The Good Teacher

by Rachel Sargeant

  “Donald England, Head of English, and his deputy, Mrs Howden.” I speak for the first time and glow pink as the men look at me. “The head teacher, Mr Cunningham, says he told them to watch for anyone gate-crashing the service. He didn’t want any trouble with the press being there.”

  “I wonder if they were expecting that particular gate-crasher. I’m not one for the proverbial conspiracy theory, but what if Brock was a dealer and his headmaster and head of department were in on it? It would explain your Mrs Hedges’s reluctance to name Brock as a dealer. She’d probably think we wouldn’t believe her. Perhaps she intended to make her claim in front of the local press at the school assembly.” Hendersen stops pacing. “DC Holtom and DC Connors, find out all you can about England, Howden and Cunningham. Don’t wait till Monday to interview them. Track them down at home over the weekend. Interrupt their lawn-mowing or catch them semi-naked on the sun lounger.” He lets out another rich belly laugh. “Now, DS Johnson, what have you got for us?”

  Danny comes to stand next to Hendersen and replies with an air of easy confidence. “I interviewed Gaby Brock again. She’s sticking to her story of two men bursting in and making Brock tie her up before kidnapping him. She also identified the murder weapon as one of her own kitchen knives.”

  “That’s interesting. Wouldn’t two organized kidnappers bring weapons with them? Is Gaby Brock to be believed, I wonder? You don’t suppose she could have hired the men herself, a proverbial contract killing?”

  Danny shakes his head. “I don’t think so, sir. We didn’t have any forensics to connect the knife with the Brock house. And it’s not part of a set. We only know it’s her knife because she told us. Why would she do that if she were behind the murder? And remember she was badly beaten and tied up. She’s still covered in bruises. She didn’t do that to herself and I can’t see her paying someone else to do it.”

  “Fair point, Johnson. I’m just trying to make sure you chaps keep an open mind. What else is she saying?”

  “Carl Brock bought the Ford Mondeo about three weeks ago, so that’s bad news for Liz Bagley’s case against McKenzie. The villain might be telling the truth about not knowing Brock. He could have been in the car with the previous owner.”

  “Gaby Brock identified him as one of her attackers from police photographs. He’s in it up to his neck,” Kevin Bradshaw says gruffly.

  “Steady on.” Hendersen raises his hand towards Bradshaw. “Samuel McKenzie wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit him in the proverbials, but he’s a slippery customer. Get on to the DVLA. I want the full ownership history of Brock’s Mondeo. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out that the car’s been owned by a string of drug dealers who are willing to implicate McKenzie. Then we’ll look out for the proverbial flying pigs.”

  “What sort of car did Brock have before the Mondeo?” Matthews asks, looking at Danny Johnson.

  “How should I know? Is that relevant?” Danny rolls his pretty eyes.

  Matthews ignores him to address Hendersen. “I was thinking that if we could find his old car and that had McKenzie’s prints in it, we’d still have a connection between them.”

  Hendersen rubs his hands over his considerable midriff. “A bit of a long shot and expensive on the old forensics, but to hell with the budget, we need to try every angle to get McKenzie. See what you can find out,” he says. “Anything else, Johnson?”

  “Forensics say there are no prints on the back door at the Brocks’ house. The glass was definitely broken from the outside. The lock wasn’t forced. Someone put a hand through the broken glass and turned the key. The only DNA in the area was Mr Brock’s.”

  “What about the tissue and the cotton thread found on the lounge carpet?” Matthews asks.

  “We asked Gaby Brock. She was mortified.” Danny laughs. “She’s a proper little housewife.”

  “And the clothing found in the washing machine?” I find my voice.

  “There were traces of Brock’s blood on one of his shirts, probably from his hand injury,” Danny replies, eyes twinkling.

  “What’s this about training shoes found in the car?” Hendersen squints at his notes.

  “Mrs Brock confirmed they belonged to her husband. Forensics found traces of soil on them from the field where his body was discovered. As the trainers were still in the car and not with the body, it looks as if Brock got the soil on them at a different time. He must have been to Martle Top before, although Gaby Brock can’t confirm this. She doesn’t know whether he’d ever been up there or not.”

