‘Overly tactile.’ Harries sneered. ‘Is that teacher-speak for roving hands? They’d certainly go with his roaming eye, wouldn’t they?’
‘You picked up on that, too?’
‘I’m not blind, boss.’
She pulled down the visor, checked her hair was OK, gave a wide grin. Spinach or anything else between the teeth wasn’t a good look whatever you were doing, and would certainly do nothing for her cred during a witness interview.
‘So, boss, off somewhere nice?’ The insouciant expression and arch tone belied an ostensibly casual query. Her DC had clearly cottoned on to more than Rust’s roaming anatomy.
Pushing the visor back, she cast him what her mother used to call an old-fashioned look. It was lost on Harries, who kept his gaze steadfastly ahead. She gave in eventually, broke the silence with a pointedly polite: ‘I beg your pardon, DC Harries?’
‘You and Henry.’ He sniffed. ‘Just wondered where you were going, like.’
Henry. Ha-ha. She turned face-on to the young detective. ‘Ben Cooper and I could be going scuba diving for a week in the Bahamas for all it’s any of your business, Harries.’
He raised a palm. ‘I only asked.’
‘You only earwigged.’
‘Below the belt, boss!’ He affected great offence. Whether the pun was deliberate or not, she caught his lips twitching.
‘And if it gets round the squad . . .’ Seething, stony-faced.
‘No worries there.’ He winked his left eye. ‘Most of us have got better things to talk about. I mean there’s Top Gear, darts, football . . . boxing.’
‘Daft sod.’ She gave his arm a playful punch. He always seemed able to get her to chill. Like having a personal ice-breaker. ‘Seriously, David, I’d really appreciate it not going any further.’ Even a whisper would give the Lloyd House clowns a field day.
‘For sure, boss. You can trust me.’ He checked the mirror, took the next left.
‘Wonders will never . . . there’s a meter just up ahead.’ Just off New Street, they were lucky to get a space. She reached for her briefcase.
He switched off the engine, turned to face her, serious now. ‘Wish I’d known sooner though.’ His warm brown eyes held her gaze.
She sensed what he wanted to say. If he’d realized she was available, he’d have asked her before Ben. ‘Let’s not go there, David.’ Not yet anyway. The faint pink tinge colouring his cheeks told her she was on the money.
‘How’d you mean, boss?’ He returned the playful punch. ‘I could’ve brought some change with me. For the meter.’
Smiling, she shook her head, watched him display a POLICE PARKING notice on the screen. He was saving face, and she spared him further blushes.
Catching up as she crossed the road, Harries said, ‘Back to Rust a second though, boss. What do you reckon? Is it a break?’
She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ So far it was circumstance and hearsay. But it sure beat sweet FA.
Breakfast paninis and blueberry muffins were on the table, untasted so far. A working lunch was fine by Sarah and Harries. Made a change from working through it. Café Nero had been Noel Barfoot’s suggestion. The architect’s offices were round the corner but a police presence on the premises isn’t good for business. Sarah doubted Barfoot’s wife would be too keen on a house call either.
‘Have you known Olivia long?’ Sipping espresso, she studied Barfoot’s regular features. He looked confident, she’d say that for him. The guy had arrived first, bagged a table in the far corner as far as possible from prying eyes, pricked ears. Holding her gaze, he eased further back into the dimpled leather armchair, crossed a casual leg. The tailored charcoal suit made the most of an average physique and certainly highlighted the size of his wallet.
‘I suppose it must be a year or so? Off and on?’
No point asking me. ‘I’d appreciate you being more precise, sir.’
His lips tightened the merest fraction. ‘Had I realized you’d be asking, I would have made copious notes, Inspector.’ He obviously didn’t like being pulled up, but the head tilt and charm school smile didn’t go with the snide remark.
From a transcript of his phone interview with a squad detective, she knew the architect was pushing fifty, but he appeared at least ten years younger. Probably down to the combination of lustrous black hair, olive skin, green eyes and expensive teeth. And he still hadn’t answered the question. Matching the cocked head, she dispensed with the smile.
