“Was Mrs Brock injured?” the stocky man asks.
“She was badly beaten and has been treated for shock.”
“Have you any idea of the motive for the attack on the Brocks?”
“We are pursuing several lines of enquiry.”
“Was it a burglary gone wrong?”
“We are still working with Mrs Brock to establish whether anything was taken from the house.”
My mind skims over the well-ordered bookcase and bathroom cabinet. The Brocks’ house wasn’t ransacked. Theft seems an unlikely motive but I admire the reporter’s logic. Sensible questions. However, his next one surprises me.
“Is the fact that the two kidnappers are black likely to cause a rise in racial tension in the town?”
The superintendent doesn’t flinch, her voice still smooth, “We have no reason at this stage to believe the crime was racially motivated.”
“The last kidnapping we covered had a drug connection. Is it the same thing here?” The man warms to his theme.
“I think you’re referring to the Easter Day kidnapping and gang shooting in Briggham. We cannot rule out any possibilities. However, that scenario looks improbable.”
How would DI Bagley have handled that question? With the same grace and polish? Unlikely.
The reporter fires his last salvo. “But you’re not sure of the motive. Is the lack of progress on this case yet another example of police under-resourcing?”
Superintendent Chattan replies in the same calm, tuneful voice. “Brigghamshire Constabulary has pledged to recruit an extra 300 officers this year. We are already on target to exceed this total. One in three of the new recruits is an experienced officer from other forces.”
“Spoken like a future chief constable,” Matthew whispers behind me.
The reporter’s less impressed. “So why are your detection rates so lousy? Aren’t you disappointed with your new job?”
“Far from it, I’m pleased to have joined the Brigghamshire Constabulary at such a positive time in its history. My officers have a lot to offer. I’m seeking to build on our reputation as one of the safest and most crime-free regions in the UK.”
“Tell that to Carl Brock’s widow,” is the reporter’s ready retort.
Instead of unsettling the superintendent, it enables her to effect a slick closure to the questioning. “Indeed so. It is important that we use this press conference to help catch Carl Brock’s killer. The contribution of the media to law and order in Penbury is crucial. We need you to enable us to appeal to the public for vital information. I’m going to hand over to Mr Cunningham who will make his own short appeal.”
“Thank you, Naomi.” Mr Cunningham stands to address the press line.
Matthews and I exchange a glance, registering his informality. Naomi? She called him Mr Cunningham.
“Carl Brock worked here at Swan Academy for three years. He was a talented English teacher, well-liked by colleagues and students. He was an honest, hard-working guy who didn’t deserve this.” Cunningham stares into the television camera, adopting a theatrically emphatic tone. “I urge anyone who knows anything about his murder to get in touch with the police immediately. As Naomi said, all calls are treated in the strictest confidence. Please help us to catch the people who committed this terrible crime.”
I smile at Matthews to share the second “Naomi” and the “us”. He rolls his eyes, then moves forward to usher out the press as the conference breaks up.
Chapter 22
A small boy is hovering outside the common room when we head back to resume the interviews. His white socks peep out below his half-mast trousers and he hops about restlessly. His school polo shirt, emblazoned with the Swan logo, hangs off his narrow shoulders. I recognize him as the child who cried at the memorial service.
“You’re the detectives, aren’t you?” he says in a high, choirboy voice. “I’m your next witness.”
We haven’t finished interviewing 10B pupils and aren’t expecting to move on to the younger ones. Matthews asks him what year he’s in.
“Year Ten. I’m in Mr Brock’s form class,” the boy says, rubbing his nose. “I’m Duncan Josephs.”
Matthews eyes the small child sceptically, but invites him to go in.
The boy rushes into the common room and goes straight to the seats. He might actually have something to tell us; he seems eager to help.
Ms Yardley arrives and Matthews commences the interview, having located the boy’s name on the 10B register.
“What can you tell us about Mr Brock?”