  “Has she ever been up there?” I ask.

  “She says not and there was no soil or pollen on her bare feet or on any of her shoes at home,” Danny says. He continues to look at me and I feel the blush rising.

  “How is Gaby?” I ask, masking my embarrassment with the only question I can think of.

  Danny smiles. “A pretty little thing, or at least she will be when the black eyes have gone.”

  “I meant how is she coping.”

  “Oh, I see. She doesn’t say much. Still waters and all that. Despite looking like bone china, I think she’s coping.”

  “I wish I’d known you were going to interview her. You could have taken the flowers from the staff at Swan school. They’re in my sink at home.”

  “You girls and your flowers,” he smoulders.

  The heat in my face is scorching. “It’s just a little posy of roses … but it’s nice … I mean …”

  “Perhaps we could leave the floristry discussion till later. We’re on murder at the moment,” DCI Hendersen barks. “Does anyone else have anything relevant to say?”

  “Yes, sir,” DC Bradshaw says. “I’ve been round all the DIY and sex shops, but I can’t get a trace on the chains and handcuffs.”

  “But you had fun trying,” Danny Johnson says. The room dissolves into laughter again.

  When it subsides, DC Holtom says, “I did a PNC check on Linda Parry, Carl Brock’s sister. She used to be married to an Edward John Parry who has a string of convictions for robbery and receiving stolen goods.”

  “Eddie Parry. I remember him,” DC Bradshaw says, clasping his hands behind his head. “It must be going back ten years or more now. Petty criminal. Small time stuff and disastrously incompetent. He was always getting nicked. Then one time we arrested him for attempted kidnap, but we had to release him when the victim withdrew the allegation.”

  “Who was the victim?” Matthews asks.

  “A young woman who turned out to be a totally unreliable witness. We wasted a lot of time on that.”

  “Attempted kidnap. Is it possible that he was behind the attack on the Brocks? Maybe with his wife, Linda, as an accomplice?” Hendersen asks.

  “Doubtful,” Holtom says, glancing at his notebook. “He and Linda divorced eight years ago and he’s currently doing three years in the Scrubs.”

  There’s a collective sigh of frustration; another line of enquiry squashed.

  “Probably the proverbial dead end then. Bradshaw, have a chat with Linda Parry. Check her alibi for Sunday night. Maybe some of her ex-husband’s ways have rubbed off on her.” Hendersen stuffs his notes into his briefcase. “DI Bagley will be back with you tomorrow, so jump to it if you want to impress the dear lady. Now, DS Matthews, Mike,” his voice softens, “I want you here first thing in the morning. I’ve almost finished the departmental annual report, but I would like you to cast your trained eye over some of the figures.”

  “Of course, sir, but I’m supposed to be interviewing Saul Hedges’s father, if we can find him. And I’ll have DC Adams with me. I’m her supervisor. Maybe DS Johnson could help with the report.”

  “Come on, Mike,” Danny says quickly. “You and DC Adams aren’t joined at the hip. It’d do her good to get a different perspective. I’ll take care of her.”

  I sit on my hands. Can the others see I’m trembling?

  “But you hate supervising,” Matthews protests. “You told me.”

  “I was
joking. I’d love to work with her.”

  “Well, DC Adams, you’ve managed to get the chaps fighting over you already,” Hendersen says. “You don’t mind working with DS Johnson tomorrow, do you?”

  “No, sir,” My voice sounds matter-of-fact, although my stomach turns cartwheels.

  “That’s settled then. The lady has the last word. DS Johnson will do the Hedges interview and DS Matthews will do the Annual Report.” He clears his throat. “Or rather, I mean, help me complete it.”

  Chapter 29

  “Your clear-up rate is outstanding,” Superintendent Naomi Chattan says. “No unsolved murders since you were made DI. When was that?” She glances down at Liz Bagley’s file. “Oh, quite recently.”

