by Jay Nadal
3
Scott couldn’t help but admire the magnificent architecture and history that exuded from Edmunston-Hunt boarding school. An impressive 18th century Gothic-style grey stone design complemented the 19th century additions that had been added as the school grew. It was a well-proportioned building set over three floors. Directly above the main entrance, stood a fifty feet high steeple, topped off with a spire. A large black and gold clock with Roman numerals proudly dominated the front aspect of the steeple.
The splendour of the building was completed at both ends with two large extensions with elegant stained-glass windows. The effect was to create a horseshoe shape building. Its early Christian influences were clearly apparent to Scott as he admired its ornate stone features.
Scott and Abby exchanged glances as they entered one of the bastions of elite education. He glanced over his shoulder at the large green lawns that fronted the school. From what he could see, they were being used as cricket pitches. The lawns were perfectly cut and striped in true British fashion, the distinctive smell of freshly cut grass hung in the air. The setting, the school, the lawns and smell of grass all were quintessentially English in Scott’s eyes.
Silence reigned supreme so the place took on a sense of isolation. For a school like this, there should have been a hive of activity, children hurrying from one class to another, various sports in action, laughing, and the sound of excited chatter…but nothing pierced his eardrums, just an eerie silence hanging in the air.
“Guv,” Abby said, catching Scott’s attention and nodding in the direction of the far right-hand side of the building.
A sliver of a man appeared, wearing dark blue overalls, a broom in his hand. He’d stopped cleaning and leant on the top of the broom handle just observing them. His face, devoid of expression, gave nothing away. Scott couldn’t tell if the man was curious or concerned, even a cursory wave didn’t prompt a reaction. He made a mental note to obtain his identity.
The school reception carried on the theme of style and history. Dark wood parquet floors stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. A thin lady, in a tweed skirt, white blouse and choker chain greeted them. She peered over the top of half-rimmed glasses.
“I’m Mrs Hilary, senior receptionist,” she said introducing herself in a plum voice.
Scott couldn’t help but smile to himself as he noticed the intonation in her voice.
“Mr Collier has been expecting you for some time,” she uttered in a voice clear, crisp and sharp, with an undercurrent of dissatisfaction.
Scott hated being talked to like that. There was no need for sarcasm or the lack of diplomacy. He wondered if she was even capable of being pleasant or welcoming. Mrs Hilary either loved her job too much, or punched above her weight and thought she ran the school.
“I appreciate your concern, Mrs Hilary. As you can imagine, we needed to review the scene first, and I’m sure even you would want to make sure that Matthew, the little boy who found him, was safe and well before we spoke to Mr Collier,” Scott replied through clenched teeth.
Suitably chastised and clearly annoyed, Mrs Hilary led them to the principal’s office without further comment or eye contact. Her short, quick steps echoed through the old corridors. A pungent aroma clung in the air as ancient Asian spices wafted through from the school kitchen. It smelt more like an Indian takeaway than a school. The pupils would no doubt be tucking into a curry of some sort later today.
As Abby glanced around, the oak panelling on the walls had their fair share of old historic paintings and pieces of artwork, none of which she recognised. She wouldn’t have been able to guess what century the paintings belonged to or who the artists were who’d created them. Scott found it strange that despite the death of a senior colleague, the principal was holed up in his office. He naturally assumed that following such a tragedy, he would have had a strong visible presence to reassure the pupils and teachers alike.
Mrs Hilary knocked firmly on the large oak door which had a gold plaque inscribed with Mr Collier - Principal.
“Please come in and take a seat. I’m Adrian Collier, the principal,” he offered extending his hand.
Scott shook Mr Collier’s hand. “I’m Detective Inspector Baker and this is Detective Sergeant Trent, we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said in a firm, deep booming voice more befitting of the military than education as he took his place behind a large leather-topped mahogany desk. “Yes, it’s a terrible tragedy. It’s shocked all of us. Unfortunately, I haven’t got much to go on,” he said shrugging his shoulders. “I’m hoping you will be able to shed some light on what’s happened, Inspector. Can I assume he took his own life?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss that at the moment. We are still conducting our preliminary investigation.”
“Yes, of course I understand,” he replied nodding slowly.
He rested his elbows on the armrests of his chair, his fingers interlocked in a spire beneath his chin. Collier was a tall chap with a large frame. He had lost most of his hair through age and what little that remained was now grey-white and skirted around the edge of his head. His thick, frameless glasses were perched high up on his nose, and his thin lips held a straight line across his face. He was bland in appearance but smart at the same time. His grey, two-piece suit coordinated with a light blue shirt and matching blue tie.
Abby pulled a notepad and pen from her bag to begin taking notes.
“What can you tell us about Mr Johnson?”
Collier paused for a moment whilst he gathered his thoughts. “He was a hard-working, likeable chap. A real grafter, and a stickler for rules and regulations.”
“And how did he get on with other staff members?”
“Well, as I said, he was a likeable chap. In all my years here, he’d never really had a major spat with anyone. Of course, when you’re working in such close proximity to others, you can sometimes grate on each other’s nerves. But I’ve personally never seen anything that flagged up a cause for concern for me.”