“He was my form teacher and he taught English.” The boy adopts an earnest tone that makes him sound even more childlike.
“And?” Matthews says.
“And?” Duncan Josephs looks bewildered. His hand attacks his nose again.
“What kind of a person was he?” I prompt.
“He was a very nice teacher.” Another solemnly delivered response.
“Did you go to his homework club?”
“Mr Brock invited me.” He bounces proudly in the chair.
“So you went to the club?” Matthews’s tone softens.
“Twice a week.” Duncan pulls his mouth into an odd position as if trying to clear an irritation in his nose without picking it.
Matthews seems thrown off course, having long since abandoned the hope of finding a pupil prepared to admit to attending the homework club. He asks a filler question while he refers to his notes. “What kind of work have you been doing there recently?”
“Recently? I haven’t been recently. I haven’t been since before Christmas.”
Matthews puts down his notes and folds his arms. Another brick wall.
“Mr Brock asked me to stop going,” Duncan says apologetically. “He said he was pleased with my work and I didn’t need the extra lessons.”
“Well done, Duncan,” I say. “So are you getting good grades now?”
“Mrs Howden, my English teacher, doesn’t think so. She doesn’t like me.” He twitches his nose again.
“What work did you do at the homework club?” Matthews asks, sounding disinterested.
“We did a bit of spelling but mostly we talked about stuff.”
“What stuff?” I ask. “Grammar? Punctuation?”
“No, real stuff.” The boy laughs nervously. “About life and what we think, you know.”
“Did you have to write essays about it?”
“We just talked.”
“So was the homework club different from your other lessons?”
The boy bounces again. “It was, you know, really grown-up. You could put your feet on the table, walk around, even swear. People could smoke and everything.” The words tumble out before he remembers who he’s talking to. He addresses Ms Yardley, attempting damage limitation. “I promise I didn’t smoke myself, Miss. I get asthma and my mum doesn’t like me swearing.”
“That’s OK, Duncan. We won’t tell anyone. We just need to know as much as we can about Mr Brock,” Matthews says, using a kindly voice I haven’t heard before. “We appreciate your help. Did the others smoke?”
Duncan glances from Ms Yardley to Matthews. “They all did. Joe, Sam, Saul and the others who came sometimes. And Mr Brock, too. It was very grown-up.”
Too grown-up for little Duncan, I wonder. “But you started to get better grades than the others, so Mr Brock said you didn’t need the club anymore?”
“I was surprised because I thought Saul Hedges was better than me. But Mr Brock said I was the best and the others still needed the club.”
“Do you know what the others have been doing at the club since you left?” Matthews asks.
Duncan shakes his head. “I don’t hang around with any of them. They don’t talk to me much.” I picture Will Gleeson and Joe Turner and couldn’t imagine Duncan in the same frame.
“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Mr Brock?” Matthews says.
I’d have used the word “hurt” too. “Kill” seems too strong
for this fragile child.
“I don’t know anyone who would murder anyone – not even a teacher.” Duncan lets out a laugh. “Can I go now? I’ve got Health Studies. We’re watching a film.”
Matthews sighs and closes the interview with the same exasperation with which he’s closed so many this week. Duncan scurries towards the door.
“You were the boy who was off sick yesterday, weren’t you?” Matthews calls after him.
“I had bad hay fever. I get it a lot.” He halts by the door and rubs his nose. He looks to Ms Yardley. “The teachers are always having to give me extra tissues, aren’t you, Miss? Like you did at assembly this morning.”
My image of the grieving pupil shatters. “You had hay fever at the memorial service, didn’t you? That’s why your eyes were streaming,” I say. “Do you miss Mr Brock at all?”
“Miss him? He was just a teacher.” He turns to Ms Yardley. “Do you know who our form teacher will be now?”
“Come on, love, I’m sure this Bible reading can wait until tonight.” Sonia sits down at the dining table beside Bartholomew and touches his arm. “Why don’t you go back to work?”