  Liz follows Chattan’s long fingers and reads the text upside down. “I went into the real world after A levels. I wasn’t fast-tracked like some university people.” She winces; everyone knows Chattan has letters after her name: B.Lib. MSc. MA.

  “That may be so,” Chattan says, ignoring the challenge. “In the last twelve months you’ve demonstrated the first-class detection skills I’d expect. From what I’ve seen, the Brigghamshire Force only appoints worthy candidates to its key posts.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Liz says. The new Super obviously hasn’t met Dr Tarnovski, resident prat surgeon.

  “How is the Carl Brock case progressing?”

  “We are pursuing several lines of enquiry,” Liz says, unable to resist aping the words she heard Chattan say when she listened to the press conference on Radio Brigghamshire. If Liz had taken her rightful place on the panel, she’d have come up with something more dynamic. “I’ll get the breakthrough we need very soon,” she says, voicing her thoughts.

  “I have every confidence that you will.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Liz says. Even though your press appeal turned up nothing.

  “How do you explain your magnificent detection rate?” Chattan asks, clasping her hands together over her notes.

  I’ve worked my arse off for it. “I’ve been lucky,” she says. “I’m glad I’m not at Briggham nick. The Easter Day shooting is a bugger’s muddle.” She gives a smirk but adds, “ma’am” to dilute the swearing.

  Chattan fixes her with her dark, feline eyes. “Every outcome is part of the winning process. I’m sure that particular investigation is a fruitful learning experience for the whole team.”

  “Of course, we all relish the challenge.” Liz does her utmost to match the music of Chattan’s voice with charm of her own. Chattan’s a big-picture person, talking up the whole constabulary. For her, there was no “them and us” between Briggham and Penbury. But Bagley knows otherwise. It comes down to watching your own backside and beggar the rest.

  Chattan bestows a warm smile on her. “As I was saying, I have every confidence in your abilities as a police officer.”

  Liz replies with a mechanical grin of her own. Never has she heard the word “police officer” sound so damming. She waits for the “But”.

  “However, I’d like us to spend time looking at your methods. How would you feel about a People Skills refresher course?” Chattan adopts the same soft, lilting tone she employed when praising Liz earlier in the interview.

  “Do I need it?” Liz does her best not to snap.

  “We could all do with a reminder now and again – even assertive people like you and I. Occasionally assertiveness can spill over into aggression,” Chattan says sweetly.

  “I make points, that’s all.”

  “And sometimes making those points leads to confrontation.”

  “I get things done.” Liz shifts her weight in her seat. “It’s not like I enjoy conflict.”

  “A senior detective needs to inspire her people. If we don’t show that we appreciate what they do, they won’t rise to the challenges we expect of them. The more responsibilities you take on, the more it’s about achieving results through others. You may wish to try for DCI one day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” One day? Sooner than you think. I’ve got friends in higher places than you, superintendent. I’ll catch you yet.

  “I’m also going to put you down for a two-week residential course in February. It’s on Modern Leadership. It should give you the basics.”

  Liz daren’t speak in case she spits bile. She watches Chattan retrieve a glossy course brochure from her filing cabinet. Lean – all neck and no tits. According to Clockwise Chisholm, the font of station gossip, her husband lives in Surrey, keeping the marital home ticking over until his wife’s next career move. He isn’t missing out on much. No curves to cuddle up to.

  What Chattan lacks in upholstery she makes up for in the art of formal informality. She comes round the front of her desk and sits on the spare chair next to Liz. “Tell me what your thoughts are,” she says.

  Liz sits straight. “With respect, ma’am, courses are all very well, but they don’t compare with the benefits of front-line experience. Ticking the right boxes won’t make me catch more villains.”

  “Are you worried about spending time away from your duties? I notice that you’ve been to a number of seminars and conferences already this year.”

  Heat invades Liz’s face, but she keeps her voice cool. “John Wise thought they were important for my professional development.” He whispered as much across many a hotel pillow.

