Cut Short (10 page)

  'Sorry I'm late,' the boy panted. He didn't look sorry. 'My alarm didn't go off.'

  Peter raised his eyebrows. 'Well you're here now,' he grunted, and unlocked the shed again. 'Wasting my time,' he muttered under his breath. The boy paid no attention. 'Fetch yourself a rake,' Peter said, 'we're collecting leaves. First we'll rake the grass, then you can take the leaf blower to clear the path.'

  'Can't I just use the blower?'

  Peter shook his head without a word and they set off, rakes in hand. Rounding a bend in the path, they met a group of girls on their way to school.

  'Morning ladies,' Terry called out, with a wink. The girls giggled and simpered. Peter scowled. There was no denying Terry was a handsome boy and he certainly had an eye for the girls. Terry paused in his stride and turned to watch the schoolgirls strutting past.

  'He's watching us,' a voice shrilled to a chorus of laughter.

  'Come on, get a move on. And make sure you're here on time in future. There's more than enough to do, this time of year.' Peter carried on grumbling as they walked. 'You keep turning up late, you're wasting my time. You listening to me?' He stopped abruptly. Terry carried on walking, oblivious. Peter hurried after him and tapped him sharply on the shoulder. Terry looked round, startled. He pulled tiny earplugs from his ears and drew a small machine from his pocket.

  'What do you think?' he asked. 'My girlfriend gave it to me. It's the latest one.'

  'What the hell is that then?'

  'It's an Iphone. What do you think?'

  Peter snorted. 'New fangled gimmick,' he muttered. Peter didn't approve of all those new fiddle faddles. Computers, Ipods, mobile phones, he was having none of it. 'Now you get yourself over to the far side of the lake, and I'll start this end. Break for tea at eleven, and not a moment before.' Peter stood for a moment, watching the boy tramp cheerfully across the muddy grass whistling a jaunty tune. 'He won't last long,' Peter thought to himself. He gave him a month, tops. Gardening was too much like hard work for a loafer like young Terry. He walked around like he owned the park, when he bothered to turn up at all.

  It was a bright morning, fresh after an early shower, and the grass seemed to sparkle. Peter gazed around the park, paying no heed to the dratted police who'd erected a tent over the poor dead girl, and were scurrying round it like ants at a sugar lump. The air was growing chilly under a glowering sky. Weathermen were predicting heavy showers but the clouds were too high for rain. Peter paid scant attention to forecasts. He'd spent too many years working outdoors to need some smooth talking git in a fancy suit to tell him what he could see with his own eyes. He scanned the sky and shook his head knowingly. The rain would hold off until nightfall. He checked his watch and scowled. One thing was sure: the boy would turn up when it was time for a break.

  He looked round again. On the far side of the lake he saw Terry tramping across the grass. That boy was Trouble, Peter thought grimly. Trouble with a capital T.

  'Trouble,' Peter muttered darkly to himself as he began to rake the leaves. 'Nothing but trouble since he came. And never on time.'

17

Secret

Jim stared through the railings and watched the old man as he raked the leaves. There was a young man and an old man. He'd heard them talking and he knew the old man's name was Peter. It didn't mean they were friends, but Jim liked knowing his name. Peter was a friendly name. Jim wanted to speak to Peter. He wanted to tell him they were the same. Jim did his work in the park as well.

  Peter put down his rake and started pulling up little plants. He looked around, scowling, but he didn't see Jim watching him from the other side of the fence. Jim wanted to ask Peter why he was pulling up the little plants when it made him angry.

  Miss Elsie was worried. 'I'm telling you to keep quiet,' she said.

  'I'm only going to be his friend,' Jim told her.

  'People like that aren't worth trying to make friends with,' she answered. She was trying to sound kind but he knew she was annoyed. 'Don't even think about him,' Miss Elsie said but Jim took no notice. He closed his eyes.

  When Jim looked for him again, Peter had disappeared. He was hiding in the bushes. Jim giggled. He knew that game. He shut his eyes and counted to ten but he didn't go into the park to look for Peter. He was afraid of the policemen guarding the gate, even though he hadn't done anything bad.

  'Keep out of trouble,' Miss Elsie warned him and he nodded. He walked along the pavement beside the park and saw Peter through the trees. He was leaning on his rake, smoking. Jim grinned. He liked cigarettes as well. Now they had two things in common. But Peter wasn't good at hiding. He was standing in the middle of the grass where anyone could find him.

  'I can teach him,' Jim suggested. 'I'm good at hiding. I'm the best,' he boasted.

  'He doesn't want to play with you,' Miss Elsie said. She sounded sad.

  'You don't know that,' Jim answered. Peter looked up, scowling, and Jim stood completely still so Peter wouldn't see him.

  Miss Elsie was talking again. Her voice buzzed in his ear. 'You can't make the others be friends with you,' she said. 'You have to be nice to them so they like you.'

  'They're not nice to me,' he told her crossly.

  'I am,' she said and she smiled.

