Dead Unlucky (6 page)

‘It’s probably a lecture to warn the kids about the perils of chewing gum, about how it’ll stick to your ribs if you swallow it. Whatever it is,’ continued the young woman after another sip of coffee, ‘at least it gets me out of touch rugby with Grade 10. There’s that kid, David Higgins, drives me nuts.’ She moved over to a small settee. ‘Shove up, Paul,’ she ordered a brown-haired colleague wearing a pair of specs containing enough glass to construct a champagne magnum. ‘He refuses to catch the ball. Says it’s dirty. It’s been on the grass, it’s got mud on it. And people spit on the pitch. How can he be expected to touch something like that? Nuts,’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘Even listening to Hag-greaves for half an hour is better than suffering that.’

‘I was going to give Grade 12 a test on cell metabolism today,’ commented Paul gloomily, shuffling his glasses along his nose. ‘I feel sorry for the students, they’ve been preparing for weeks. It’s a bit unfair on them to have it cancelled at such short notice.’

‘Sure. They’ll be well miffed they’ve missed that.’

‘It’s all right for you two,’ came a man’s voice from across the coffee table. ‘You can guess what I’ve got first thing. A double free. That means I won’t get the homework marked ready to give back this afternoon.’

‘Should have marked it last night, like a good boy.’

‘That’s all right for you to say, you’re a PE teacher, you never have to mark any.’

‘And there’s no such thing as a
free
period,’ returned the young woman. ‘It’s correctly referred to as a non-contact session; if the thought police are listening in, Hag-greaves will have you strangled with your own guts.’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ came a soft voice from behind the young PE teacher. A grey-haired woman crouched down so that her eyes were level with her sitting colleagues’. ‘But the assembly could be being called for something serious, don’t discount that. I don’t want to sound prissy, but you might regret speaking so lightly about it if it is.’

‘The last disaster to hit the place didn’t have us all trooping into the hall to have Hag-greaves put us to sleep,’ commented the young woman in the burgundy skirt. ‘And disasters don’t come bigger than that.’

‘No. No, they don’t,’ agreed the grey-haired woman sadly as she stood up straight.

Hart and Redpath spent an hour wandering around the school, watching it wake up. Teachers were arriving, dumping their bags in their classrooms before checking their pigeonholes in the staffroom and preparing that all-important first caffeine fix of the working day. The secretaries went to settle their belongings in their offices and then off to powder their noses. And then the students drifted in and out to fetch and carry books and knick-knacks from their lockers. Some of the older ones looked distressed; it was amazing how the news had begun to leach out already.

The two men took a stroll to survey the grounds. Centuries ago the school had been the country home of some knight of the shire and so all the more modern additions were in buildings outside the Old House, as the admin block was affectionately known. A cavernous gym adjoined the swimming pool, the changing rooms facing out towards a dozen pitches for rugby, football and hockey. The science block was arranged into a spacious single-storey rectangle and the classrooms were housed next door. There were separate buildings for art and music and a glittering steel and glass library constituted the newest feature of the school. Set away from the teaching areas stood the boys’ dormitory, with the refectory downstairs. The girls slept in the Old House, sharing the building with its creaks and ghosts.

The sky began to reveal that lovely pale blue that only appears on a few biting winter days, when the temperature doesn’t manage to creep high enough to melt the frost hiding in the shadowy places. The two policemen made for the school hall, where they sat down on the chairs at the side, towards the middle. Not a very discreet location, but one from where they could turn and look into the senior students’ eyes.

‘Does this remind you of your old place then, Sir?’

‘It’s a dead ringer, young Redpath. I well recall frolicking in the heated indoor pool, gambolling on acres of grass, then off to the computer room to finish my drama skit expounding the delights of modern schoolboy slang, and lastly capping a happy day by strolling to the cosy library, settling down in a comfy armchair and catching up on the sport at the back of the newspaper. That’s the joyous reality I remember, and any nightmares of being continually whacked on the backside by the deputy head’s cane, slapped around the bonce for my inability to learn the Ten Commandments in the order in which the Good Lord dispensed them, and completing the day’s meticulously planned learning activities by lying in freezing mud for ten minutes as a loving reminder to polish my football boots into a mirror, are lapses in memory brought about by old age.’ He shook his head as he recollected a dismal past. ‘If school days are the happiest days of our lives, then it’s no wonder we’re so ruddy miserable now we’re adults.’