He shakes her off. How can she utter such blasphemy after what she’s done to bring destruction on the family? She might be a nonbeliever, but his only hope is to study God’s word. Work will have to wait. Surely she can see that. “Why do you take the Lord’s name in vain at a time like this?”
“What do you mean ‘at a time like this’? Things are getting better, aren’t they?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Instead I have to hear it on a radio.”
She lowers her head, then looks up and touches him again. “I knew it would upset you. But it doesn’t matter now. You said it yourself yesterday: Saul’s going to recover; the Lord has listened.”
“But why didn’t you listen? What made you go to that school? They’ll make a connection now.”
“I want them to know.” She glares at him. “That’s why I went. I wanted to say it where no one could hush it up. Everyone should hear what happened to this family.”
Rage surges through him. “We have to be silent. It’s the right thing. It must be.” He shuffles his chair away from her and scans the Bible in front of him. He lives the Ten Commandments and shuns those who transgress them, but sometimes people can be forgiven, can’t they? There must be a sign somewhere in the texts.
“Why are you so afraid of scandal?” Sonia says. “Saul will have to face up to what’s happened if he’s to get well again and so should we. I want everyone to know who’s responsible. It won’t hurt Saul. He’s safe at Alderley Lodge.”
He slams shut his Bible. “Safe? What will those counsellors do against the might of the Law? Don’t you see? We must do whatever it takes to protect Saul, whatever it takes. They must never see the link. Do you hear me? Never.”
“Calm down. I don’t understand.” She stares into his face. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Do you know something about the …? About—”
“Don’t say it.” He shouts louder than she deserves, but he has to stop her saying it.
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” Sonia cries. She buries her head in her hands. Between her sobs, she tells him that he must be mistaken, that he must have misunderstood, and that she knows in her heart he’s wrong.
Tears prick his eyes; he no longer knows where his heart is.
“Sorry. It’s mine,” I mouth.
Zelda’s face is frozen in indignation but her feet continue the routine. The other dancers copy.
It must be work. I retreat to the ringing phone in the changing room. Friends and family know I have it switched off at the studio on Zelda’s very strict orders. I’ve only left it on tonight because of the case, although I didn’t seriously expect any of my colleagues to consider me important enough to call out of hours. The noise becomes louder and more urgent as I search the voluminous compartments of my bag. The press conference must have led to a tip-off. Bagley needs to brief me on a new line of enquiry. What if it’s Matthews ringing? My breathing quickens. When I tip up the bag, the phone spins out of the first compartment I look in.
My heart sinks when I see the caller ID. Of course, it isn’t work.
“Joanne here,” the snappy voice says. “Can you collect Jamie by nine thirty on Saturday morning?”
Blast. I meant to phone her. I take a breath. “Sorry, but I don’t think I can have Jamie this weekend. I have to work.”
“But it’s your turn to have him.”
I’ve never quite worked out how having my half-brother to stay every other weekend has become my turn. I love spending time with Jamie, but resent my stepmother Joanne’s suggestion that it’s somehow my duty. I explain apologetically that I have to work overtime until the murder is solved.
“But I’ve got a manicure booked. What about Sunday? I’ve told Jamie you’ll take him to Magica.”
I sigh. Of course, Joanne would promise him that. Magica is the jewel in Penbury’s crown. It developed from a static circus company into an interactive visitor centre offering workshops, live shows, puppets, and several fairground rides. When I was a child, I went just once as a special treat. My father declared it a child’s venue at adult prices, so his family would boycott it on principle. He relented as a reward for me scraping through my first (and last) cello exam. His second wife gets round his obstinacy by promising Jamie a visit when it’s my “turn” to have him.
I take another breath. “I’m working all weekend.”
“Well, that’s very inconvenient. What about my manicure … and Jamie? I don’t know what your father will say.”
