Crime in the School

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Where to, Guv?’ asked Noakes, suppressing a belch as he sat with Markham in the car park at Our Lady of the Angels.

  ‘Back to the station, Sergeant. Let’s take some time to regroup. Burton and Doyle can hold the fort for a while longer at Hope.’

  As they slid into the rush-hour traffic, Markham’s mind replayed the afternoon’s proceedings. He had an uneasy feeling that he had missed something. It hovered on the periphery of his vision, but try as he might he could not grasp it.

  Noakes seemed to read his mind.

  ‘It’s all that black, Guv,’ he pronounced elliptically.

  ‘How so, Sergeant?’

  ‘Everyone looks the same, don’t they? I mean, like them nuns from that convent place round the back of Bromgrove Uni.’

  Markham was quite intrigued to see where this was leading.

  ‘The Sisters of Saint Cecilia, Noakes? What about them?’

  ‘Well, they all look like crows. My Muriel says she can’t tell one from another cos the black getup makes them seem identical.’

  Even allowing for Noakes’s rooted anti-Papist prejudice, Markham had to admit that he had a point.

  ‘Yes,’ he mused, ‘no-one stood out today… All the faces were blurred … as if someone had gone over them with a smudge-stick.’

  Noakes was gratified with the DI’s reception of his hypothesis. That’s one in the eye for smarty-pants Kate Burton, he thought.

  Back at the station, they had barely hung their steaming jackets to dry on CID’s temperamental radiator when the desk sergeant put his head round the door.

  ‘DCI Sidney’s wanting you, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Put out an All Ports Alert.’

  Markham groaned.

  ‘Oh God, that’s all I need.’ Hopefully he asked, ‘Any chance of stalling him?’

  ‘More than my life’s worth, Inspector, if you know what I mean.’

  Markham did know, all too well.

  ‘OK, Noakes, better get up there.’

  Slimy Sid’s PA was usually an accurate barometer of the great man’s mood. Today, the auguries were not good, Miss Peabody’s hands alternately fingering her pearls and fluttering about her marcel-waved hair as though to propitiate an angry deity.

  She did not meet Markham’s eyes.

  Another bad sign.

  ‘Please go straight in, Inspector,’ she said faintly.

  Markham was aware of Noakes straightening his tie and sucking in his paunch.

  Don’t rise to Slimy Sid, he told himself. Whatever the bastard says, don’t rise to it.

  As it happened, DCI Sidney was not alone.

  A stocky, bushy-haired man with the florid face of a drinker and curranty eyes was overflowing one of the four chairs at the conference table.

  The DCI looked distinctly plethoric himself, reflected Markham, as he and Noakes seated themselves. Though in his case, it was likely to be the result of temper rather than anything of a bacchanalian nature. Even Sidney’s bald dome seemed to shake out sparks of irritation, while a testy tugging at the salt and pepper beard boded ill for his subordinates.

  ‘This is Mr Jed Harris, Parent Governor at Hope Academy, Inspector.’ Sidney’s tone was minatory. ‘He wants to know what you are doing to find this … this maniac. And so do I.’

  ‘With respect, sir, it’s been less than a week since Ashley Dean’s murder—’

  ‘And in that time another member of staff has been killed on your watch.’ Sidney’s voice dripped venom.

  ‘Audrey Burke’s death is being investigated with all possible expedition, sir.’ Markham’s reply was inflectionless.

  Jed Harris’s face was a picture of honest bewilderment.

  ‘I’ll not beat about the bush, Mr Markham. I want to know what the ’eck’s going on at the school. Nobody’ll give us the time of day ’cept the journos outside.’

  Markham cursed Hope’s senior leadership team. They were supposed to be liaising with the police press office but had clearly decided to pull up the drawbridge and ring down the portcullis. What a self-serving shower. Too busy with their damage-limitation exercise to reassure worried parents.

  ‘I’m sorry parents haven’t been properly briefed, Mr Harris. I don’t believe there’s any risk to students, particularly as it’s half term next week.’

  The big man heaved himself up and proffered a meaty paw.

  ‘Appreciate it, Inspector. Just wanted to set the missus’ mind at rest. What with staff going down like ninepins. You start imagining all sorts.’

