Songbird

by Peter Grainger

  ‘Lucy, Honeysuckle, Ivan, Johnny, William and Oliver. They were the nicest class I’ve ever taught.’

  He sat down, and Serena could see she’d been right about him. He was taking this personally, as if the accusations against Oliver were a reflection on his professional judgement, or as if he really should have instructed them not to attack lone women on footpaths after dark.

  ‘And what was the age-range?’

  ‘Oh… Ivan’s the youngest, he’s fifteen. The others are all between sixteen and eighteen. Oliver was the oldest, he was eighteen before the end of the summer term. He took upon himself the role of class leader, and he sometimes helped the others with their work. Oliver likes responsibility, he’s desperate to be useful and to feel that he matters. He’s a volunteer in a charity shop in Norwich. That’s the Oliver I know…’

  And love, she thought. He really cares about these kids. She tried to keep the surprise out of her face and her voice as she said, ‘Thank you. But I’m afraid we have to ask awkward questions. It’s the worst thing about our job.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You had two girls in the same class,’ and she glanced up at the board because using their names might help, ‘Lucy and Honeysuckle. Did Oliver ever… As he approached maturity, did he…’

  She was rarely lost for words, even if they were not always the right ones, but this had caught her unawares.

  Longhill said, not unkindly, ‘You’re asking about whether he showed any sexual interest in them?’

  She nodded and even blushed a little. Ford had better not be watching.

  Longhill went on, ‘I don’t know how much you know about Down’s. The two girls are Down’s syndrome, so is William. Ivan and Johnny have different challenges. People with Down’s have, generally, less interest in sex – certainly less libido than your typical teenager. They talk about having boyfriends and girlfriends, but that stems from their need to belong, to participate in what they see as a normal life. They will touch and kiss but I’ve not seen anything beyond that in my time, not among the students I’ve taught.’

  Serena said, ‘How long is that? How long have you been teaching here?’

  ‘Twelve years.’

  ‘And what did you do before?’

  She was asking because she wanted to know, nothing more, but Longhill seemed happy enough to answer.

  ‘I was in mainstream, head of an English department.’

  Twelve years ago, he was a very young head of English. What had brought him here? She didn’t voice the question but he seemed to have heard it. He said, ‘This is more rewarding. I don’t mean financially. More fulfilling. These young people and their families appreciate everything you do for them. I worked eight years in secondary English and I don’t need the fingers of one hand to count the parents who said thank you and meant it…’

  The morning hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Trevor Longhill was an interesting man.

  Ford said, ‘What’s on the curriculum? What do you teach them?’

  ‘Ha! We’re just a few appendices in the National Curriculum, thank God. Her Majesty’s inspectors turn up every three years, see that the students aren’t chained up and drooling in the corners and give us an Outstanding. We design our own – what?’

  He’d seen Serena laughing and maybe had misunderstood. She told him to go on.

  ‘We design individually-tailored programmes and we consult all the time with parents and carers. Oliver’s family is brilliant in that respect. We focus on the life-skills they’re going to need but the main aim is to teach them to be happy and stable, and then to equip them for the outside world. The outside world can be very cruel in its assumptions, and…’

  Longhill came to a stop, and Serena Butler got it immediately. The outside world was here in the room right now, and, in Trevor Longhill’s eyes, being rather cruel in its assumptions.

  She thanked him, genuinely, and she hoped he could feel that. He took them to the door and pointed out that if they went right across the tarmac they’d reach their car without going back through the building.

  Back in the car, Ford said, ‘Seems like a nice bloke.’

  She was looking at her phone. There was a message from Mike which she could ignore, but nothing from Waters. Usually by now there would have been a can-you-check-this or I-need-a-number-for sort of query. What was he doing? What was Freeman doing? They might even be back in Lake by now. Maybe it was all over.

  She said, ‘Yes, he did. Are we sitting here for a reason, Ford?’

