the array of brightly coloured balloons and inflatable toys bobbing above the marker stones in a gallant display of pride and commemoration. On her very worst days, when past horrors threatened to overwhelm her, these poignant offerings reminded her of the indomitability of the human spirit.

  What will survive of us is love.

  Standing by the window, she was smiling at two new Noddy and Brambly Hedge tributes and congratulating herself on having dropped off the senior leadership team’s radar when there was a gentle tap at the door. Suppressing a sigh, Olivia called, ‘Come!’

  Her head of department Doctor Abernathy stood irresolutely in the doorway, subfusc looking even more shop-soiled than usual, spectacles sliding down his nose and the shock of white hair standing on end as though he had spent the last hour running his hands through it in an ecstasy of abandonment. Anyone else would have barged in, Olivia thought, but not the doc. The man belonged to a different era. She noticed he was emitting those beaver-like noises he tended to make when he had something difficult to say.

  ‘Miss Mullen,’ he began softly before grinding to a halt.

  Olivia beamed encouragingly at him. He was such a dear man, totally unsuspicious that Hope’s senior leaders looked askance at his old-fashioned ways and were busily measuring him for his professional shroud.

  ‘Miss Mullen,’ he said pathetically, waving a crumpled sheaf of paper with a distracted air. ‘I fear I am behindhand with various administrative tasks including some data entry for Year 11.’

  Olivia could well imagine it, since he notoriously found digital media as impenetrable as Hindustani.

  ‘I allowed myself to become distracted by Doctor Donne,’ was the shamefaced excuse. ‘Time ran away from me …’ He trailed away into a series of inarticulate sounds

  Typical Abernathy. From anyone else in the department, it would have sounded deeply suspect, but not from him.

  ‘No problem at all, Doctor Abernathy,’ she reassured the old man whose lack of guile and prurient curiosity had been pure balm amidst the twittering and impertinent nosiness which had accompanied her return to Hope. ‘Leave it with me. I can easily put it on the system.’

  ‘That is most kind of you, Miss Mullen!’

  Abernathy looked as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Ramming his spectacles back to the top of his nose, he darted forward and thrust the wad of paper into Olivia’s outstretched hands before pirouetting on the balls of his feet and trotting away to his office at the opposite end of the landing. No doubt he would soon be blissfully re-immersed in The Complete Works of John Donne. Good luck to him, she thought, contemplating his retreating figure with affection. It would be terrible if JP, ‘Killer’ Kavanagh and co succeeded in replacing him with some whippersnapper who could talk fluent baloney with the rest of them!

  The thought of Hope’s senior management team had a galvanizing effect on Olivia. It was getting late and darkness was stealing over the memorial garden.

  Time to make a move.

  She hadn’t been quick enough!

  At that moment, Helen ‘Killer’ Kavanagh bustled in through the door that Abernathy had left open and, without waiting for an invitation, plonked her ample form down on a desk at the front. Olivia marvelled that it didn’t disintegrate beneath her.

  ‘Olivia, I’m always so impressed by your professionalism. No shooting off on the dot for you! Unlike some of your colleagues.’

  There was a pregnant pause. Clearly this was an invitation to bitch. But Olivia wasn’t biting.

  ‘Well, actually, I was just about to call it a day myself, Helen. All work and no play, you know …’

  The other bulldozed on regardless. God, thought Olivia, she was like some awful juggernaut. Programmed to bore the pants off anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path.

  ‘… omissions in the English faculty’s behaviour sweep.’ The woman finally paused for breath.

  Wondering irritably why the hell Killer always said faculty rather than department, Olivia’s gaze fell on the large stash of buff folders and computer printouts the deputy head was clutching to her capacious bosom.

  Rewinding the monologue to which she had been listening with only half an ear, she realized belatedly that she was being dumped on from a great height.

  Certain colleagues, it now transpired, had buggered off without completing some bureaucratic BS that was apparently urgently required.