  As if in response to an invisible summons, Miss Peabody appeared.

  The DCI was all unctuous solicitude. ‘Be assured, Mr Harris, I am taking personal command of this investigation.’

  Which means taking the credit if we get a result and selling us down the river if we don’t, Markham’s eyes telegraphed Noakes.

  As soon as the door had shut behind the visitor, Sidney went on the attack, his voice rising several octaves and his complexion turning a deeper shade of puce.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Markham. I want results, d’you hear me? Results.’

  A vicious yank of the beard.

  ‘This could have serious ramifications for community relations.’

  Upset too many apple carts, in other words.

  ‘Start looking at local mental hospitals. Mark my words, that’s where you should be focusing your attention.’ Sidney’s eyes narrowed. ‘And no harassment of James Palmer.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  The DI’s expression was guileless.

  Noakes knew that look of old. It meant Markham intended to plough his own furrow and to hell with Slimy Sid.

  The show of subservience appeared to satisfy the DCI who dismissed them with a flick of his wrist.

  Miss Peabody hovered at the door, eyes downcast like the handmaid to a potentate.

  ‘I’ll want daily updates from now on.’ Sidney’s peevish tones followed them to the door and then, mercifully, faded away.

  The two men stood in the corridor and contemplated each other glumly.

  ‘I’ll get on to Burton, Guv. Tell her to put a rocket under Kavanagh and the press office.’

  Markham nodded gratefully, hardly trusting himself to speak, and the DS padded away on his errand.

  Wheels within wheels, thought Markham. He would have to give the appearance of keeping the DCI in the loop while secretly going his own way.

  Hope Academy would remain the focus of his search, not some sodding mental health facility.

  Back in CID, it felt as though the temperature had dropped. The DI shivered. He felt somehow at the mercy of centrifugal forces whirling him further and further away from the truth. Then he braced himself. Let battle commence!

  With the effect of a sharp concussion, he remembered there would be no Olivia waiting at home to take the sting out of Slimy Sid’s bromides. How he ached for her comforting presence now.

  Outside the wind keened sorrowfully. Markham could only hope it was not sounding another death knell.

  10

  The Eye of the Storm

  THE HASTILY CONVENED PRESS conference hadn’t gone too badly, thought Markham late that evening as he massaged his aching temples, eyes screwed up against the harsh glare of the electric light.

  He’d given a masterclass in equivocation that Slimy Sid himself could hardly have bettered – wall to wall platitudes and the usual guff about pursuing several lines of inquiry. Noakes had sat next to him, his lugubrious gravedigger’s expression striking the requisite note of solemnity.

  The DI could tell that sharp-elbowed wide boy from the Bromgrove Gazette hadn’t really bought it, but he stuck manfully to the script, the reference to ‘a seriously disturbed individual’ sufficiently vague as to include both local nutters and suspects closer to home.

  Thankfully, none of the hacks appeared to have got a whiff of Olivia’s involvement, and he intended to keep it that way. Without actually lying, he hadn’t corrected the assumption that a cleaner had d
iscovered Ashley Dean’s body. The DCI was liable to go off at the deep end if Markham’s personal life became the story, but tonight’s fudge should keep the vultures at bay. For a while, anyway. Noakes and Doyle had been tasked with escorting the visitors ‘safely off the premises.’ He could trust them to ensure that no-one took the scenic route!

  Before the press conference, there had been another staff briefing. Just as at Ashley’s funeral, James Palmer was conspicuous by his absence. Markham caught the tail end of some muttered conversations – ‘ashamed to show his face … no smoke without fire … what’s he got to hide?’ – which suggested that ill-feeling was mounting against the head. Or was it being cleverly stoked, he wondered. And, if so, by whom? A subdued Tracey Roach barely raised her eyes, while the rest looked equally shell-shocked. There was a brief ripple when Helen Kavanagh announced that she would be taking over as acting head pro tem, but this quickly died away. Markham’s recital of the bare facts about Audrey Burke’s murder was received in tense silence before a low murmuring broke out. Dave Uttley stood at some distance from his colleagues, grey-faced and lost in thought. Doctor Abernathy plucked distractedly at the sleeves of his academic gown, while a sallow young man whose lanyard proclaimed him to be the deputy facilities manager bounced nervously on the balls of his feet as he hovered behind the new acting head awaiting instructions.

