‘DS Kaur.’ I waved my ID over the hunched figures of the CSI team.
‘PC Patel,’ said the uniform by the door.
‘Are you on your own?’
‘My partner’s outside.’ He gestured, rather helplessly.
Being sick, I supposed. PCs are not used to this sort of stuff.
‘Do you have an identity for the deceased?’
‘Ella Elphick. She’s a teacher at Talgarth High. Her lanyard’s in her handbag.’
Even then, I thought this was a pretty bad sign. I don’t go around telling people I was at Talgarth. There’s something a bit embarrassing about staying in the area where you went to school. And it’s even worse if you’re still living at home at thirty-five, although only Donna and Neil know that. Three people at the station are old Talgarthians, as we would say if we were the sort of school that had an alumni association. But I’m the only one on the murder squad.
‘Have you contacted next-of-kin?’
‘No.’
So that would be a job for me.
‘Meet me in the sitting room,’ I said. ‘Go out the back way, don’t step over the body.’
The body. That’s what she had become, with her blonde hair and pink trainers. I left the CSI people bending over her and went into the next room, which was just what I would have expected: bookcases, sofa with lots of cushions, candles and potpourri on every surface.
Neil arrived just as PC Patel appeared at the door. Neil looked bigger than ever in his white suit, like a polar bear, which — as we all know — are not as cute as they look.
‘Murder?’ he said.
‘Unless she cut her own throat,’ I said.
Patel looked pale despite being, like me, what the HR people would call a ‘person of colour’.
‘Looks like she was stabbed in the throat and chest with a kitchen knife,’ he said. ‘We found the weapon by the front door.’
‘They left the weapon?’ said Neil. ‘That was stupid.’
‘Or clever,’ I said. ‘Must mean there are no marks on it.’
‘It looks like she tried to fight her attacker off,’ said Patel. ‘There are wounds on her hands.’
‘We should check those carefully,’ I said. ‘They looked significant. The same wound on each hand. I think the cuts were made after death.’
‘The stigmata,’ said Neil. ‘Like Jesus,’ he added, for my benefit.
‘Thank you, Neil,’ I said. ‘I may be a Sikh but I have heard of Jesus. Jewish carpenter, wasn’t he?’
‘OK, OK.’ Neil turned to Patel. ‘Anything else we should know?’
‘There was a note,’ said Patel. ‘A Post-it, really. Left on the floor by her body.’
The murderer really is being kind to us, I thought. So many places where we can lift DNA — and handwriting to analyse, too.
‘What did it say?’ I asked.
‘Hell is empty,’ said Patel.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ said Neil, not seeming to notice the echo.
‘Sounds like a quote,’ I said. ‘We can look it up. Have you got the Post-it in an evidence bag?’
Patel nodded.
‘Any blood on it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That means the murderer must have written it before and had it ready,’ I said. ‘Otherwise there certainly would be. The kitchen is awash.’
At this unfortunate moment, Patel’s queasy partner, a young female officer, made her appearance. She too was pale but she seemed in control. I told her to go through Ella’s bag and find her next-of-kin.
‘If her phone isn’t locked, that’s easiest,’ I said. ‘Look for “Mum” in “Contacts”.’
‘Jesus,’ said Neil, who is softer than me. It comes of having children. ‘The poor sods.’
I looked around the room. Most of the books seemed like classics — you could tell by the spines — but the TV was flat-screen and there was a pile of glossy magazines on the coffee table. So Ella didn’t live her life on an entirely elevated plane. I wondered what she taught at Talgarth. English or art were my guesses. There were a couple of those geometric prints on the walls and no one buys those because they really like the look of them. I thought there had been a Tate Modern calendar in the kitchen too. A cup on the table by the magazines looked as if it had herbal tea in it.
‘We need to seize that,’ I said to Patel. I wondered what had happened. Had Ella been sitting here, sipping her tea and watching TV, when the killer rang the doorbell?
‘Was the TV on when you got here?’ I asked.
‘No.’
And her phone had been in her bag. The female officer was going through it now. So Ella hadn’t been scrolling through Facebook or playing Panda Pop (two of my favourite evening activities). There were no open books or magazines either.
‘Do we know time of death?’
‘We got here at nine,’ said Patel. ‘She was already dead but she was . . . you know . . . warm.’
‘Have you spoken to the neighbours?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Go and do that now. Have you got the number for me?’ I turned to the second officer. She nodded and handed me the phone. ‘Thanks. What’s your name?’
‘Olivia. Olivia Grant.’
‘OK, Olivia. You go with Patel and interview the neighbours. Find out exactly when they first heard noises coming from this house. Neil, you and I need to talk to Ella’s friends and family.’
Neil didn’t move from the sofa. ‘Who put you in charge?’
‘Let’s assume I am,’ I said. ‘It’ll make things easier.’