  ‘But I knew you could be counted on to help plug the gaps.’

  Skewered by Kavanagh’s gaze, Olivia desperately tried to think of a pressing commitment elsewhere. And failed.

  ‘Splendid!’ the deputy head boomed, spraying her with copious amounts of spit. ‘It should only take a couple of hours.’ (Hours!) ‘And of course, it’s a feather in your cap. A real plus in terms of making up some of the ground you lost during your …’ She paused with ostentatious delicacy. ‘Sabbatical.’

  In the circumstances, Olivia felt she could dispense with that particular honour. Trust Kavanagh to identify the weak point in her professional armour. As usual, however, she was helpless in the face of the other’s remorseless momentum. Ignoring Olivia’s piteous look of mute appeal, the deputy head manoeuvred her bulk off the desk with surprising agility (now that it was mission accomplished, thought Olivia savagely) and sailed towards the door.

  ‘I’d have stepped in myself but for the Governors’ Meeting tonight. You know how it is!’

  Oh yes, I blankety-blank well know how it is, screamed Olivia inwardly, finding some relief in assorted profanities as she raged against the unfairness of it all. Trust bloody Kavanagh. Skipping off on Smarm Patrol (the leopard-print stilettos always came out on such occasions) while leaving her to sort out yet another departmental cock-up. At least the deputy head hadn’t managed to catch poor Doctor Abernathy red-handed in the act of abdicating his administrative responsibilities. Then it really would have been a case of blood on the carpet. Nature red in tooth and claw!

  Glumly, she gazed out at the gathering dusk.

  There goes my precious Friday evening down the swanny!

  Eventually Olivia calmed down sufficiently to recall that it would be hours yet before she saw Markham. Wearily, she plugged in her ancient kettle and made some black coffee in the only one of her mugs that didn’t resemble a still life with fungi. Times like this really called for a minibar, but caffeine (and lots of it) would have to do. Muttering wrathfully to herself, she set her shoulder to the wheel. Kavanagh owed her for this big time and, for once, she was going to make sure she called in the debt.

  Some considerable time later, Olivia sat back and massaged her aching shoulders. Her head throbbed and her eyes were gritty with weariness. She glanced at her watch.

  Nine p.m.! OMG!

  She checked again to make sure. But there was no mistake. Those ‘omissions’ Kavanagh had airily mentioned turned out to be more like great gaping chasms.

  A little chill ran down her back.

  Nine p.m. meant that the Facilities Management team would have closed up for the night. Which meant that she was locked in! For some reason, no-one had checked her end of the wing as per
the Facility Management team’s usual procedures.

  Olivia opened her door and peered out. All was still and silent. Without students and staff, the building resembled a submarine, fathoms removed from the upper world. The distant hum of traffic from beyond the cemetery sounded like the distant swell of ocean breakers, a sinister lullaby putting the school to sleep.

  What was that? Blinking myopically, jolted out of her trance, Olivia was sure she had seen a shadow detach itself from the wall and whisk around the corner, moving sinuously in the direction of the stairs at the far end of the corridor.

  ‘Hello. Is anyone there?’

  She felt decidedly foolish croaking from the door of E1. But something – she couldn’t say what – had caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. She just had a gut feeling. Something was terribly wrong.

  Perhaps Doctor Abernathy was still in his office communing with John Donne. It wouldn’t be the first time that the delightfully impractical head of English had been locked in. Gliding down the corridor like a ghost, she paused outside his office.

  It was a forlorn hope. The good doctor was gone for the night.

  Her head whipped round. Shit! Wasn’t that the lift?

  Yes, she could hear its creepy automated voice and the soft whoosh of closing doors. Someone else was definitely in the building with her. Someone who didn’t want to be seen.

  Enough, she told herself firmly before walking cautiously down the stairs.

  She checked the second floor landing and corridor, then the first.