I apologize again and ring off. I pack the phone into my bag along with the other belongings that spilled across the tiled floor. I’m shaking from the encounter, but can’t help smiling. I know exactly what my father will say. He’ll tell his young wife to cancel her manicure – a waste of money. Years ago, whenever my mum caught me in the act of some minor misdemeanour and used the same threat of involving my father, I was terrified. He would never hit me or even shout much, but he had a way of reducing me to abject wretchedness, conferring on me his complete and utter disdain with his ice-blue eyes. These days Wife Number Two is the more likely recipient of that death stare than Child Number One.
I return to the studio and slot into the back row. Zelda doesn’t look my way and keeps on directing the routine.
Chapter 23
“We’ll have to work through the lunch hour,” Matthews says, as we head to the common room on Friday morning. “Let’s get finished here today. I want next week to be an acne-free zone.”
“Are we allowed to see the pupils during their dinner break? Shall I check with Mr Cunningham?”
“Agatha, this is a murder inquiry not choir practice. I’ll tell Cunningham. If we let them get hungry enough, they might cooperate. It’s amazing how the lure of battered sausage and chips can loosen the tongue.”
Mrs Ferris readily agrees to swap places with Eve Yardley and sit in on the interviews. The chance to take the weight off her swollen ankles must have strong appeal. We see a succession of Carl Brock’s GCSE English pupils who are in school for maths revision. According to Mrs Ferris, they’re a bright group expected to do well. They’re polite and give full answers to every question, but none of them seem to have known Mr Brock well. Several mention his efforts to support weaker pupils. Some even suggest that he preferred the stragglers to the high-fliers. They’ve all heard of the homework club, but only a handful ever went to it. As top GCSE students, none felt the need for extra coaching with basic spelling and grammar.
At half past one Matthews finally declares a break for lunch. “You’d best feed that stomach of yours, Agatha. It sounds like a washing machine on fast spin. But be back in half an hour.”
I dash into the school canteen, thinking, if I get something to eat immediately I’ll still have time to get to the shops to buy Jaimie a present to make up for missing Magica. There’s a keen smell of gravy but th
e hall’s almost deserted, just a few children in there, mostly eleven and twelve year olds. They bolt down helpings of pink custard, ready to sprint out the moment they’ve finished. Duncan Josephs sits by himself, stirring thick red syrup into a bowl of rice pudding.
A woman in a dark blue overall is wiping down the food rail by the serving hatch.
“Am I too late for lunch?” I ask.
“Last entry to the hall is one o’clock,” the woman says without looking round.
“But could I have some of those vegetables?” I point at two aluminium trays of dried-out potatoes and tired broccoli.
“I said we’re closed.” The woman goes round the other side of the hatch and releases the shutters.
I give up and march away. I’ve wasted several minutes and have no chance now of going shopping.
Three people are waiting ahead of me when I get to the sandwich bar. One of them, a man in a business suit, pockets his change and leaves carrying his white paper bag of food. I know the two remaining customers. Kirsty Ewell from 10B and another thin-looking girl are deep in conversation, oblivious to me behind them and to the assistant in front who’s waiting to serve them.
“She thinks Jordan nicked her mobile,” Kirsty is saying.
“No way,” the other girl replies. “What’s she gonna do?”
“She’s given him till tomorrow or else she’s setting her brother on him.”
“Bloody hell.” The girls finally look up at the shop assistant. “A salad sandwich on brown – no butter or mayo,” Kirsty says.
“Just one?” the woman asks.
“We’re sharing it.”
I grind my teeth. Matthews’s stark assessment of the “pre-anorexics” on half a lettuce sandwich is spot on.
As the girls count out their money, I place my order.
“Is that with butter or mayonnaise?”
“Both please,” I say.
Kirsty suddenly grins when she sees me, as if she’s just remembered something. She whispers excitedly to the other girl.
“No way,” the girl says. “You’re having a laugh.”
The Good Teacher Page 12