Death of a Teacher (11 page)

A
n hour later in the café on Pelliter High Street Suzy said, ‘I suppose we’re the last generation not to be inevitably stalked by Facebook. So we can be genuinely surprised to meet!’

Ro smiled, but there was wariness there. The idea of being stalked in any form horrified her. She was surprised that Suzy had waited so long outside the school for her. And she was unsure about ‘catching up’. In her experience, old friends made a quick getaway once they found out about Ben. It was easier to talk about the Marsh Murder and the broken window.

‘Well, I’m exhausted!’ Ro said, sipping her coffee. ‘Those children were hard work. With that age group they don’t really discuss things, or debate. You need loads of material, because they just want answers.’

‘Which I imagine you can’t give in the circumstances,’ said Suzy.

‘Yes. It’s a truly horrible business. Quite honestly, no one has a clue. It seems astonishing that an elderly woman could be attacked like that in daylight and no one saw anything.’

‘So what are the police doing now?’

‘Well, it’s only day three of the investigation. They’re still doing house-
to-house
enquiries and they’ve started to take Brenda’s own house apart inch by inch. Next step will be to round up all the local people with form, and quiz them.’

Suzy shuddered. ‘Awful. Anyway, never mind gruesome murders, what about this amazing coincidence! Where do you live, are you married, did you ever make it with that history student? He was rather gorgeous.’

‘I married him in the end. But it didn’t last. And, yes, I do live near here, in a hamlet of cottages called Burnside. We’ve been there about five years.’

‘So close! We’re in Tarnfield. Nigel and I are separated too. Remember Nigel Spencer?’

Ro could vaguely recall a gangly boy who combed his hair a lot. Suzy 
giggled. ‘Now I’m actually living with a man who’s a pillar of All Saints Church.’

‘Susan Smith, arch critic of the establishment?’

‘And what about you? You were hardly fuzz material.’

‘Ah, well, that was then and this is now. It isn’t the Sweeney any more. Are you still a TV journalist?’

‘I’m more into production these days, when I can get it. So why don’t you give me the headlines on your life? Kids?’

‘I have a twelve-year-old son with cerebral palsy. No, don’t screw your face up in sympathy Suzy. It’s all right. He’s pretty good at mobility now. But he’s also got an eye problem. He’s having surgery for it this summer and that should make a big difference. He’s at Norbridge High and gets really good support from a teaching assistant.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I’m not keen on teaching assistants if they’re anything like the cow they’ve got over there.’ Suzy jerked her head in the direction of St Mungo’s. ‘Callie McFadden. Have you come across her yet?’

‘Oh yes. She collared me in the supermarket. Not a happy place, is it, St Mungo’s? Mind you, I think the head teacher might be getting back into his stride.’

‘Mr Findley? I hope so. He’s a good bloke and his wife was great before she had this nervous breakdown. Robert my partner says …’

Ro sipped her coffee, and tuned out a bit. Suddenly meeting Suzy again after all these years was disconcerting. Her old friend seemed so together, with her new partner and her two kids, and her career in TV. And chummy chats over a cappuccino weren’t what Ro did anymore. She couldn’t take the risk that Suzy would drop her once she knew what a mess Ro had made of her life until now.

‘Look, Suzy, I need to be going.’

‘But we’ve only just met! We must get together again. I don’t suppose you and Ben would like to come over one weekend? Sunday lunch maybe? Ben and Jake might know people in common from school. Does he use a
wheelchair
?’

‘On no, he can walk, though he’s a bit wobbly. I’ll give you my mobile number and, if you like, you can call me.’ But I won’t, Ro thought. She never approached people, however keen they seemed. Look how Jed Jackson had turned out. It would be awful if anyone thought that she was foisting herself and her disabled kid on them. Even Suzy Smith. The thought prompted her to get up and grab her jacket.

‘I must get back to the police station.’

‘Hey, you haven’t given me your number. Write it down here. And your email.’ 

Ro reluctantly scrawled down the information on a serviette, in a flurry of police paraphernalia. She was late now. She had to dash back to the school playground and pick up her car to get back for the rest of her shift.