‘Then I hope you have a sharp memory.’ He’d been told why they were here; it wasn’t to score points. Game over, he gave a resigned sigh.
‘I met Olivia last year. The sixth of September to be . . . precise.’
‘Go on.’
‘It was my daughter’s first day at Green Hill.’
She sensed Harries glance up from his notes, maintained eye contact with Barfoot. ‘She teaches your daughter?’
‘No. I got to know Olivia via PTA meetings, open evenings, prize days.’ Fingertips pressed together, he smiled. ‘I like getting involved – I’m a school governor actually.’
‘I see.’ Another sip of espresso. ‘Tell me, when did your relationship with Olivia become more than . . . academic?’ Cheap jibe, but the smug, hypocritical git had asked for it.
‘When was the first fuck?’ he snapped back. ‘Is that what you’re saying, Inspector?’
Tight smile. ‘Precisely.’
‘Early January, around my birthday.’ They were into role playing, he told them. Once or twice a month they’d meet in hotels, pretend to be strangers. They’d adopt personas, dress in various guises, talk in accents. The affair lasted until July when both apparently decided it had run its course.
‘Are you saying you last saw Olivia five months ago?’
‘As a lover, yes.’
She asked for dates, hotel names, a record of his movements over the last week. He said he’d check diaries, get back with details. ‘Today, Mr Barfoot. Or I could send one of my officers along if it would help?’
That tightening of the lips again, then studiously polite: ‘There was no harm in it, Inspector. It was good, clean, consensual fun between adults.’
‘Your wife gave her consent, did she?’
That wiped the smile off his face. ‘My wife’s an invalid. She knows nothing about Olivia. And I’d like it to stay that way.’
‘How much?’
Dark eyebrows knotted. ‘Sorry? I’m not . . .’ He faltered for the first time.
‘Your wife staying ignorant of your . . . out-of-school activities. How much would you like that, Mr Barfoot?’
And how far would he go to keep it that way?
‘Assuming the poor bloody woman doesn’t already know.’ Sarah watched Barfoot saunter out the door and give a cocky wave as he passed the window.
Harris tore the wrapping from a panini. ‘Smarmy git, isn’t he, boss?’
Her thoughts almost entirely. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
Harries was head down inspecting the filling. ‘Reckon he’s on the level?’
‘On the level?’ Lip curled. ‘Hypocritical twat’s got the moral compass of an AIDS-ridden cuckoo.’
‘AIDS-ridden cuckoo?’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow. Actually, no, it looked more incredulous.
She flapped a hand. ‘OK, it was a bit limp but you get the picture. The guy’s a successful businessman, pillar of the school community, carer for a sick wife and every chance he gets he’s screwing his kid’s teacher. Playing vicars and tarts in frigging five-star hotels.’ It was an uncharacteristic outburst. Even took her aback slightly. Christ, she’d banged on to Harries often enough about how cops couldn’t afford to be judgemental.
He held her gaze for three or four seconds then: ‘Takes two to foxtrot, boss.’
‘Tango,’ she corrected automatically. He was right though. She ran her fingers down a cheek.
‘Same thing.’ He took a bite, spotted yolk escaping, licked it just in time. ‘Can’t blame the bloke fo
r that, boss. Not if Olivia went along with it.’
Which they had only Barfoot’s word for. She narrowed her eyes. What if Olivia was fed up dancing to his tune? Wanted more than a bit of fancy fuckwork? Watching Harries, she eschewed the other panini, didn’t fancy the cleaning bill. ‘OK, David.’ She hunched forwards, elbows on knees. ‘Say Olivia was the one who wanted to call it a day? He won’t leave her alone and she threatens to tell the missus?’
‘Blackmail?’
She turned her mouth down. It hadn’t been her first thought but, why not? ‘Barfoot’s certainly not short of a bob or two.’
‘What? So he snatches Olivia to shut her up, protect his nest egg?’
Nest egg? She wished she’d never mentioned bloody cuckoos. ‘Possible, isn’t it?’
