Lessons in Murder (3 page)

Carol consulted her notebook. “Passport control shows that your husband entered Australia through Melbourne airport a week ago.” A pause, then, mildly: “You haven’t spoken to him?”

Sybil looked away, biting her lip. “No.”

“Would you have expected him to contact you?”

Sybil looked up to meet Carol’s steady green gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Is there any reason why he would go to Melbourne, and not Sydney? It’s over a thousand kilometers away.”

“Tony has friends there. When he first came to Australia he lived in Melbourne. He said the climate was more like the one he was used to, but after he’d visited Sydney a couple of times, he moved north.”

“You haven’t heard from any of his friends in Melbourne?”

“No. I’ve told you I haven’t.”

Carol’s expression didn’t change at the note of anger in Sybil’s voice. What are you hiding? she thought. She let the silence last a moment, then said, “You’ve hurt your face.”

“Yes, I banged it on a cupboard door.”

“This morning?”

“Yes,” said Sybil firmly. She glanced at the open notebook. “Why are you interested, anyway?”

Carol didn’t answer her question, flicking over a few pages, and saying, “As I mentioned in our first interview, we’ve been told your relationship with Bill Pagett was the reason you and your husband separated.”

“That’s not true.”

Carol raised her eyebrows. “The person was very positive.” Don’t lie to me, she thought.

Sybil flushed with anger. “Does everyone tell you the truth?”

“Of course not. Some people lie outright, or twist things to put themselves in a favorable light, or to try to get even with someone they dislike. I’m not taking this information on face value. I’m asking you if it’s true.”

“It’s not.” Did Carol Ashton believe her? Did she think she was lying? Sybil stood up, determined to end the interview; but Carol remained sitting, steadily surveying her. Terry had left his cigarettes, and although she rarely smoked, Sybil fumbled, lit one, and coughed as she inhaled.

“Have you instituted divorce proceedings? No? How long ago did you separate?”

“What has this got to do with Bill? What does it matter whether I divorce my husband or not?”

Carol looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry to have to ask these questions. I know they intrude into your personal life, but in a case like this, I’m afraid they’re essential.”

Sybil didn’t trust her sympathy, but she was willing to play along just to get through the interview, so she replied in a calm and reasonable tone, “Tony and I separated a few months before he went back to England. The reason was quite simple—we found our marriage was a mistake—we’d grown apart. No one came between us—we just realized we were incompatible.”

“All very civilized?” said Carol.

Sybil looked up sharply. Was that sarcasm? But Carol Ashton’s attractive face was reflecting neutral interest.

“Very civilized,” Sybil agreed.

Carol Ashton stood up. Apparently the interview was over. At the door she turned to Sybil, handing her a card. “Please keep this. When your husband contacts you, I would very much appreciate it if you would ring me immediately.”

Sybil absently noted that Carol Ashton had beautiful hands. She took the card without comment, and watched her walk unhurriedly down the steps. At the bottom she turned. “Oh, and Mrs. Quade,” she said, “just as a matter of routine, we will be requesting your permission to search your property.”

Sybil stood at the open door until she was out of sight.

Chapter Three

Because Carol had woken at daybreak and gone for a run in the welcome quietness of early light, she arrived at the school before seven. Even so, the cleaners were there before her. “What time do you start?” she asked a middle-aged man in overalls.

“Five-thirty.”

Carol unlocked the door to the principal’s office. “Could I speak with you for a minute?”

He put down his bucket and mop and followed her into the office. She picked up the folder with the outline of the cleaning roster, smiling as she said, “I’m Inspector Carol Ashton.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He treated every word as if it was worth a dollar and not to be squandered, so it took her half an hour of pleasant questioning before she had all she wanted: an outline of the cleaners’ responsibilities, their relationships with the staff and students and, most interesting of all, some gossip and opinions about Bill Pagett.

When Mark Bourke came in he put a folder down in front of her, saying with a grin, “There you are, boss-lady. The fruits of my midnight labors.”