  Afterwards, as the gathering dispersed, Matthew Sullivan ambled across to speak to the DI. Markham registered that the teacher was looking uncharacteristically drawn, his features almost emaciated. He reckoned Doctor Abernathy had noticed it too from the look of concern he directed at his young colleague on leaving the briefing.

  ‘Never made much of an effort with Audrey,’ he said with quiet sincerity. ‘And now it’s too late.’

  Markham had inwardly been wrapping his soul in cold reserve, prepared to rebuff any approach to the subject of his girlfriend. It was a relief to his shrinking sensitivity that Sullivan clearly didn’t intend to speak about the rupture with Olivia.

  The reprieve was almost too great for him to feel anything else, but Markham nevertheless strove to find some words of comfort.

  ‘I’m sure a great many people here would say the same.’

  ‘Still, it’s no excuse. We all took her for granted.’ A muscle jumped at the corner of Sullivan’s mouth. ‘And now look at us. More concerned with ourselves than Audrey.’

  Timor mortis conturbat me.

  Harry Mountfield had been watching them and now threaded his way through the crush of bodies. As Kavanagh swept by on a wave of Hugo Boss pour femme, he grimaced. ‘You won’t get far quoting “No man is an island” to that one, Matt!’

  Sullivan gave a short laugh. ‘Too right.’ He turned to Markham. ‘Audrey had a life, maybe not a great one, but it was taken away from her. See you get whoever did it,’ he said before allowing Mountfield to draw him away.

  Helen Kavanagh’s high-wattage insincerity was at full throttle.

  ‘I simply must check how JP is coping. He shouldn’t think of getting back in the saddle when he must be in pieces about Ashley,’ she trilled.

  ‘And Audrey,’ added Markham drily, gratified to note that Kavanagh had the grace to look somewhat discomfited.

  He was willing to bet she had somehow brought pressure to bear on the LEA, resulting in Slimy Sid’s recent fatwa. Hands off Hope, had been the message. Well, we’ll see about that.

  Two more days to half term. Then at least the premises would be free of kids milling around.

  He frowned. The autopsy reports on both Ashley and Audrey had made it clear they couldn’t rule anyone out.

  Even a woman. Or a teenager.

  Who were those lads who had been excluded after an altercation with Ashley Dean? The ones who’d accused him of being JP’s bumboy?

  Their alibis needed checking.

  Plus, they needed to encourage any victims of bullying by Ashley Dean to come forward.

  Perhaps Matthew Sullivan or, better still, Harry Mountfield could help there as they seemed to have the kids’ trust.

  ‘I don’t want to come over all Dead Poets on you,’ Mountfield had told them, ‘but the truth is I just want to give some of these poor little sods a better song to sing.’

  Despite his ingrained cynicism, Markham had been touched. Mountfield clearly had faith in all the Laurens, Nickis and Jakes, seeing beyond the bluster and bravado to the frightened waifs beneath. Watching him with the youngsters at break time – joshing dull-eyed lads and coaxing a smile from even the tartiest teenage jezebels – Markham had the feeling that this was a man who really cared.

  So many tasks to be actioned.

  Sisyphus.

  Markham felt heavy-headed and sluggish, as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of his body. How did staff stand being stuck in the bunker all day? His thoughts turned to Olivia – a caged songbird in this airless aviary …

  There was a knock.

  DC Burton’s shiny, burnished head appeared round the door.

  Markham dredged up a welcoming smile.

  ‘Come in, Kate.’

  Burton perched on a chair. That was one of her traits, he’d observed – she never made herself properly comfortable, but always sat bolt upright and alert as though it would somehow be a dereliction of duty to let her spine touch the back of a seat.

  ‘Where’re we up to with pupil statements? The boys who’d … had issues with Ashley Dean?’

  The notebook was flipped open before he had finished speaking.

  ‘Declan Thompson, Callum Smith and George Hickson,’ she rattled off. ‘Alibied by their mums for both murders, sir.’