She glanced round while he chewed it over. The place was full of office workers playing with iPhones; a woman with a gravity-defying beehive whose false nails scurried across a laptop keyboard; a couple of serious shoppers with Prada bags at Gucci heels. Sarah sniffed; still hadn’t managed a trip to Tesco.
‘OK. Try this, boss.’ He ran a napkin across his mouth. ‘What if it’s the wife? Maybe she finds out, decides to end all the fun and games by removing his partner?’
Slow nod. ‘Or get someone to do it for her?’ They needed to find out just how much of an invalid Mrs Barfoot was. Her old man could be lying through his orthodontic work.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone sent the boys round. Not hungry, boss?’ He was eyeing the other panini.
‘We’ve got work to do.’ Reaching for her briefcase, she smiled. ‘Put it behind your ear.’
He pocketed the muffins, too. God knows how he stayed in such good shape. Tossing ideas around with Harries had again provided her with food for thought. It was one of the pluses of working with a partner who saw things differently, wasn’t afraid to voice conflicting opinion. They’d bashed out a few theories that needed standing up, or not. Without evidence they’d remain speculation.
Ironically Olivia Kent probably had every answer in the book, and was still unable to utter a word.
‘Livvie?’ Caroline King’s magazine went flying as she shot up from the armchair and leaned across the bed. ‘Livvie, can you hear me?’ Elizabeth Kent had slipped out to make a phone call; the reporter had been flicking desultorily through Hello!, less than engrossed in the same old wags and wannabees when she was sure she’d glimpsed movement, caught a faint sound as if Olivia had tried to open her mouth. Running an anxious gaze over her friend’s still features, Caroline mentally counted ten, fifteen seconds then: ‘Livvie, sweetie, can I get you anything?’ Silent steady breathing. Tick of a radiator.
Damn. Her mind must have been playing tricks. What was the expression? Wishful thinking. She’d wished alright, even whispered a silent prayer or two. Wake up Livvie. And give me the inside track. There’d got to be some payback for the stultifying boredom of sitting here hour after hour listening to Elizabeth drone on and on and . . .
‘Talk to me, Livvie,’ she whispered. Caroline had dismissed the idea of chasing up Olivia’s friends, colleagues, trying to prise information, sniff out a lead worth pursuing. She’d probably only be duplicating what the cops should be doing, and there was only one of her. Quinn had a load of minions to lord it over. Besides, on reflection, this could be the ultimate shortcut. She couldn’t be better placed to hear the truth than – as it were – next to the horse’s mouth.
Caroline widened her eyes. Olivia’s lips had parted, the mauve eyelids fluttered. The reporter leaned in closer. ‘Livvie! I’m here, sweetheart. Tell me what you need.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘Can I get you anything, Ms Paige? Tea? Coffee?’ Quadruple brandy? Sarah gave a bright smile, entered with outstretched hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Quinn. Sarah Quinn.’ And she’d just popped her head round the door of Interview One, taking seconds to assess the cosy set-up. A hulking PC slouched on one side of the metal table, opposite a pale wraithlike woman in a short black skirt and animal print coat. The teacher, late-twenties perhaps, was perched straight-backed, knees together with tightly laced fingers pressed into her lap. Police interview rooms weren’t the most conducive environment for sensitive questioning – especially when the witness was here reluctantly and already looked scared to death.
‘No, thank you,’ she said, smoothing the skirt. ‘I’m fine.’
Like hell she was. ‘Officer? Would you rustle up some tea? Ask DC Bruce to bring it along to my office. I’ll take Ms Paige up now.’
Two minutes small talk – traffic, weather, Christmas coming earlier every year – and Sarah was ushering the teacher into her room. Gesturing to a seat, she brought her own chair round to the same side of the desk. ‘Thanks for coming in, Ms Paige. I appreciate it.’
‘I’m not sure I should be here.’ More skirt smoothing and the briefest eye contact. ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.’
Sarah paused, watched a while. Jill Paige’s features taken singly didn’t fit the elfin face: pale blue eyes rimmed with turquoise kohl, glinting diamond stud highlighting the long nose, Angelina Jolie lips. The overall effect – framed by glossy aubergine feather-cut hair – was striking.