  “Assistant Chief Wise has authorized me to assign appropriate candidates to the Modern Leadership course. Detective inspectors must lead by example. It’s vital to successful policing. The course touches on aspects of good team management like listening to advice, gathering information, keeping on top of all the loose ends, giving praise and—”

  “Not pulling rank,” Liz interrupts.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know, good leadership. It’s not about pulling the rug out from under a junior colleague, especially when the boss sees a PR opportunity.” Like a press conference. She watches a brief cloud settle on Chattan’s normally sunny mouth. But not for long. Chattan blows the storm in Liz’s direction.

  “There’s a section of the course on Dressing to Impress,” she purrs. “It may seem trite, but clothes do maketh man or woman.”

  Liz glares. How dare she? At that moment she hates Chattan so much her throat hurts. “I thought that was manners,” she croaks.

  “Manners are in here too. It’s the course for you.” Chattan sports a beatific smile as she hands Liz the brochure.

  Chapter 30

  A fitful night. Hot and sticky in the flat. And the thought of working with DS Danny Johnson makes me stew. I kick off the sheet and lie motionless on my back, but my brain refuses to rest, awash with stupid plans of what to wear and what to say.

  What type of clothes would Danny find attractive on a woman? A skirt, perhaps. Something like the skirt of my new suit, a bit shorter maybe. Shame I don’t have any high heels … I sit bolt upright, shocked at the direction my thoughts have taken. What am I thinking? I don’t do attractive. Not anymore. I turn onto my side and slam my fist into the pillow.

  My mind fills with the script for the next morning:

  Hi, Pippa. Good to be working with a promising new officer.

  Thank you, sergeant.

  Call me, Danny.

  Thank you, Danny.

  My heart rate slows as I imagine Danny’s easy companionability – no rebukes, no “Agathas” – just friendly professionalism. I reach across to Tuppence, pulling the soft teddy fur to my cheek and wait patiently for sleep to come. A fierce jolt in my stomach forces me wide wake again.

  Danny Johnson and I are going into a church. I’d rather face an armed gang on the Danescott than a church full of worshippers. It’ll bring me too close to something I’ve ignored for three years.

  Religion was effortless for me as a child. My grandfather sent me to a good Catholic school. My father mostly kept his agnostic views to himself, no doubt not wanting to interfere with an education paid for by his father-in-law. At least the school featured music an
d Catholicism might give his daughter some values. Everyone needed values. It wouldn’t have mattered to him what those values were, as long as I had some.

  School religion was good to me. Morning Prayer, grace before meals and Mass on Sundays – easy rituals which preceded other routine pleasures like choir practice and buttered toast. Yes, religion had been fun – until Dad left Mum and my world got a whole lot less snug.

  When Dad went, I turned to my grandfather, expecting the staunch Catholic in him to give me the spiritual reassurance I craved. Unlike other army officers, his first priority on arrival at a new posting was not to set up his mess account. Instead, he headed to the nearest RC church to meet his new priest. But his reaction to daughter Isabel’s separation shocked me almost as much as the split itself. He’d urged Mum to divorce her husband. For years afterwards, I didn’t understand how he could circumvent his own beliefs at the first sign of trouble. Then, three years ago, I came to know the aching desolation of having my own faith ripped away.

  When I finally fall asleep, the dark music room of Alderley Lodge replaces my usual dream of the warmly lit dance studio. On my back in a straitjacket, trying to lift my legs, but they cling to the floor as if made of iron on a magnetic surface. DS Matthews, in a white medical coat, strides across the floor, seemingly unaware of my presence. He stops in front of an old-fashioned tape recorder with a peeling label marked: Property of Swan Academy and twists the volume knob. A rumbling funeral march grows too loud. My muscles tense and pools of sweat form inside the tight sleeves that bind my arms across my body. Suddenly Danny Johnson is kneeling behind me, rubbing my shoulders. An intense feeling of harmony spreads through my body. I sleep soundly after that, but wake early with a knot in my stomach.

  Can’t remember the last time I was inside a church, apart from my grandfather’s funeral, and that seemed more like a state occasion than a spiritual farewell, attended by many of his former comrades. After my parents’ divorce I boycotted church, but years of passive indoctrination were hard to shake off and I continued to believe in a divine force for good, even if I kept it at arm’s length.