Suzy watched Ro Watson hurry away. Do I look as old as that? Suzy thought. Ro was very different after two decades. She had been a pretty girl, healthy looking, taller than Suzy, with brown hair and a good figure. Now, she looked drawn and old. But it wasn’t just age, surely? There was a strained, deeply lined aspect to Ro’s face which shocked Suzy and made her glance at her own reflection in the glass door of the cafe. In contrast to Ro, Suzy was flushed and animated, with a trace of make-up and far fewer lines.

Time had certainly taken its toll on her friend, Suzy thought. And there was another thing: the scar on the left side of her face made Ro look older too.

As she drove towards the centre of Norbridge, and before she thought more about the chance meeting with Suzy, Ro disciplined herself to go over the St Mungo’s session. The children seemed to have relegated the murder to the fantasy land of a TV cop series, publicly at least, but Ro knew that in the middle of the night it would come back to haunt them.

Funnily enough, she had found that the window issue was tougher to cope with than the murder. The boarded-up pane was far more visible than Miss Hodgson’s death. And Ro sensed that suddenly there was more tension in the class when she spoke about it.

‘Do you know who did it, miss?’

‘No. But we probably will,’ Ro had said.

A boy at the back had asked sneeringly if the police would use DNA to find the window breaker. Unlikely, Ro replied. But they would be working hard to find whoever had done it. It was still a crime. Hurting someone was hurting someone, whether it was in a high-profile murder case or a vicious act of vandalism.

‘If any of you know who did this then you must tell the police. Vandalism which nearly injures people is not a bit of fun. No one needs to know, if you contact us. You can phone or text the police station.’ She hadn’t planned her next move but she felt that a pivotal moment had come. She turned to the whiteboard, and gestured to Ray Findley to pass her a marker pen.

‘This is especially for you. It’s my private email address and my phone number. I’ll ask Mr Findley to put them on a piece of paper to print out and give to each one of you too. If there’s anything you want to tell me, email me. Or text me.’ Standing by the board with her email on it in giant black letters, she seemed to make an impression on the class. There was silence. Then the children all began to talk at once, fussing with folders and bags. 

‘We’re grateful for that,’ Mr Findley said as he saw her out. ‘I’m not sure how many of the children have access to email, but lots of them have mobiles and text each other. If they feel they know you, it makes all the difference. It’s important that we mustn’t forget the window, in all this awful business about the murder.’

‘Yes, thank you for coming in.’ Alison MacDonald looked terribly pale again. Today she was wearing a black trouser suit. It was formal even by Jed Jackson’s standards. There was a small single silver stud in each ear, and her shiny auburn hair was tied back in a tight bun. ‘I’m sure the parents will appreciate your efforts,’ she said, with a rueful look which made Ro smile.

The parents. As she drove, Ro turned her thoughts to the extraordinary meeting with Suzy. It had been a coincidence, but these things happened. She wondered if her former college friend really would make contact again. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t. So many people had good intentions where Ben was concerned.

Yet Suzy had always been a ‘can do’ person. She had been secretary of the Junior Common Room at one stage, which was why they’d been so friendly. They’d both read English Lit and Ro remembered talking with her about Graham Greene. Suzy had started to laugh and called Ro ‘The Quiet Scouser’. It had appealed to Ro. She knew she could be funny, but she hated the ‘life and soul’ Liverpudlian stereotype. She was sick of being expected to be either a comedienne or a trade union leader just because she was a Scouser, and those were the expectations back in the 1980s. But now, all that seemed aeons ago and meant nothing to anyone under forty.

Still, it brought back to her how young people could be very rigid in their views. As if on cue Ro pulled up at the police station in time to see Jed Jackson going up the steps two at a time. To her disgust, her heart flipped
involuntarily
and her mouth went dry. She felt that she could never speak to him again without anger and distaste – but she still had this stupid physical
reaction
. She paused for a moment to let him get ahead of her, and looked at her hands on the steering wheel. What a mess her fingers were. They were stained with the marker pen. I hope that washes off, she thought. At the back of her mind, the dark marks rang a bell.