  He started the car and reversed onto the drive. The front of Glebe school was covered in creeper, a mass of green leaves tinted with red, the sort that goes crimson and purple in the autumn. Virginia creeper. She thought about Bromley Road Comprehensive. During her time there, the reinforced concrete had decayed – stains of rust decorated those walls – and the authorities had admitted there was asbestos in the ceilings but it would be alright as long as no one made any holes in it.

  Ford hadn’t put on his seatbelt and he was doing so now.

  ‘Amazing what they do for them here. My youngest sister’s still at school in Lake, at the community college.’

  ‘Really? Fascinating…’

  ‘I know. She tells me all about it. Some of the stuff they do in PHSE these days’ – as if Ford hadn’t been in a school for thirty years – ‘makes you wonder. The sex and drugs is pretty full-on now. She likes to tell me because I’m a copper, trying to get a reaction.’

  ‘She enjoys a challenge, then?’

  He was driving through the trees towards the entrance.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago she wanted to practise CPR on me. I said, Christ girl, you do that on someone whose heart’s beating, it might stop it! Then I’d be arresting you for murder – except I’d be dead! But it’s brilliant they teach all that to these kids as well, isn’t it?’

  A tractor towing heavy farm machinery was coming up the lane. Ford pushed into neutral and pulled on the handbrake, waiting for it to pass. Serena stared at it as she said, ‘Trevor Longhill never said they did.’

  ‘No. But I reckon they do. It was all on the wall behind him.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The posters. First aid. Life-saving skills, emer-’

  ‘Describe the posters.’

  Ford did, and then Serena Butler told him to turn the car around.

  Longhill was still in his domain. When she walked back in, he looked up from his paperwork and asked what they had forgotten – a question or one of their phones? Serena pointed at a poster on the wall behind him and said, ‘Do you teach that?’

  ‘First aid? Yes, I’m one of the school’s designated people. Why?’

  ‘Did you teach it to the graduation class? To Oliver’s class?’

  Longhill hesitated. There was an odd look in her eyes, as if she was going to pin him up against the wall if he didn’t answer quickly.

  ‘Yes, again. Why?’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘June. About a month before the end of term. I don’t-’

  ‘And was Oliver Salmon in the class that day?’

  Trevor Longhill got up and stood to face her.

  ‘He was. We had the resuscitation dummy on that table. He played his usual full part in the lesson.’

  She took a breath, looked at the posters again for some seconds, and then back at the teacher.

  ‘You took a register which will prove he was present? You keep your lesson plans?’

  Longhill nodded and said, ‘Don’t tell me. You’re really OFSTED inspectors in disguise…’

  Serena smiled, then. Without turning around, looking back at the posters once more, she said, ‘Detective Constable Ford. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I love you.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Something in a voice can tell you that someone has been angry, even though they are speaking to you reasonably enough now – there’s a kind of aftershock, a note or a tone still resonating, and Waters could hear it
when Graham Fletcher first spoke to him on the mobile phone. He’d switched to speaker as Freeman had indicated, and she was holding her own iPhone up so she could record the conversation. This would never be admissible in a courtroom, and he wasn’t sure it was even a legal thing to do, but it would be on the SIO’s phone and not his.

  After the introductions, Fletcher had said, ‘So it’s a detective sergeant now. What’s happened to the two ladies I spoke to last time?’

  Still working on the case, Waters told him. Would Fletcher ask why the investigation was back in Luton when they had made an arrest in Norfolk? They now knew that he knew, though they didn’t know how; if he didn’t ask, that in itself might suggest he was playing a careful game.

  Then Fletcher said, ‘Look, I’ll come straight out with it. I’ve had the manager from Gleneagles Motors on the phone a few minutes ago. He’s telling me the car he took from me in part-exchange has been impounded. You already know this because it was you, wasn’t it? He gave me the name of the detective who did it, and it was you, right?’

  Cara Freeman was looking intently at her phone as the recording volume gauge flickered up and down. She glanced at Waters when she felt him watching but her expression gave nothing away.