  Finally, she reached the ground floor. The lift appeared undisturbed, the cage in its usual position, no lights flashing or anything else amiss. And yet, she was sure she had heard it travelling between floors.

  All clear.

  But Olivia still had a sixth sense that something was off-centre. She was so used to the feel of the school – like a shabby overcoat which moulded itself to her body – that she instinctively sensed something in the atmosphere had shifted. It was as if some noxious substance, as deadly as any stored in the science department’s fume cupboards, had escaped and was on the loose.

  She shuddered. This was getting ridiculous, she admonished herself. Less Stephen King and more Home and Garden for her in future! Taking a deep breath, she asked herself what Markham would do.

  Right, she would go back up to her classroom and call that miserable git Jim Snell on her mobile. He would come over all ‘belligerent of Bromgrove’ on her, but it couldn’t be helped. Any port in a storm.

  Leadenly, her ears pinned back for signs of anything unusual, Olivia trudged back up the stairs to the third floor.

  And came up short.

  She felt her chest tighten, her breath catch.

  About halfway along the corridor was a dark bundle as though someone had curled up on the floor and was sleeping.

  Shrinking against the wall, feeling her way along with her fingers, she inched closer.

  A mannequin. With some sort of purplish mask over the face.

  What, she wondered in bemusement, was one of the props from drama doing up here on the third floor?

  Oh dear God in heaven. The metallic smell of blood should have alerted her. This was no prop.

  A body. And somebody had smashed the face to a pulp.

  Olivia reeled backwards in horror. Don’t you dare faint, she muttered, wrapping her arms round her shaking body, her nails digging into the skin hard enough to draw blood.

  Breathing in shallow gasps through her mouth, she crouched down beside the body.

  It was the signet ring on his pinkie, not the gleaming blond hair nor the made-to-measure suit, which told her who it was.

  The Dreamboat. Ashley Dean. The man she had seen only that afternoon laughing his handsome head off with JP as they stood together, thick as thieves, in conclave at the door of the headmaster’s office. And now her premonition had come to pass. Somebody had silenced the arrogant laughter for good.

  The face was unrecognizable. Olivia could feel the hatred behind the obliteration of Dean’s features.

  Forcing herself to look further down, she saw with horror that the crotch too was a sea of blood. Mutilation. Oh dear God in heaven.

  Olivia began to feel as though she was floating above her own body and observing the grotesque scene from above. Shock, I’m in shock.

  For all she could tell, the murderer might still be in the building. My phone, I’ve got to get my mobile and call the police, hammered the insistent refrain in her head. But still she crouched there transfixed. A sound that she did not recognize as her own voice seemed to reach her from somewhere a long way away, sobbing and moaning, as if in the grip of a bad dream.

  Eventually, shaking all over, Olivia found herself back in E1. Afterwards, she had no recollection of making the journey from the third floor abattoir to her classroom, nor of calling 999 and Markham. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of blue lights, screaming sirens and practised hands lifting her gently into an ambulance.

  ‘Please, not with his body!’ she begged, and they seemed to understand.

  The last thing she remembered before the prick of a doctor’s needle was Markham’s powerful tender hand taking her cold fingers in his and the well-beloved voice soothing her with calm authority.

  ‘We’ll take it from here, darling Liv. We’ll take it from here.’

  Bathed in its sullen after hours nimbus of pallid neon, Bromgrove Police Station looked deceptively quiet from the outside. CID, by contrast, was a hive of activity, with officers scurrying about creating an ad hoc Incident Room. The dejected-looking Swiss cheese plants received short shrift.

  ‘Get those bloody creepers out of here!’ yelled Noakes, sprawled across his workstation and dunking a Krispy Kreme doughnut into a mug of creosote-strength coffee. ‘You can dump ’em on “Titchmarsh” Taylor in Vice!’

  Finally, an array of whiteboards, consoles, maps and telephones had been scrambled to his satisfaction.