Carol had asked for Mark Bourke when the Commissioner had told her she could have anyone she wanted to assist her investigation. He was good-natured, painstaking, and deceptively mild when interviewing suspects: many had found to their cost how dangerous it was to underestimate him. They had worked on several cases before, and she valued the easy informality of their working relationship and the fact that Mark never made the mistake of trying to be too familiar, understanding that Carol had created a rigid division between her work and her private life.

As she opened the folder, Carol said, “Two things of interest. Had a talk with one of the cleaners this morning. Among other things, he said that a Mrs. Grunewald, who cleans Block C where the English staff room is, mentioned that she heard some kind of argument between Pagett and a senior student last Friday. She’s away today sick, and it mightn’t be anything important, but I think we should check it out.”

“I haven’t interviewed any of the cleaners yet. What’s the other thing?”

“The medical report will arrive this morning, but I got the main points by phone, and it pretty much confirms the preliminary examination. Pagett was hit across the right side of his head with something like a length of pipe. Unfortunately nothing the scientific squad took from Pagett’s woodwork room matches the dent it made. This blow almost certainly knocked him out, but it didn’t kill him. The attack was probably unexpected, as there are no marks on his hands or arms, so he didn’t try to protect his head. Then, some time later, possibly only a minute or so, his head was tilted forward and someone used a power drill to put a neat hole in the base of his skull. The drill penetrated its full length into his brain, killing him immediately. The Black and Decker artistically arranged by his head is the weapon—no fingerprints, but plenty of brain tissue on the drill.”

“If you wanted to kill someone that way, why not drill through the side of his head?” asked Bourke, pointing to his temple. “I mean, it’s much more spectacular, especially if you left the drill in place.”

“Yes, I asked that. Apparently, unless you’re lucky enough to hit a major blood vessel in the process, all you’re likely to do is accomplish a frontal lobotomy, which might have changed Bill Pagett’s personality, but wouldn’t have killed him.”

“You think our murderer’s done some brain surgery as a hobby?” asked Bourke flippantly.

“Either by luck or intention, he or she certainly chose the most efficient point to drill a hole,” said Carol, doodling interlocking circles on a notepad. “I want you to find out if anyone’s got a background or special skills in anatomy or medicine or some related field.”

“Okay. But why use a power drill? Look at the disadvantages: it needs a power source, it’s noisy, and your target has to keep still—you won’t be very successful if your victim keeps dodging around.”

Carol reflected, adding a series of arrows to the circles. “Perhaps a power tool symbolizes Bill Pagett, industrial arts teacher?”

“What if it’s some sort of bizarre sexual thing with the Black and Decker standing in for a penis?” said Bourke with a wide grin.

“That gives new meaning to the expression, fucked in the head,” said Carol drily.

“Anything else interesting?” asked Bourke, laughing.

“Yes, possibly. The body had a bruise on the left side of the jaw, as if someone had punched him, but it was a few days ago, not just before he was killed. Also there was a cut inside his mouth on the right side, but done a few hours before he died, suggesting that someone hit or slapped him,” said Carol, checking the notes she had made.

“The right side would make it likely he was hit by someone left-handed. Are any of them?”

“Sybil Quade’s left-handed,” said Carol.

Bourke whistled. “And she looks like she traded punches with someone recently. That bruise on her left cheek is pretty bad, Carol. How did she say she got it?”

“Accident with a cupboard door.”

“Believe her?”

Carol shook her head. “No,” she said.

Alan Whitcombe’s tight mouth twisted with distaste. “Have any of you read it?” he asked, waving a copy of the
Peninsula Post.
His staff looked up from their desks.

“What would you expect from a scandal sheet like this?” said Lynne, waving her copy. “Get this headline: STUDENTS SICKENED AT SLAUGHTER OF EX-PREMIER’S SON. And if that isn’t enough, there’s a picture of that revolting little Cassie Turnbull squinting at the camera.”

“Let’s have a look,” said Pete. He looked considerably better as his soft, handsome face had regained its usual high color and he had stopped nervously grooming his mustache. He laughed as he read. “I don’t believe it! Our Cassie has strung together a few words in a sentence or two! Hear this: Twelve-year-old Cassie Turnbull, still shocked by the gruesome discovery of her slaughtered teacher’s body, told our reporter, ‘It was dreadful. I felt sick all day and can never forget Mr. Pagett’s dead face.’”