  He said, ‘Yes, that was me, Mr Fletcher.’

  ‘Well, would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

  The gauge darted briefly into the red zone.

  ‘Certainly, Mr Fletcher. But not over the phone. We’re still in Luton. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you now.’

  ‘“We?” Is this the woman who was with you at Gleneagles? Mancini said she became abusive.’

  Freeman and smiles were unpredictable companions but she had a broad one on her face at that moment, and she was nodding to the invisible and surprisingly sensitive car sales manager. Then she put up a thumb towards Waters.

  ‘I’m with Detective Chief Inspector Freeman, Mr Fletcher. I’m not aware of any abuse taking place.’

  ‘She’s a detective chief inspector? Are you saying you want to interview me?’

  ‘Yes to both, sir.’

  ‘And I assume it’s still to do with what happened to Michelle. You’re not down here investigating fraud in the motor business?’

  The mention of the victim’s name had brought Freeman’s attention back to the business in hand. She mouthed the words “At home” to Waters.

  He said, ‘No, we’re not, sir. We are on our way to speak to Michaela, Mrs Fletcher. Is it possible you could meet us there in about twenty minutes?’

  ‘Eh? Well…’

  Hesitation – thinking it over, weighing it up?

  ‘Not really. I’m already back in the office. I’ve a business to run, and we’re busy.’

  Freeman nodded.

  ‘Right, we know where that is now. We’ll be with you as soon as we can.’

  More silence, the sound of a door closing, before Fletcher said, ‘Well, I’m not going to say I’m looking forward to it. I cannot see why you… What’s the sodding car got to do with anything? Why are you…’ Followed by an attempt at laughter, and then, ‘Do I need a solicitor?’

  Waters left it for four, five, six seconds before saying, ‘I don’t know, sir. You’re probably the best judge of that, as things stand.’

  He’d heard Smith say it a dozen times, but it was as lethal as ever.

  Freeman was quiet for the first half a mile of the journey back to Luton Central Heating Services, and then she said, apparently apropos of nothing in particular, ‘Alright, Detective Sergeant. You’ve got my attention.’

  They sat and waited in the car, giving Fletcher a few minutes to warm himself up before they went in and introduced themselves. The additional vehicle parked in front of the offices was a metallic sapphire blue sports car. Waters pointed it out.

  ‘That’s a Porsche, isn’t it? A 911?’

  ‘Yes, 911 Carrera Cliché. From the mid-life crisis range, if I’m not mistaken. Fletcher has disappointed me even before we’ve met.’

  ‘We’re assuming it’s his, ma’am.’

  Freeman opened her iPad and typed, her fingers quick and practised; Waters realised he had yet to see her write anything on a piece of paper. It took her about a minute and a half to find what she was looking for.

  ‘Gleneagles had it on sale for forty-five – low mileage, one previous owner. The dates would fit with Fletcher selling the Merc. Hold on…’

  She typed again. The images on the screen changed and he knew where she was. The police have almost instant access to the databases of the DVLA in Swansea but Freeman must have had the protocols installed, ready and waiting on her device. She could not have got through that quickly otherwise.

  ‘Registered to Fletcher one week ago. You’ll be relieved to hear the MOT and insurance are both up to date.’

  Waters said, ‘Forty-five thousand for the Porsche. Mr Mancini said something about the Merc costing twenty-five, so he probably gave twentyish in part exchange for it. Graham Fletcher found twenty-five thousand to buy the sports car. I wonder whether that was cash or finance.’

  ‘We can find that out as well if you think it’s important.’

  She was waiting, fingers poised, like a keen detective constable – she had kept her word and was not taking over yet.

  Waters continued, ‘Serena said the house had to be worth half a million. I don’t know why she told me that but she did. They’ve got money.’

  ‘And Mr Fletcher likes to spend it. On himself. Two young kids and he buys a toy that only one of them can fit into at a time? I can’t wait to meet him.’