“Do you know of any worries that he had?” Abby asked, looking up from her notepad.
Collier shook his head as he reflected on that question. “Nothing I’m aware of. In my experience, I’ve never noticed any of the staff unburdening their troubles on each other. I guess it’s mentality and upbringing…we remain strong and steadfast, and deal with our problems in private.”
Scott leant in a bit closer. “Was Mr Johnson in a relationship?”
“He was single as far as I know. He lived on the grounds since we provide staff accommodation. We have a small row of cottages behind the main building. All staff members are entitled to bring back a partner, that’s if they’re not married of course. And I do know in the past that Christopher had brought back the odd lady here and there. But that’s going back some time now.”
“Did he have any financial problems?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, Inspector. That’s something you’d need to look into,” he replied thoughtfully.
“How long had Mr Johnson been here?”
“What? In a teaching capacity?” Collier clarified.
His reply wasn’t what Scott expected. “Yes.”
“Off the top of my head, I think just over five years or so.”
“Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to harm him?”
Collier sat up, his body rigid with curiosity. “Are you suggesting that something more untoward is going on here?”
“Not at all, Mr Collier. As part of our investigation, we need to explore all avenues, personal, professional, financial and even psychological.”
“Well, then my answer is no. Let me make it perfectly clear, Inspector. I run a tight ship here,” he replied firmly.
“Just one last question. What was his state of mind like in the last few days?”
“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Inspector,” Collier replied, furrowing his brow. “He wasn’t
weak-minded if that’s what you’re suggesting. None of my staff are.”
“Okay, Mr Collier, you’ve been very helpful. We need access to his personal file, and a visit to his cottage whilst we’re here.”
“That goes without saying, Inspector; you will have our full cooperation. Mrs Hilary can see to that. I’ll inform her. If you make your way back to reception, I’ll arrange for her to meet you there,” he offered as he stood up from behind his desk, signalling that their meeting was over. He showed them out of the door, shutting it swiftly behind them.
“Can’t quite make him out, Guv. He seemed very matter-of-fact, and a bit blasé in places. Judging by his reaction, you wouldn’t think that he’d just lost a member of staff. I’m not being funny but the deputy principal, Mrs Harrison, showed more emotion than that old codger in there.”
“Mentality and upbringing…” Scott uttered. “What’s all that about? Something doesn’t sit quite right there. On the one hand he was helpful, but then he knew very little about a senior member of his management team. I think we’ve only touched the surface with Mr Collier, as I’m sure time will tell.”
4
Scott’s opinion of Mrs Hilary had fast descended from tolerable to a pain in the arse battleaxe after she’d left them waiting for fifteen minutes whilst she’d reluctantly gone in search of the spare keys to Johnson’s house. She annoyed Scott even further by insisting on accompanying them, commenting that “I’d hate for anything to go missing,” and “you just don’t know who you can trust these days.” A jobsworth seemed too nice a title for her.
Johnson’s property was one of a series of two-bed, three-storey period cottages set back away from the main building on the sprawling estate. Accommodation had been provided for those members of staff who didn’t live within easy commuting distance. Visually, the properties had a quaint look about them. An assorted row of potted plants with ornate Greek-style vases skirted the front of all the properties.
The owners had taken great care in maintaining their homes. The brown brick, weathered fronts were suitably maintained. Pristine, white sash window frames with matching windowsills added a symmetry that spanned the block. Each property had a matching stable door, all sporting a traditional racing green colour.
Scott had given Mrs Hilary strict instructions to stay outside of the property and under no circumstances enter, lest she disturb possible evidence. Obviously not used to being told what to do, the woman looked over the top of her glasses that sat low on her nose. With crossed arms, she shot Scott a scornful glare as he and Abby pulled on rubber gloves.
The inside of the property was just as impressive and cosy as the outside. It was rich in features, with exposed oak ceiling timbers, floors, doors and frames. Exposed brick fireplaces offered a contrasting accent feature to their adjoining plain white plastered walls. A well-balanced mix of traditional and modern contemporary, Scott thought.
Johnson appeared to live a clean, healthy life. The ground floor was tidy and functional if not perhaps a little impersonal. Absent were any family photos, flowers and ornaments. The theme continued throughout the first floor where they found the first bedroom, which had been converted into a study. A bathroom was situated to the right. The top floor of the property led to the second bedroom. Everything seemed to be packed away, neat and tidy.
Abby searched the ground floor as Scott explored the first floor. His feet sunk into the thick, red velvet carpet, a marked contrast to the firmness he felt walking around downstairs.
A faint smell of tobacco hung in the air, instantly transporting him back to when he was a boy. Every time he had visited his uncle who lived around the corner to their family home, he’d sat in fascination watching his uncle stuff tobacco in his pipe, taking short, sharp puffs whilst he lit the pipe with his Swan Vesta matches. He’d enjoyed the rugged smell, it was a grown-up smell that he’d fondly embraced as a child. Uncle Tom was a great storyteller; he’d entertained Scott for hours with stories that just seemed to ramble on as he chugged away on his pipe.