As Hart and Redpath watched the pupils of Highdean School file into the hall to take their seats for assembly, it was clear these kids inhabited an altogether different world. Girls wearing their neat navy skirts, their hems flapping at the knees, topped with their crisp white blouses and blue jumpers bearing the school logo. Boys sporting ironed black trousers, navy blazers and knotted ties, no shirt tails flapping about their own behinds. Eight hundred young models of sartorial rectitude. This was a pukkah school, and no mistake.

The mood was sombre, the air ached with expectation, even though only a few knew why; the gravity of the situation had transmitted itself to the pupils via some form of telepathy. They were seated in a literal deathly hush, rising as one when Mrs Hargreaves appeared from the back of the stage, now standing behind her desk higher than them all, head swivelling and bobbing above its black gown like a pecking crow’s.

‘Please be seated.’ As the school sat down, a swish of clothing uplifted by air glided through the hall, and the scraping of a few chairs squealed across the floor before settling into silence. After she had gathered herself, the shrill voice of Mrs Hargreaves ruptured that silence.

‘I have called a special assembly this morning because it is my duty to tell you some extremely tragic news.’ As she paused, the silence returned, but now it seemed to fret expectantly as it recognised the grim nature of the announcement which would crack it again. ‘Yesterday evening, one of our students, Sebastian Emmer of Form 13C, was killed.’ Now the silence became a murmur, heads turning to their neighbours, rather to register shock and take in breath than to chatter. The buzz quickly evaporated as the heads returned their gaze to the front, not because they were commanded by Mrs Hargreaves, but because they craved the remainder of the story. ‘It appears that Sebastian was murdered.’

‘Murdered!’ hissed the heads as one. That did it! They were now babbling like the power of speech was a gift that had just been simultaneously visited on them for the first time. ‘Did you know him?’ ‘Was he that ginger-haired kid?’ ‘No that was Aaron Southall.’ ‘He had fair hair.’ ‘He was that tall kid in the rowing club.’ ‘No that was someone else.’

To Hart’s surprise and, he thought, to Mrs Hargreaves’ credit, she let them get on with it for half a minute or so, let them shift some of it off their chests. Then she called time.

‘Quiet please. I said silence!’

The heads stopped their talking and it was eyes front again. For some the most tragic part of the proceedings was now over, for others the most juicy bit; the hall was a mishmash of thoughts and emotions sweeping right across the spectrum from nobly compassionate to selfishly callous.

‘School will continue as normal today, although those students in Year 13 who knew Sebastian well may be excused lessons until recess; teachers will exercise discretion in this matter. The School Nurse and Student Counsellor will be available as usual, as will the Chaplain, of course.’

Mrs Hargreaves paused and then moved on to practicalities, the tone of admonishment in her voice punishing her students for sins yet to be committed.

‘This matter is not one to gossip about, particularly to persons outside of the school. A letter will go home today to all parents to explain the situation and to notify them of the date of the memorial service. This letter will be a short communication giving the facts. It will contain neither mindless speculation nor foolish rumour,’ she noted accusingly. ‘The use of mobile telephones is prohibited until lunch time tomorrow, and anybody caught using one will be reported to me personally.’

At that very moment
The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy
skipped its way out of a teacher’s handbag. On that occasion, looks very nearly did kill.

‘Police officers will be interviewing many people as a matter of routine throughout the day. Parents will be invited to attend such interviews; if they decline then a senior teacher will be present. Dismiss yourselves in the usual fashion. In silence!’

The students filed out of the hall, many with heads bowed and carrying leaden insides. A few of the girls embraced one another, some for comfort, others to prove they could grieve with the best of them. There were blotchy eyes and sobs into hankies as they walked away, many tears being shed by students who had never even known Sebastian Emmer: Death had been a stranger to ones so youthful, but now he had arrived to reach his black hand into their school and pluck away one of their own. Most of the younger boys just wanted to get the heck out of the place, escape from the embarrassment of it all.

‘Nothing to help us there, was there Sir,’ suggested Redpath, not really asking a question.

‘Nope. Nothing at all. Not likely though, was it, that somebody would just blurt out a name and then we’d all be able to go home?’

‘I don’t like this one, though. There just doesn’t seem to be any sense in it, any motive for killing a schoolkid. I can’t see where we’re going to get a lead, get a handle on it.’

‘There’s always sense and a motive for somebody, that’s why these things happen, and we’d better get cracking to find out what they are. We’ll start by getting off to our base in the classroom, sort out some interviews and then we’ll take a break at midday for a chat about progress and have a snack.’

‘A snack, Sir? At that time of day?’

‘No, you’re right, Darren. Let’s have lunch instead. The pubs’ll be open by then.’