  The door to Luton Central Heating Services was a double one, and the left side had been wedged open. As Waters watched, a man appeared there and took a long look in their direction. A white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a red tie worn loosely with the collar of the shirt unbuttoned – a broad-chested man with a tanned-looking face and short, dark hair.

  Waters said, ‘I think he feels the same,’ indicating with a finger that Fletcher would be unable to see. Freeman looked up and across towards the building, and Waters was half-expecting her to wave. Instead of that, she said, ‘He does look keen, doesn’t he? Let’s keep him waiting a bit longer. You can lead off when we’re in there. I think you’ve made a connection with him already.’

  His phone pinged and buzzed in his pocket. He looked at it and said, ‘Serena’s got something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t say, just “Ring me when you can. Best day at school ever.”’

  ‘Typical!’

  Waters agreed, and then Freeman went on, ‘She’s quick, smart, streetwise and she doesn’t take any crap from anyone. That’s going to include me before long, too, and I don’t mind. But you know the best thing about her?’

  No, he said, listening and wondering at the same time how she might sum up him after today.

  ‘She’s lucky. In this job, some people just are. I always like at least one lucky one in my team.’

  He could think of moments since he’d known Serena Butler when that was true, at least as far as the job was concerned, but he couldn’t think how Cara Freeman had discovered it so quickly.

  Putting the iPad into her leather bag, Freeman said, ‘Talking of which, don’t forget what we were discussing on the way down here. I asked Smith twice but he was the exception. Most people only get the offer once. Fletcher’s gone back in. Let’s go and find him.’

  Ashley was a changed young woman. She didn’t smile at Waters and she didn’t really want to look at either of them anymore. Her face was paler and a little blotchy, and her eyes were red from crying not long ago. She took them into the first office, where the middle-aged woman stared fixedly at her work-screen, even though they had to pass within feet of her desk.

  The receptionist knocked on the door and waited. There was a brass plate screwed to the door which announced that Graham Fletcher was the Managing Director. Waters doubted whether Luton Central Heating Services employed twenty
people – the sign seemed superfluous, to say the least.

  A voice responded to the girl’s second knock, and she opened the door. Fletcher sat behind a wooden desk, business papers and invoices in front of him, a calculator, an Apple laptop, a pair of reading glasses perched forward on his nose. He’d had time to consider how he wanted to appear, to compose the scene for them.

  Fletcher stood up and offered a hand to Waters – the right hand – and then he did the same for Freeman. This too had been scripted as he waited for them to arrive. Coffee? Tea? Freeman said yes straight away – tea, white, no sugar – and so Waters said he’d have the same. Would there be biscuits, he wondered. Rich Tea?

  The Managing Director waved a hand over the desk and said, ‘Summer’s usually a quiet time but we’re non-stop. I cancelled the advertising six months ago but we still get all this by word of mouth and recommendation.’

  Freeman congratulated him – it was good to see a business doing well despite all the political uncertainty. And then she smiled and fell silent again.

  Fletcher stared at her and then looked to Waters for something – anything – but he said nothing either. The only sound was the fan inside the laptop, and that was barely audible. It was Fletcher’s nerve that gave out.

  ‘Anyway… There’s obviously been some mistake. I’m sure we can clear it up right now. What’s this business with the Mercedes? What on earth’s it got to do with what happened to Michelle?’

  Waters said, ‘We’ll know more when the SOCO team have examined it, Mr Fletcher. There might be nothing at all.’

  ‘SOCO?’

  ‘Scenes of crime officers. The vehicle will be taken in for examination by Luton’s Criminal Investigation Department. It’s possibly there already.’

  He glanced at Freeman, who nodded.

  Fletcher looked suitably astonished.

  ‘You think the car is the scene of a crime? What crime? You’re supposed to be investigating Michelle’s murder. That was up in Norfolk… I don’t understand what you’re playing at.’