The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  “But you were seen arguing with him in school a few weeks ago.”

  Mrs Hedges scrunches up the duster and examines it closely for a moment. She says, “I did go to get some homework for Saul, if that’s what you mean. I saw one of the teachers. It could have been Brock.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “Teachers are all the same.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  “There wasn’t one. I was upset because of Saul. It screws you up seeing your own son turn into poison.” Her dusting goes into overdrive.

  “What work did he give you?”

  Mrs Hedges shakes her head. I’m not sure she’s understood the question.

  “For Saul, the homework?”

  The woman shrugs. “I can’t remember.”

  “Why did you go to school yesterday?” Matthews asks, shifting his weight again.

  She opens her mouth as if to deny it but says, “I wanted to pay my respects.”

  “To a man you think you’ve never met,” he says with audible suspicion.

  “He was Saul’s teacher. It seemed the right thing to do.” She carries on dusting. “But I was told it was staff and pupils only. No parents.”

  Matthews watches the yellow cloth move back and forth across the table. A gentle, rhythmic action. But if Mrs Hedges hopes its soothing motion will knock his eye off the ball, she’s wrong.

  “How did you hear of the memorial service?” he asks. “The pupils didn’t know about it until they arrived that morning.”

  “Some kid phoned me on his mobile before the service started. A friend of Saul’s. I don’t know his name.” The duster takes on a new, haphazard course.

  “He had your phone number, but you don’t know his name?”

  “I think it was John or Joe, something like that. I didn’t take much notice. I expect he had our number because he phoned Saul sometimes.”

  “Was it Joe Walker in Saul’s form class?” I ask, trying not to sound excited. “Was it him?”

  “It could have been.” Another shrug. She dusts the table edges, going over and over the corners.

  “Mrs Hedges, I think your table’s gleaming,” Matthews says. “If I could have your attention for a moment.”

  She drops the duster as if it’s on fire. She faces Matthews and wraps her arms tightly around herself. The gesture reminds me of her son in the music room at Alderley Lodge.

  “Perhaps we could sit down?” I suggest. We’ll never get her to open up while we stand about like combatants.

  Mrs Hedges pulls out a dining chair. We take up positions in either end of the sagging sofa. Matthews resumes the interview.

  “Joe Walker told us that Carl Brock supplied Saul with drugs,” he says, studying her face.

  A smile creeps over her mouth but her eyes remain troubled. “He’s having you on. Joe’s not a big fan of the police.”

  “How do you know if you hardly know him?”

  She clasps the sides of the chair. “Well none of them like you lot, do they?”

  “Does Saul have a problem with the police?”

  “What do you think? He’s a drug addict. He lies, he cheats, he robs. Why do you think there’s no telly in here? He flogged it to get drug money.”

  I blink and look away. This is the woman’s home and her own son has violated it. I don’t know what to say next.

  Matthews is less moved. “You’re telling us that Joe, a friend of Saul’s whom you hardly know, has never mentioned to you his suspicions about Brock being a drug dealer. Instead he phoned to tell you that a memorial service for Brock, whom you also hardly know, was about to start. And you rushed straight to school to pay your respects?”

  She nods uncertainly.

  I have an idea. “Maybe your husband knows Joe better?”

  “Absolutely not.” She raises her voice. “He doesn’t know any of Saul’s mates.”

  “Did he know Carl Brock?” Matthews asks, picking up on my questioning.

  “He never went near him.” She sits ramrod straight. “I handle school business.”

  “Where’s your husband today?” Matthews asks. Good; I wanted to ask that.

  “He can’t tell you anything. You’d be wasting your time.”

  “It’s just routine. To close this line of enquiry.”

  “He’s away at the moment. He’s a painter and decorator doing up some flats in Swansea. He’s been away all week. The contract started at nine on Monday morning.”

  “When’s he due back?”

  “It’s hard to say.” She hesitates. “The job could take a while. A couple of weeks, a month maybe.”