*****

Simon Chandler was first on the list of teachers to be called in for a chat with Hart. He had been Sebastian Emmer’s form teacher and he had also taught the boy geography. Everything about the man appeared average and unremarkable: his height, weight, face, intellect, self-confidence and charm. Chandler constituted a fitting introduction to two hours of the most bland tedium that Hart could remember. Sebastian was a nice lad. Sebastian was no trouble in class. Sebastian had no problems that I know of. Sebastian had a good group of friends. I am so shocked. Yes, I can tell you where I was yesterday between three PM and five-thirty and, yes, the alibi I am relating is boringly plausible.

Paul Outbridge, the biology teacher, arrived after Chandler. Standing about five feet six, he possessed delicate hands that some may have thought pretty, and small feet to match. He did at least think that Sebastian was ‘a bit of a big-head sometimes,’ but that was as close as Hart got to hearing anything other than praise, platitudes and a reluctance to speak ill of the dead. He seemed a normal schoolkid, they all said. No one had any idea why anybody should want to harm him, let alone kill him.

Next door, Darren Redpath had enjoyed greater excitement in the delightful form of Sophie Rand. Although she said much the same as everybody else she did at least possess the unique attraction of lovely long hair the colour of plain chocolate. She also owned a pair of those female PE teacher’s superb muscular thighs which he so admired and which, Redpath told Hart later, could crack a walnut. She looked great in her little burgundy sports skirt and Redpath couldn’t help but wonder what colour they were. He didn’t find that out, nor anything of much use to the investigation for that matter. She was sorry she couldn’t help, but she hadn’t known Sebastian that well, her being a girls’ boarding mistress and PE teacher and him being a boy. However, Redpath did at least enjoy his police work for twenty minutes, a little longer than was strictly necessary to collect the details he needed.

At ten minutes to twelve, Hart ushered his last scheduled visitor of the morning out of the classroom door. He slumped back into his chair and rubbed his cheeks vigorously up and down with the palms of his hands. Thank goodness it was time for that early lunch he had promised himself. No dinner last night and no breakfast this morning had left his stomach empty, like a squashed football. He was awakened from his daydreams of steak and chips, shepherd’s pie, and liver and onions topped with peppery gravy by Redpath barging through the door.

‘Looks like you’re as keen for your lunch as I am. Let’s go,’ enthused Hart.

‘No, Sir. I mean, I think I’ve got something you might be interested in. There’s a girl next door, I think you should go and have a word with her.’

‘This had better be good, Darren. My belly’s telling me I haven’t eaten for a week,’ scowled Hart as he swiftly made for the door.

‘Don’t you want to know what it’s about?’

‘She’ll tell me soon enough. What’s her name?’

‘Petra. Petra Noble. Form 13M.’

‘Come on then, lead the way and introduce me to Petra. And then it’s definitely lunch, even if she admits to doing the job herself. She can wait until I’ve eaten my horse before we cart her off to the nick.’

Petra Noble was sitting up straight, next to her mother, their long auburn hair painting a picture of twins rather than parent and child. Hart faced them across the school desk while Redpath stood to one side. The classroom walls were covered with maps showing the routes European explorers had forged centuries before to prise open their opportunities for trade and plunder.

‘Hello, Mrs Noble, Petra. My name’s Chief Inspector Hart. Petra, would you just tell me again what you told Sergeant Redpath?’

She was polite, although not overawed, but a little disappointed that she didn’t actually know anything that would turn her into a star; she was destined to deliver an anticlimax.

‘There’s nothing to tell, really. I was just saying that I didn’t know Sebastian very well, so I couldn’t help much. He seemed okay, but a bit big for his boots sometimes, although I know I shouldn’t speak badly about him now that he’s dead.’

And I’m starving to death just so I can hear the disc I’ve been listening to all morning sing out from yet another jukebox
, thought Hart, feeling sorry for himself.

‘That’s not quite all, is it Dear?’ prodded mother. She was a bit more savvy because of her age and sensed that her daughter possessed a titbit that the policemen wanted passed their way, although she had no idea what it was. Petra knew no more than anybody else, and probably much less than most. But the boss had been summoned so it must be important, and her mother was rather enjoying the attention. ‘You had told the other policeman something else, Dear.’

‘Well, I just said that Sebastian being killed is all so very sad.’ The girl’s brown eyes moistened as they looked across the desk. ‘Especially after what happened at the beginning of term. That just broke my heart.’

‘Gosh, of course.’ Hart slapped his forehead. ‘I wasn’t thinking about that. There’s no doubt about it, it’s all very sad indeed,’ he acknowledged, closing his eyes and slowly shaking his head. ‘And it must be particularly upsetting for you, having to endure two awful traumas like this in such a short time.’