‘But you want to help Olivia, yes?’ Sarah sat back, crossed her legs at the ankles, mirroring the woman’s body language. ‘I understand the two of you are friends?’
She’d read Shona’s notes from the earlier interview: as head of the department Olivia was Jill’s line manager; the women worked closely together and socialized out of school.
‘Yes.’ A slow smile spread across her face. ‘She’s fun to be with. Great colleague. Very supportive, you know? Fantastic sense of humour.’ She was probably picturing Olivia in her head – it wouldn’t be the image that tormented the DI. The teacher’s smile vanished in a flash. Deep lines appeared between her eyes. ‘She’s going to be all right, isn’t she, Inspector? All I’ve heard is she’s in hospital. Please . . . tell me the truth. I’d rather know. I couldn’t bear it if . . .’ She swallowed the rest of the words.
Another drama queen? Seemed a little over the top to the DI. ‘I think she’ll pull through, Ms Paige. Tell me, is Olivia happy working at the school?’ A tap at the door, but there was no conversational flow to interrupt.
‘Come in, Shona.’ Warm greeting from Bruce to Paige. Tea in plastic cups passed round. Question repeated.
Considering the amount of mulling-over time, Paige still hesitated. Picking a loose thread of cotton from the dirndl skirt she stretched a ‘yes’ to two syllables.
The DI waited for elaboration that didn’t arrive. ‘You don’t sound too sure, Ms Paige?’ Encouraging smile.
She met Sarah’s gaze properly for the first time. ‘Until recently I’d have said without a doubt.’
‘But?’
‘It’s difficult to put into words.’ You’re an English teacher. Try. She fiddled with a silver ring – every finger held at least one. ‘Olivia was quieter than usual, preoccupied, even a little jumpy, you know?’
It had been that way for five or six weeks apparently. ‘Did you talk it over with her?
‘Not really. I asked a few times if something was worrying her but she’d change the subject.’
‘Knowing her so well, Miss Paige –’ the smile was thinner this time – ‘have you any idea what was playing on her mind?’
The teacher chewed her lip, cast Shona a glance, made a grab for her cup. Anything but answer the question.
Sarah sat on her hands to stop testy fingers tapping. Coming up to five p.m., it was dark outside; she caught their reflections in the plate-glass window. It could’ve been three mates enjoying an office party. Not. They weren’t here to enjoy themselves – and Sarah was beginning to question why the teacher had agreed to come in at all.
‘So, Ms Paige, any thoughts?’
‘Yeah, but look, I might not be right. I could be misinterpreting everything. And it’s so easy to damage someone’s reputation.’
Deep sigh, more fidgeting, then a barely perceptible nod.
The DI and Shona exchanged eye-rolls. ‘The expression you used with DC Bruce was that the head teacher is “overly tactile”. Tell me what you mean, Miss Paige?’
Looking down at her hands now. ‘He has a habit of standing too close, touching people. An arm round a shoulder. Pat on the back. Hand on knee. Some of us call him Sticky Fingers. He probably thinks he’s just being friendly.’ Fleeting glance to Sarah. ‘It can make you feel uncomfortable. Someone in your space, you know?’
‘And how did it make Olivia feel?’
‘It creeped her out.’ Head raised, no hesitation there.
‘Did she pull him up on it?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘With good reason?’
She frowned.
‘Would you’ve complained?’
‘Not everyone’s the same, are they? Besides, he made a beeline for Olivia.’
‘Is that why she was considering legal action?’
Her eyes looked huge. ‘Look, she didn’t confide in me, right. As I told Shona, Olivia mentioned a recent case in the papers and . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘She asked if I knew a good lawyer.’ Paige didn’t but had suggested Olivia approach the union, the NUT. She’d no idea whether Olivia had acted on the advice. Sarah glanced at Shona. The DC signalled she had no burning questions, was happy to continue with the note-taking.
‘How would you describe Olivia’s relationship with the students?’
‘Great.’ Smiling. Safer ground? ‘She doesn’t talk down to them, you know? Believes they should be treated like adults. And she’s a really good teacher. Inspirational, I’d say.’
‘Would you say she was too familiar?’
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