“Dear, dear, our Cassie’s barely the sunny side of incoherent. I detect a little judicial editing there,” said Edwina, dressed, as always, in a dazzlingly bright color. Today she wore orange. “She
is
in your English class, isn’t she, Lynne?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Edwina’s face showed injured innocence. “Not a thing. After all, we’re only into week three of Term One, aren’t we? Even a crash-hot teacher like yourself couldn’t be expected to teach Cassie Turnbull the niceties of English grammar in that time.” She looked at Lynne’s desk. “Isn’t that the cardboard I extracted from the front office? What are you doing with it?”

Lynne looked bored. “I just borrowed a few sheets.”

“I need them all, Lynne. My Year Seven class is doing advertising in groups.”

“How creative,” said Lynne.

“Oh, stop bickering,” said Terry impatiently. “Has anyone seen Sybil?”

“She’s probably hiding somewhere, recovering from the pointed questions the police have been asking,” said Lynne, languidly filing a fingernail.

“Oh?” said Edwina with raised eyebrows, “and what about you, my dear Lynne? Surely they’ve asked you about the way Bill dumped you for something rather younger?”

Lynne yawned. “You never do get your facts right, do you?” she said to Edwina.

The day had been a trying one for Mrs. Farrell. The call to her home from Sir Richard at 6:30 AM had been unwelcome, and the series of anxious parents who had insisted on speaking to her, either by telephone or in person, had been very fatiguing, especially as most of them seemed irrationally concerned that a maniac was stalking the school and their precious son or daughter could be the next victim. Even more irritating were the activities of the media. She had shuddered at the excesses of the local
Peninsula Post,
but that was nothing compared to the media assault from wide distribution newspapers, radio and television stations. The Education Department had instructed her to make no public comment, but this seemed only to intensify the efforts of the reporters who jammed the switchboard and camped outside the school entrances.

Bourke slid a sheet of paper in front of Carol. “We know Pagett died somewhere between eight-forty and about nine-ten, when the kids found him,” he said.

“Here’s a list of the bell times,” he added, pointing to the page:

8:35 AM warning bell

8:40 AM short school assembly

8:50 AM roll call

9:00 AM Period 1

9:40 AM Period 2

10:40 AM Period 3

11:00–11:15 AM recess

“The bells are rung automatically by a timeclock, and I’ve checked it for accuracy,” he continued. “Several people saw Pagett before the school assembly started, but so far, no one after it. Although all teachers are supposed to attend assemblies, not all of them do, and Pagett never did, so he wasn’t seen from that point on.”

“We know he didn’t have a roll call. Who else was free in that ten minutes?” asked Carol.

“Here’s a list of people who don’t have to mark a class roll. Most of the teachers do have one, but the heads of departments are exempt, and, of the people we’re interested in, Sybil Quade and Pete McIvor both miss out—she has extra duties coordinating senior work, and he teaches remedial reading two lunchtimes a week.”

“Do we know the names of the teachers who actually attended the assembly before roll call?”

“I’m trying, but it’s not easy—and anyone could slip away without being noticed.”

“Come on, Mark, we’ve got to do better than this.”

“Leaning on you, are they?” he asked sympathetically.

Carol sighed, thinking of the urgent telephone calls from the Commissioner of Police and from Sir Richard. “A bit,” she said.

Sybil went to the last class of the day with a feeling of relief. It was a senior English class, and she wanted to sink into Shakespeare’s language and forget the present. She smiled wryly to herself as she faced the class. After all,
Hamlet
was about death and suspicion, murder and motives, but somehow the familiar words in their iambic patterns seemed comforting.

Initially it was hard to keep the attention of the students—the events of the day before and the heat of the afternoon combined against her. But then began one of those lessons that sometimes spontaneously occur, where minds are caught and held. It was exhilarating and satisfying to be part of the comments, arguments, and insights bubbling in the class, and Sybil had no opportunity to think of anything else. When the final bell went she felt refreshed, smiling at the students as they hurried out of the room to the freedom of the hot summer afternoon.