Scott was never sure how much of the content was truth and how much was embellishment, but at the time he accepted every word as the gospel truth because his uncle was a man’s man. He was big, well-built, with a deep booming voice. Spending what seemed like hours in the study with Uncle Tom, made him feel like he was eighteen, and not eight. At the time, he thought his uncle was so cool, especially because he used magical matches that he’d strike on the sole of his shoe to ignite his pipe.
It was only in later life that Scott realised that his cool uncle had slowly been killing himself, the evil weed gradually robbing him of his breath, his life and well-being. That rasping cough that Scott didn’t notice as he grew up had become louder and more painful through the years. The days of kicking a football around the garden with his favourite uncle becoming more infrequent. At the time, Scott had put it down to old age when Uncle Tom kept stopping because he was out of breath. Then one day it rocked him to the core when Uncle Tom had collapsed, the ambulance staff strapping an oxygen mask to his face to help him breathe easier. The mask became a permanent feature from that day onwards, until he passed away. Cause of death, emphysema.
The study in marked contrast appeared to be the hub of the house. An oversized desk piled high with student workbooks, notes and random pieces of paper that left very little clear working space to admire the red leather surface. A well-worn metal ashtray was half-full, and an unfinished glass of red wine had somehow managed to find its rightful place on the table.
Scott cast his eye around the room looking for any evidence of something untoward that may have happened and been the precursor to Johnson taking his life. A laptop perched precariously towards the back of the desk, its screen now blank as it rested in sleep mode. A bright orange power light was the only indication of the laptop still being on.
“Nothing down there, Guv,” Abby offered as she walked into the study. “I couldn’t find a phone downstairs but there’s the usual collection of bills and receipts on the kitchen table. I’ve just bagged them up to look at later. The back door is unlocked though. Perhaps he felt a degree of security and privacy here on the school grounds and didn’t lock his doors?”
“I didn’t think you’d find much down there. It looks like Johnson spent most of his time here,” Scott added glancing around the room. “I need you to bag up that laptop, and the wine glass and bottle; we need to get them to forensics.” Scott reached into the inside pockets of the suit jacket that had been left hanging on the back of the captain’s chair. After fishing around for a few seconds, he pulled out Johnson’s wallet. It contained an assortment of credit cards and bank cards, plus a driving licence.
As he peered into the notes section, other than two twenty-pound notes and a ten-pound note, he found three small white pieces of paper neatly folded. Taking them out, he inspected each one in turn.
“Looks like Johnson was in a relationship of some sorts,” Scott said, passing the notes to Abby.
“You make me feel so alive and wanted. Can’t wait to see you again. My body is aching for you. S xx,” Abby read aloud, raising her brow.
“That’s kind of you to say, Abby. I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” Scott grinned.
“In your dreams, mate,” she fired back, sticking two fingers in her mouth as she pretended to gag.
“The other two notes are signed off in the same way,” Scott added. He made a mental note to bring this up with the principal next time they met. “We could do with tracking down who this person is, they might be able to shed some light on his final few hours and his life in general,” Scott suggested before placing the wallet and notes into a clear evidence bag, hoping that forensics might be able to lift a print off them.
“Can’t see his phone anywhere,” Scott pointed out before heading over towards the grand bookcase that filled one whole wall. It was obvious that the majority of his books hadn’t been used in a long time; the spines of which were worn, tatty and cracked, wi
th a thin layer of dust resting on their top faces. Scott ran his finger along one shelf, a pile of dust collecting before his finger, the way snow collected on the front face of a snowplough.
Abby started rooting through the various files that packed out the first drawer of a grey filing cabinet in the corner. Most of the files contained the performance records of various students he taught. A few other folders contained invoices from expenses incurred, but the rest of the filing cabinet was empty.
“Found it,” Abby said as she knelt down in the small space between the filing cabinet and the wall. The phone had been left charging, in the wall socket. “That’s handy. The phone’s on, and there’s no screen lock,” she added scrolling through text messages selecting a few at random. “The mysterious S seems to have had the hots for our man. There are dozens of messages on here, and some of them are X-rated enough to make a vicar blush. Judging from some of them, she was a frequent visitor here, too.”
“Even more reason to find her,” Scott stressed as he pursed his lips.
“Back to the station, Guv?”
“Yes, let’s get a briefing organised.”
Just as Scott was about to drive off, he noticed the man they had seen earlier. Still standing in the same spot, the caretaker was slouched up against the wall slowly puffing on a cigarette. He hadn’t moved, his eyes still firmly fixed on them. He watched as they turned the car around and headed back towards the main entrance. Scott looked in his rear-view mirror and saw the image of the man slowly fading into the distance.
5
The late afternoon sun poured through the windows making the briefing room decidedly uncomfortable. The air conditioning had broken down some time ago, and attempts to repair it were being delayed due to the station’s refurbishment programme. The project management team had deemed it far more appropriate and cost-effective to replace the air conditioning system in that part of the building when the briefing room got its refit. In the meantime, it meant that any meetings were held in an atmosphere of stuffy heat and the pungent smell of human eau de BO.