  Matthews studies the woman for a moment. The same expression on his face as when we interviewed Joe Walker. He doesn’t believe a word, but he decides not to press the point. “Here’s my card. When your husband gets in touch, please ask him to ring me.” He heaves himself out of the sofa. “We may need to speak to you again. Will you be here? You’re not off to Swansea yourself?”

  “I’ll be visiting my son in Alderley Lodge.”

  “Of course,” Matthews says. It sounds like he regrets his sarcasm.

  The teenagers, still on the grass when we approach, get to their feet anticipating their reward. “No one’s been near it,” Kirsty says, adding a matter-of-fact “ta” when I hand over the £5 note.

  “There’s a pupil at your school called Saul Hedges. Do any of you know his dad?” I ask.

  “Yeah. He does decorating. All over the place, I think,” the other girl says, watching Kirsty force the money into her waistband.

  “Do you know where he is this week?” Matthews says, picking up again on my line of questioning.

  “No, but he’ll be in church tomorrow. Are you going to arrest him?”

  “Church on Saturday?” I ask.

  “He goes to that weirdo church by the Co-op. Saul told me he’s on the committee or something. He goes every Saturday as well as Sunday. Where is Saul by the way? Have you just been to his house?”

  “We’re doing routine enquiries in the area. Nothing serious,” I say quickly. “Saul’s in your form class, isn’t he, Kirsty? Did he like Mr Brock’s homework club?”

  “He went every week. Sometimes twice a week. I suppose if your dad’s religious, you’re expected to work hard at school. Glad mine’s an atheist.” The two girls snigger. The boys smile nervously, apparently searching their brains for the word atheist.

  We leave the teenagers still laughing at Kirsty’s joke.

  “It looks like Joe Walker was telling the truth,” I say when we get in the car. “If Saul went to the homework club twice a week, he must have spent a lot of time with Brock. But it could have been for school work, not drugs, I suppose.”

  “How many speed addicts do you know who practise their spelling?” Matthews shuts his door. “There was something going on between Brock and Saul Hedges, and the mother knew about it.”

  “She was cagey when you asked her about Brock. But why not tell us if she thought he was supplying drugs?”

  “She seemed scared to me. But if she was scared of Brock, surely that fear would be over now he’s dead,” Matthews says.

  “Maybe there was more than one supplier,” I suggest. “Brock could have had a partner who’s still threatening the Hedges family.”

  “If that were true, I can’t see why Walker would risk his neck to tell us about Brock.” Matthews starts the engine and reverses past the kids. They’re on their phones and don’t look up.

  “What if Joe Walker’s the other dealer? He could have killed Brock, blamed him for Saul’s addiction and taken all the drug business for himself.”

  “Slow down, Agatha. We’re talking about a pimply fifteen-year-old not a career criminal like Samuel McKenzie. I don’t see Joe Walker as a drugs baron.”

  I feel my skin redden. “Neither do I really, but I’m trying out all the possibilities. He’s probably just a cheeky kid who made up the whole story about Brock. It’s more likely that Brock
was a good teacher who confronted the dealer. My hunch is on McKenzie for the dealing and the murder. He’s certainly cold-blooded and clever enough to get away with it.”

  “He won’t. If he’s in the frame, we’ll get him.” He pulls into the road and changes up to third gear. “We just have to eliminate all the other loose ends first.”

  “Do we need to see Mr Hedges? If he started a job in Swansea on Monday morning, he wouldn’t have been here at the time of Brock’s murder.”

  “We’ve only the wife’s word he’s in Swansea. Why did she make a point of mentioning he’s been away all week? We didn’t ask her. She volunteered the information. And if your faithful band of car minders is right, she lied about him being away until at least next week. They think he’ll be at church in Penbury tomorrow. So that’s where we’ll be too.”

  Doreen Kenny checks the till for the third time. The day’s takings are already in the cash tin and safely hidden behind the kettle in the store cupboard. The coloured gentleman has been in the shop for at least ten minutes already. No one could ever accuse her of being prejudiced, but she’s right to be on her guard. She’s already told him that she’s about to close and if it’s men’s clothes he’s after, they’re at the front. He nodded but made no move towards them or the exit. Loitering, Doreen calls it. A shoplifter, no doubt. They get a lot of that. All the charity shops do. People seem to think it isn’t stealing if they pinch second-hand stuff. But it is. People make donations to raise money for good causes. And the Cat Rescue Centre is a good cause, whatever Reg says.