I’m going crazy, she thought. What can stains from a marker pen have to do with anything?

At St Mungo’s, Callie McFadden had watched the Police Community Support Officer leave the premises. Stupid woman, Callie had thought, all dolled up like a police officer with the words ‘police staff’ on her jacket – who did she think she was? Cagney, or Lacey?

Year Six were making a real racket, left alone in the classroom. Callie put 
her head round the door. Her son Jonty was spitting at Becky Dixon’s back, at the same time as cuffing another lad round the face.

‘You at the back, stop that!’ she said. Usually one word from Mrs McFadden was enough to silence the whole school, including her own son. But Jonty went on hitting the other boy, and gathering saliva in his mouth in a disgusting chewing motion, ready to spit.

‘I said stop it!’ Callie shrieked, her voice rising.

‘Thanks, Mrs McFadden.’ Miss MacDonald had come back into the room. ‘Sit down, Jonty.’ The unusual forcefulness in his teacher’s voice made him stop, startled.

Callie sidled out of the classroom into the corridor, just in time to block Ray Findley’s progress back to his office. She shut the door to Year Six’s room behind her, and folded her arms.

‘Ray, I want to speak to you.’

‘Yes. But I’m busy at the moment. I need to get back to Year Four. They’re with someone from the Education Department at the moment. Can we catch up at lunchtime?’

‘Sooner than that.’

‘Of course. Brenda was a friend of yours. You must be especially upset.’

‘Bollocks. I want to talk to you about something else. You know what.’

‘I’m sorry, Callie. I need to be with Miss Hodgson’s class. Now excuse me.’

Callie’s eyes narrowed. Then the classroom door behind her opened and Year Six poured out on their way to the playground. She and Ray Findley formed an island, and the children streamed around them. The head teacher took the opportunity to detach himself and flow with them, leaving Callie behind.

At lunchtime, Alison stationed herself at the shared school computer in the corner of the staff-room. It was usually the focus of territorial rows arbitrated by Callie McFadden, but no one was interested today. Once the BBC and Sky News websites had been checked, they drifted towards the kettle.

‘The police are coming this afternoon to impound that computer,’ the caretaker said importantly. ‘If you want to use it, now’s your chance.’

The respectful quiet of yesterday had now become a buzz, as the handful of staff vied with each other to describe how they were coping. Mrs Rudder was alone in her classroom, rather than presiding over the teachers. Callie McFadden wasn’t patrolling around giving out administrative diktats to the support staff. Alison wondered if their absence was the reason the few people left in the staff-room were talking to each other, for a change.

She needed to act quickly. She logged on, and then entered Ro Watson’s email address. Alison could have phoned Ro – she had called the PCSO’s 
mobile the day before. But emailing was more formal, more of a
commitment
.

Alison wrote: ‘
Mrs Watson – You asked the children to email you if they knew anything about the broken window. I do, and I would like to take the chance to talk to you further about it. And about something else too. Please call me back
.’ She gave her own mobile number and hit ‘send’. Involuntarily she looked for Callie. It would not have surprised her if the woman had magically appeared at her elbow, but she was still in the corridor, with her arms folded, rocking slightly on the heels of her creased suede boots. Her long patchwork-style skirt swayed with her.

Out of Alison’s view, Callie leant forward, confident no one could see her and uncaring if they did. She had ambushed the head teacher again and she hissed at Ray Findley.

‘I thought you were going to speak to me at lunchtime.’

‘I didn’t expect a local councillor to turn up on a flying visit. What did you expect me to do, send her away while I talked to you?’

‘There’s no need to be funny. This is serious.’

Ray Findley shut his eyes for a moment. ‘Callie, we’ve discussed all that. This isn’t the time or the place for discussing it again.’

‘Oh yes it is. You may be so far up the arse of the councillor that you can see her tonsils, but your whole career will be in ruins if you don’t find time for me.’

Ray Findley recoiled. And then Callie gave her big beaming smile, leaning forward to touch him on the arm. There was something proprietorial about the gesture. The head teacher flinched, but he failed to shake her off so he moved to side-step her. Callie let him go and watched as he walked down the corridor.