Chapter 10
Clare Cassidy’s name came up quite early on. After I had spoken to Ella’s mother — just telling her that there had been ‘an accident’ and getting the address so local police could go round and break the news — Neil and I went back to the station. DI Malone was the Senior Investigating Officer and she made me her deputy, as I had known she would. Donna can seem a bit flaky but she’s decisive when she needs to be and she knows how to organise an investigation. She made this one a priority and we were given a fairly generous manpower and intel allocation. We also worked out a plan of action. We would tell Tony Sweetman, the head teacher at Talgarth, in the morning. We wanted to catch him unawares, to see his reaction. We’d also talk to Ella’s key friends and colleagues. We had Ella’s phone and applied to the service provider for a production order which would mean that we could search all her encrypted messages. I got home about midnight. Mum didn’t wait up for me but it was a near thing. I just saw a swish of sari disappearing up the stairs as I unlocked the front door.
We were at Tony Sweetman’s house at eight a.m. Neil had wanted to go earlier but I reckoned that eight would cause maximum disruption. It was half-term and I knew that he had young children. Sweetman lived in a very nice house on the outskirts of Steyning. I’d been trying to work out his salary. Talgarth has one thousand two hundred pupils so, after a quick shufti at TES ads, I thought he must be on a hundred thousand plus. Was that enough to buy The Old Rectory: honey-coloured stone, double garage, large garden? I didn’t know but I intended to find out.
Sweetman himself answered the door. I’d looked at his picture online but, even so, I was surprised how young he was. Mrs Williams was the head in my day. She looked about a hundred then and she only retired three years ago, by which time she must have been on her last legs. Tony Sweetman was dark and fit-looking, wearing jeans and a rugby shirt. Not my type — even when I was still sleeping with men — but definitely good-looking for a teacher (not as damning as ‘good-looking for a politician’, but almost). He was also very suntanned for England in October. Skiing or was it too early in the year? Sunbed then. Either way it prejudiced me against him.
‘Mr Sweetman? I’m DS Kaur from the Sussex police and this is DS Winston. Can we have a
word?’
‘What’s this about?’ Sweetman looked behind him rather distractedly. We could hear mingled sounds of dogs and children, counterpointed by the SpongeBob theme tune.
‘It’s urgent, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘Is there anywhere we could talk privately?’
‘It’s a bit difficult . . .’ He ran his hands through his hair, which was worn slightly too long for a white man, in my opinion. He was obviously proud of it though, he carried his head very high, as if balancing a football on top.
‘It’s important,’ I said. ‘We’re from the murder squad.’
He gave me a horrified look and quickly ushered us into a small room that I took to be the study. There were educational textbooks on the shelves, as well as photographs of Tony in various rugby teams. What did his wife do, I wondered. Although the children were in evidence (music stands, a television with PlayStation remotes attached) there was nothing that indicated another adult’s interests. Neil and I sat side-by-side on a futon/sofa thing. I was tempted to take the desk chair but thought that might look provocative so early on in an investigation.
Tony was having a whispered offstage conversation with someone. His wife? The nanny? An au pair? He appeared again in the doorway, looking more distracted than ever.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘My wife’s at work and it’s half-term.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘We understand. I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you.’
He sat at the desk and swivelled himself to face us.
‘I understand Ella Elphick works at your school.’
Tony’s mouth fell open slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that Ella was found dead last night. We’re treating her death as suspicious.’
I watched Tony closely. He did look genuinely shocked. The suntan seemed to fade and the hair was ruffled again.
‘Ella? I can’t . . . I can’t believe it . . .’
‘We want to talk to Ella’s friends and colleagues as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘The first hours in a murder investigation are crucial.’
‘Murder?’ said Tony. ‘Are you sure?’
‘We’re still at an early stage in our inquiry,’ said Neil, in his best wooden manner, ‘but, as DS Kaur said, we are treating Ms Elphick’s death as suspicious.’
I got out my notebook. We’d do a recorded interview at the station later but I wanted Tony to know that I was taking notes.
‘So,’ I said, ‘Ella taught English at Talgarth High.’
‘Yes.’ Tony seemed to be trying to pull himself together. ‘She’s been at Talgarth for about five years. She’s an excellent teacher.’
‘How long have you been head teacher?’
‘Three years. I brought the school out of special measures.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, to let him know I thought this was a touch inappropriate.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Was Ella popular with her colleagues?’ asked Neil.
Tony looked appalled. ‘Everyone loved her. You can’t think . . .’
Don’t tell us what to think, I told him silently. Aloud I said, ‘Can we have a list of everyone in the English department and anyone who was a particular friend of Ella’s?’
‘Of course,’ said Tony. ‘I’ll do it for you now. She had lots of friends on the staff.’
‘Who were her closest?’
Tony looked up to the left, the way you do when you are meant to be remembering. Or he may have been looking at a helium balloon with an eight on it, which was stuck to the ceiling.
‘Clare Cassidy,’ he said at last. ‘She teaches English too. They started at the same time. And Debra Green in the history department. The three musketeers, I called them.’ He smiled sadly at this remembered witticism.
‘Can we have their contact details?’ I said, scribbling in the book.
‘I’ll get them for you. They’re all on file.’
‘Did Ella have a boyfriend?’ said Neil.
‘Not that I know of. Rick Lewis is head of English. He’ll be devastated.’