  She busies herself with rearranging the scent bottles on the counter, but she still has him in her sights. He’s pretending to look through a rail of women’s stuff. She hopes his game is only shoplifting, but she can’t rule out a raid. After what Reg saw the other morning, anything seems possible in Penbury these days. Poor old Reg. He hasn’t been the same since. No more bike rides for him. Her porridge is good enough now.

  The man pulls something off the rail and approaches her. She stiffens. He proffers a £10 note and lays his would-be purchase on the counter.

  “That’s £2.50 please,” Doreen says in her brightest voice, and adds, “I hope I’ve got enough change. There’s hardly anything in the till. We cashed up earlier. All the money’s gone to the bank.”

  The man stares at her. If anything, the gaze is friendly dog, but Doreen isn’t taking any chances. With a deftness of hand she normally reserves for making Reg’s breakfast, she keys in the sale, snatches out the change and snaps the drawer shut again.

  “Would you like a bag?”

  He says nothing but she didn’t expect a response. Of course he wants a bag.

  “Bye then,” she says to the closing door. Pervert.

  Chapter 28

  I perch on the edge of my desk. I daren’t look at DS Danny Johnson, standing on the other side of the room, but I’m sure his eyes are still pale and sparkling. He’s engaged in a lively discussion with Darren Holtom and Martin Connors. The older detective, Kevin Bradshaw, sits at his desk, reading through paperwork. Matthews is at his computer screen.

  I grow oddly cold in the stuffy room as I dwell on being the only female on the team – apart from DI Bagley and Superintendent Chattan – and I can’t see either of them as kindred spirits. I shiver. For the first time in three years I feel lonely, but shake off the thought. In those dark days, I went beyond loneliness into despair. I was broken, soul as well as body, spiralling through a gaping chasm that no one else knew existed. Only joining the police force helped me find control, and camaraderie, again. This is nothing in comparison to that, but I wish Matthews hadn’t interrupted Danny’s body-through-the-window prank. I wouldn’t have fallen for it, but I could have played along – a chance to make myself one of the boys.

  “Let’s get this over with. Fall in now, will you.” There’s no mistaking that the commanding presence of DCI Hendersen has entered the room. The detectives reach for their jackets, clearly wanting to show respect for the senior officer.

  “No need for those, gentlemen. It’s Red Sea rig this time of year.” Hendersen lumbers to the white board, the hot weather not suiting, and fishes a dog-eared sheet of paper out of his briefcase. “Blast. Left my wretched bins in my office. Blind as the proverbial bat without them.” He pads out of the room again.

  “Red Sea what?” Danny asks, taking a chair that Darren Holtom passes him.

  “He means you don’t need to wear that piece of cowhide you call your jacket,” Matthews says, laying his own jacket back on his chair and then perching on the desk beside me.

  Danny’s eyes narrow. “Are you winding me up, Mike?”

  “‘Red Sea rig’ is a military expression,” I find myself saying and then realize there are five pairs of quizzical male eyes gazing at me. “My grandfather was in the army. He said it was a Royal Navy term. The only exception to full wardroom dress was in the Red Sea.”

  “My dad was army,” Matthews mutters, but looks away when I try to respond.

  “Why is the DCI doing the briefing?” I ask, sensing that it would be better for both of us to change the subject.

  “DI Bagley is having her appraisal with the Super.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “All hours are work hours for an A-lister like Superintendent Chattan,” Matthews says.

  “Remember, I believe in a free and frank exchange of views.” Hendersen re-enters the office. “I don’t have all the answers, so pitch in with your thoughts. Holtom, would you care to start us off?”