  ‘Cheers, lads,’ he declared, ‘you’ve done a great job. We’ll sort the office manager an’ indexers tomorrow morning with the guv.’

  As the office emptied, DC Burton came panting into the room, closely followed by PC Doyle, both wide-eyed with excitement at the prospect of a real-life murder investigation. Burton’s eyes were the size of enormous brown lollipops, while Doyle’s open carroty face was even more flushed than usual.

  Kate Burton was breathless with enthusiasm. ‘Is it true there’s been a homicide at Hope Academy, Sarge?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ replied Noakes, very much the inscrutable old-timer whom nothing could discompose.

  ‘Is it true that DI Markham’s girlfriend found the body?’ blurted Doyle. ‘What’s she like? Is she a stunner like the fellows in Traffic say? Wasn’t she involved in the St Mary’s murders last year?’

  Observing the air of quiet desolation which stole across Burton’s face at these questions, Noakes smiled to himself. So, that’s the way the land lies.

  In a manner suggestive of the ancient family retainer guarding his master’s secrets, Noakes loftily kept his counsel. ‘Not my place to say. The boss’ll tell you what you need to know.’

  In truth, the DS felt oddly protective of Markham and Olivia. He well knew the DI’s loathing of ‘canteen culture’ and vividly recalled the way Markham had shrunk from exposure of his fledgling relationship. Despite himself, he had been stirred by Olivia’s grace and tender solicitude for her policeman lover. Something about the way she looked at Markham brought a lump to Noakes’s throat. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him like that.

  The swing doors to CID whooshed open, and suddenly Markham was striding towards his office, crooking a finger for the team to follow.

  With a heavy sigh, he flung himself into the chair behind his desk, causing its springs to squeal in protest.

  ‘How’s she … er, the witness … er, the lady who found the body … doing?’ Noakes felt it incumbent on him to speak fir
st.

  The DS’s ponderous attempts at discretion were wasted.

  ‘No need to beat about the bush, Noakes.’ Markham shot him a wry smile. ‘Olivia’s fine, thank God, just badly shocked.’ His hands gripped the arms of the chair so that the knuckles stood out white. ‘Having found the body, she’s potentially at risk, though. The message needs to go out loud and clear that she didn’t see or hear anything.’

  ‘Roger that, Guv.’ Noakes was stolidly reassuring. He glared at the two younger officers, as though they might have been tempted to disagree and cleared his throat. ‘Have we got ID on the victim, Guv?’

  ‘The assistant head, one Ashley Dean.’ Markham’s features contracted at the memory of that butchered corpse. ‘It was a bloodbath,’ he added sombrely before shaking himself. ‘Look, you should get off home. I’m just going to write an initial briefing note for DCI Sidney. Yes,’ in answer to Noakes’s interrogative look, ‘they’re letting me take charge of this one though the DCI’s technically SIO. It could be a can of worms if the gentlemen of the press get a whiff of Olivia’s involvement. So, for God’s sake, no leaks!’ Markham’s tone was fierce. Burton and Doyle nodded mutely before heading for the door as one.

  Noakes lingered. ‘Will you be all right, Guv?’

  Markham made a shooing gesture. ‘Get some shut-eye, Noakesy, I’ll see you bright and early. There’s something really nasty about this one, so we need to hit the ground running.’

  After the DS had left, Markham switched off the light in his office and sat brooding in the darkness.

  Olivia had been right. There was something foul and misshapen concealed at Hope Academy. Pray God he could bring every secret into the light and, above all, keep Olivia safe.

  4

  Aftermath

  MID-MORNING ON SATURDAY, MARKHAM and Noakes sat in the DI’s office reviewing developments. Noakes was aware that the DI had already visited the hospital to check on Olivia, but refrained from raising the question of her return to Hope. For all his lack of refinement, the DS was capable of surprising sensitivity where Markham was concerned. The boss would get around to the subject of his girlfriend when he was good and ready.