‘Have you got an address for Mr Lewis?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Tony opened the laptop in front of him and started scrolling through it. He used his thumb only, like a teenager. I bet Mrs Williams had never even seen a laptop.
‘How did Ella seem when you last saw her?’ I asked. ‘Any worries or concerns?’
Tony kept his face turned to the screen. ‘She seemed fine. Looking forward to half-term. You know how tired teachers get.’
You may get tired, I thought, but you also finish at three and have long holidays. Police officers work long hours, for not much pay, and you don’t see many of us with an October suntan. But I made sympathetic noises, ‘Must be a tough job.’
‘Getting tougher all the time,’ said Tony, taking the bait obediently. ‘We have so many targets to achieve. We also have to be on top of safeguarding, pupil premium, exam predictions. It’s right that we’re accountable but it’s a terrible strain sometimes.’
‘Did Ella find it a strain?’
Tony immediately started to backtrack. ‘Oh, Ella was always completely on top of things. The English GCSE specs changed last year and that led to a lot of extra work. But Ella had it all under control and we had our best ever results in the summer. She was head of Key Stage 4. That’s GCSE,’ he explained. I was more interested by how easily he had slipped into using the past tense. I may only have achieved a B in GCSE English but I notice tenses.
I parked in the lane, out of sight of the house, and Neil and I had a brief discussion.
‘What did you think of him?’ I asked.
‘A bit smooth. And how can he afford a house like that?’
‘His wife’s a lawyer.’ Tony had vouchsafed this piece of information on the way out. ‘They both earn well.’
‘And leave a foreign au pair to look after their kids,’ said Neil, with all the disapproval of a man with an eighteen-month-old baby and a wife at home.
‘I’ll have an au pair if I ever have kids,’ I said. ‘And a nanny and a wet-nurse.’ Neil laughed, though whether at the idea of me having kids or me with the money to pay for childcare, I didn’t know.
‘What now?’ said Neil. ‘We should ask the FLO if we can see the parents.’
A Family Liaison Officer had accompanied the Elphicks to the morgue last night, where they had identified Ella’s body. They were now staying in police accommodation nearby. Neil was right, we should do a formal interview with them.
‘Let’s see Rick Lewis first,’ I said. ‘He’s only about a mile away.’
‘Why?’ said Neil, putting on his stubborn face.
‘Because of what Tony said about boyfriends.’
‘He said Ella didn’t have one.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and he mentioned Rick Lewis immediately afterwards.’
Rick Lewis’ house was an end of terrace in Shoreham. Definitely a step down from the Sweetman mansion but a pleasant family house all the same. Rick, a tall man in a polo-neck jumper, opened the door.
I showed him my warrant card and asked if we could have a word. A woman joined him on the doorstep. She was fortyish, plump but pretty in one of those dress/trouser combinations that plus-size women favour.
‘What’s going on, Rick?’
She sounded panicky. Interesting.
‘We’ve got bad news about a member of your department,’ I said. ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’
‘Oh God,’ said Rick Lewis. ‘Is it Clare?’
Very interesting.
We told them together. It wasn’t worth insisting on a private chat at this stage and besides, Daisy, the wife, interested me. Why was she so upset? When I told Rick about Ella she let out a little scream and covered her face with her hands.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Rick. ‘I only saw her on Friday. God,
her parents will be devastated.’
I asked Rick about Ella’s state of mind but got the same answers: fine, a bit tired, looking forward to half-term. I also asked Rick what he had been doing on Sunday night. A quick glance at Daisy and he said, ‘We were in, watching TV. A take-away, a bottle of wine, Strictly Come Dancing. That’s our Sunday night ritual.’
‘Very nice,’ I said. Tony’s alibi had been the same, albeit with a wholesome family meal rather than a take-away.But it appeared that, despite a house that screamed 2.4 children, the Lewises were childless. Was this by choice, I wondered. Maybe it explained the couple’s closeness. They were practically sitting on the same chair.
On the way out, while Neil was talking to Daisy about Southern Rail, I asked Rick how he had got on with Ella.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘She was a beautiful person.’
He meant her character, I know, but I’d seen pictures and knew that Ella was rather beautiful, if you like tall, slim women with long blonde hair, which sadly quite a lot of people do. Either way, it was an interesting choice of adjective. You see, I told Miss Cathcart, my old English teacher, in my head. I can do grammar too.
It was as we were driving away that I told Neil I’d gone to Talgarth High. He was flatteringly surprised.
‘I wouldn’t have guessed.’
‘Why not? It’s the local comp.’
‘Still, it’s a bit of a shit-hole, isn’t it? I’d want better for Lily.’
Jesus, the child wasn’t even two yet but they were already planning schools.
‘My parents didn’t know any better,’ I said. ‘We all went to Talgarth and we’ve all done OK.’
Kush works at the shop and Abid is an electrician. My brothers have five children between them and both still wear their turbans. As far as my parents are concerned, this is an outstanding success. The less said about me, thirty-five and unmarried, doing what Mum calls a ‘man’s job’, the better. If they knew I was gay, that would finish them off altogether.
The Stranger Diaries Page 8