  “Yes, sir.” The young DC pulls his chair up beside Danny’s. “I checked out Reg Kenny, the old guy who found Carl Brock’s body on Martle Top. We’ve got nothing on him. He’s a sixty-six-year-old retired caretaker who lives with his wife, Doreen. No convictions, not even a dodgy light on his bike. And I can’t find any connection between him and the victim.”

  “Sounds like we can rule him out then. It’s always much easier when the chap who finds the body did the deed but that seems to happen less often these days. We’d better look elsewhere.” Hendersen puts on his spectacles to peer at his notes. “What have we found out about the victim? Sergeant Matthews, you visited his employer, didn’t you?”

  Matthews nods. “Carl Brock was a thirty-six-year old English teacher. He’s been at Swan Academy for three years. He met his wife Gaby there when she was a teaching assistant. The official line is that he was well-liked, a hard worker, keen to support the children, especially the lower ability ones. But his teaching methods may not have been entirely traditional. One pupil told us that he let them smoke at his after-school homework club.”

  “Hardly the crime of the century. My old history master used to hand out cigars, Bolivars no less. Part of our social development,” Hendersen says.

  “We’ve also heard a rumour that he gave the kids alcohol and—”

  “We had a nip of cherry brandy every now and then. Character building.”

  “… and drugs,” Matthews continues. “Another pupil, Joe Walker, alleges that Brock plied the homework club regulars with beer and cannabis. He also claims that Brock supplied one boy, Saul Hedges, with amphetamines. We know for a fact that Hedges is currently in rehab.”

  “Good Lord. Did Brock have form?” Hendersen directs his question to DC Holtom.

  “Nothing, sir,” Holtom answers. “Is this pupil of yours a credible witness, Mike?”

  “I have my doubts,” Mike Matthews replies. “I’ve checked with uniform; Joe Walker was picked up for joy riding last year. He’s a surly little git. He could well be winding us up. We couldn’t put his claims to Saul Hedges because we couldn’t get beyond the manager at the rehab centre to interview him. His counsellor thinks it would damage his recovery.”

  “His counsellor – ha – I might have guessed,” Hendersen says. He moves across the front of the room, not so much pacing as marching. “A good dose of National Service would soon bring these youngsters to their senses. It’s no good blubbing to a counsel
lor. Life’s not fair, so get on with it. Can you make a connection between Brock and this Hedges boy without an interview, or do I need to apply for a warrant?”

  “We haven’t found a connection so far, other than teacher/pupil,” Matthews says. “DC Adams and I have interviewed the boy’s mother. She says the family hardly knew Brock. He was just one of the teachers at Saul’s school and she dismisses the idea that Brock was his dealer.”

  “Either the mother was in the dark about Brock, or your teenage witness’s story is bunkum,” the DCI says.

  “That’s certainly what Mrs Hedges is telling us, but we think she’s hiding something.” Matthews reaches over the desk for his notebook. “A woman fitting her description was seen arguing with Brock in school a few weeks ago. She denies there was an argument. And then DC Adams saw her being turned away from Brock’s memorial service. Mrs Hedges says she just wanted to pay her respects, but why bother if she hardly knew Brock? With her son in rehab, you’d think she’d have too much on her plate to turn up uninvited to a service for a distant acquaintance. She’s also for some reason cagey about the whereabouts of her husband. We’ve had a tip-off that he’ll be at church tomorrow, so we’re going to see what he has to say for himself.”

  “Which church?” DC Bradshaw asks, for the first time glancing up from the paperwork he’s been trying to read.

  “All we know is that, according to another Swan pupil, it’s ‘the weird one near the Co-op’.”

  “That’ll be the Church of Divine and Eternal Freedom,” DC Bradshaw says. “It’s a new denomination that started out in the West Indies but now has a small following here.”

  “When did you make Archbishop of Canterbury?” Danny Johnson asks, making the other men laugh.

  “My wife’s studying world religions part-time at Penbury College.”

  “Jolly good, Bradshaw. Glad to know the dear lady is still trying to improve herself despite being married to you.” Hendersen booms out a laugh which drowns the other men’s chuckles. “Now, let’s move on. Who turned the Hedges woman away from the memorial service?”