  ‘Hmm, weak alibis then. What’s the betting the three musketeers had their stories off pat well before we came calling?’

  Burton smiled weakly. ‘More than likely. They all live in Hugh Gaitskell House on the Hoxton.’

  The Hoxton. Bromgrove’s notorious sink estate. Popularly known as Scrote Central.

  ‘What was your impression, Kate, having seen them in their “natural habitat”?’

  The DC’s expression was queasy.

  ‘Pretty much your typical teenage lowlifes, sir. Lots of homophobic digs at Ashley, the head, Mr Sullivan and a few others.’

  Sullivan. Now that was interesting.

  ‘They didn’t have a good word for anyone at Hope except for Harry Mountfield. Had the odd kickabout with him, apparently.’ Unexpectedly, she grinned. ‘They seemed to have a soft spot for Doctor Abernathy too. Said he was,’ she consulted her jottings, ‘mad as a box of frogs, but a nice old git.’

  ‘Perhaps here’s hope for them yet, then,’ said Markham.

  ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, sir. From what the neighbours said, they’re real tearaways.’

  ‘But not killers?’

  Burton chewed her lip and fiddled with her pen.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ she said cautiously. ‘The boys were upfront about loathing Ashley – said whoever offed him deserved a medal – but they seemed as shocked as everyone else. And there wasn’t a flicker when I mentioned Audrey. Declan even asked if she was the bird with the big boobs who came round when they wagged school. I think he meant the Attendance Officer … it was obvious none of them had a clue who Audrey was.’

  Markham digested this information.

  ‘What about the student who was supposedly being bullied by Ashley?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘Pete Clarke.’ Burton shook her head. ‘He looks like a stiff breeze’d blow him over, Guv.’

  She checked her notes. ‘He admitted Ashley was throwing his weight around – making snide remarks about him being a nancy boy stoner – but he seemed quite cool about it, so I reckon Declan and the other two were just using it as an excuse to have a go at Ashley.’

  ‘Anything useful from other students?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ Again, she shook her head sorrowfully, the soulful brown eyes heightening her resemblance to a miniature dachshund. Markham half expected her to
sit up and beg.

  ‘All alibied, I suppose?’

  ‘To the hilt, and nothing flagged up on the statements as far as we can see.’

  ‘So, Ashley had a sadistic streak – took a delight in tormenting people. But, from the sound of it, we’re not looking for someone from the student population?’

  ‘S’pose it’s possible.’ Burton sounded dubious. ‘Or maybe an adult manipulated one of the kids into acting as an accomplice …’

  The DI’s brooding gaze was despondent.

  What are we missing, he asked himself for the umpteenth time. Was some maniac on the loose, corrupting teenagers like a psychopathic Pied Piper? Did the key to the murders lie somewhere in Ashley’s past? What had he done to merit such a hideous end? Where did Audrey fit in? The questions pounded his brain like insistent hammers on an anvil.

  A soft cough alerted him to Burton, waiting deferentially for further insights.

  Clearly she saw him as some sort of reincarnation of Inspector Morse, he thought irritably, when he felt a million miles removed from such sphinx-like omniscience.

  The DC coughed again as if she had something difficult to say. A rush of colour streamed into her cheeks.

  ‘D’you fancy a drink, sir? To take your mind off the case.’

  The question hung in the air between them, the silence suddenly charged with meaning.

  Burton’s big brown eyes were full of abject supplication.

  Damn, damn and double damn! Markham cursed himself for a blind fool. He should have seen this coming. Now he had to let her down tactfully, kindly, without damaging the professional trust between them.

  ‘I’ll have to pass tonight, I’m afraid, Kate.’ He strove for an avuncular tone, ignoring the unspoken message her eyes were sending him. ‘I’m too bushed to be great company. Besides, my girlfriend will be waiting for me.’ Perhaps by saying this, he could make it a reality. ‘You, Noakes and Doyle can raise a glass to me.’

  The DC’s cheeks were a painful scarlet.

  ‘S’all right, sir.’ Her voice was small. ‘You must want to get off.’

  At that moment, the door banged open and Noakes slouched into the room.