  Peter picked up his rake in both hands, holding his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Jim watched a thin wisp of smoke curl upwards. It skirted round Peter's eyes without making him blink. Jim wondered how he did that. When they were friends, he was going to ask Peter about it.

  Suddenly Peter looked right at him through a gap in the trees. Jim was scared. Miss Elsie began to shout in his ear. He turned and ran along the pavement, away from the policemen, and Peter, away from the park, all the way to the end of the road. He was panting so hard his chest hurt but Miss Elsie wasn't even out of breath.

  There were things Miss Elsie didn't know. When he told her she'd be pleased with him. She'd stop telling him what he could and couldn't do. He thought of the girl hiding in the trees and giggled. There was a lot about him Miss Elsie didn't know.

  'I've got a secret,' he whispered. She didn't answer. 'With joy we hail the secret day, which God has called His own,' he sang. He looked for her, but Miss Elsie had gone away.

18

Media

Heather Spencer glanced at her watch. Living so near the school she could hardly arrive late, but there was time to finish her coffee before she left. The local radio station spun its early morning mix of jingles, debt consolidation, world affairs, sport, celebrity hype and the weather. She wasn't listening, but thinking about the day ahead, when the radio suddenly caught her attention.

  '… so if you were in the vicinity of Lyceum Park in Woolsmarsh on Wednesday morning, the police would like to hear from you. Now over to Nick for the latest weather report…' Heather frowned. She'd been in the park on Wednesday morning on her way to visit a pupil doing work experience in the music shop, Bretts. She'd missed the beginning of the item on the radio, but whatever it was had nothing to do with her. There were more pressing demands on her time, like what to do with her year nine class who were driving her up the wall. Four weeks until half term, she reminded herself, as she hurried out of the house.

  It wasn't until break time that Heather learned what lay behind the police appeal on the radio. When she reached the staff room, she helped herself to coffee and picked up a copy of
The Times
that was lying on the table. The front page reported that world powers were delaying until November any further decision about imposing tougher sanctions on Iran over its controversial nuclear programme. She didn't bother to read the whole article but flicked through the paper. Suddenly a corner headline screamed up at her and she felt the hairs on her arms prickle.

POLICE APPEAL AS WOMAN'S BODY DISCOVERED IN PARK

A park was sealed off yesterday after the discovery of a woman's body. Police were guarding access to a public park in Woolsmarsh as forensic experts examined the area. Detective Chief Inspector Kathryn Gordon, leading the investigation, said the victim had been identified as 22-year-old local resident Angela Waters. A post-mortem examination will take place shortly. 'We cannot speculate on the cause of death. However, at this time the death is being treated as suspicious. Lyceum Park is a popular park that is generally busy, especially with people walking their dogs or passing through. We would like anyone who has been in the park to come forward as they may have unwittingly seen or heard something that may be of importance to this inquiry. We are particularly inter ested to hear from anyone who was in the area on Wednesday morning.'

Beneath the article was a small blurred picture of a girl with long blonde hair. Heather saw the paper quivering and put it down quickly. It was none of her business, she told herself, but she knew she'd been crossing the park just before ten on Wednesday morning. Did that make her a witness? An image flashed into her mind of the odd-looking man she'd encountered on the path. She wondered if she should go to the police, but was reluctant to get involved. She didn't want to waste police time.

  All afternoon Heather was distracted. While she'd been in the park, struggling to control her umbrella, had another struggle been taking place only a few feet away from her?

  'Get a grip,' she told herself sharply, and, when that didn't help, she tried being kind. 'Hang on in there. It's nearly four o'clock.'

  Heather had never been inside a police station before. She hesitated outside the square brick building with its elegant blue signs that reminded her of Victorian gas lamps. She expected to see people rushing along corridors, as they did on The Bill, and was surprised to find it hushed inside, like a library. A solitary uniformed policeman was sitting behind the front desk. He looked up and Heather smiled awkwardly. She wished she'd changed her shoes and put on some make up, or at least brushed her shaggy hair. She felt scruffy and implausible, and she wanted to be taken seriously.

  'Er … I have … I may have some information for you,' she began.

  'Yes, madam?'

  'Er …' she glanced around as if the murderer might be lurking in the atrium. '… I may have some information …'

  'Yes, madam?'

  '… about the body in Lyceum Park.'

  She'd said it and she couldn't back out. The policeman reacted instantaneously, as if she'd flicked a switch to set him in motion. He ushered her into a small waiting room, and invited her to sit down. It felt like a cell. Before she had time to read the notices on the walls, the door was dashed open and a smartly turned out young woman entered, closely followed by a tall man. The woman took a step towards Heather and smiled.

  'I'm Detective Inspector Steel,' she said as they all sat down, 'and this is Detective Sergeant Peterson. I understand you may have some information for us, Mrs – Miss –?'

  'Heather Spencer. Mrs.'

  Heather took a deep breath, and launched into her care fully rehearsed story. 'I'm a teacher,' she began, keen to establish herself as a credible witness. 'Last Wednesday I'd arranged visits to some of our pupils out of school on work experience. Most schools arrange their work experience at the end of year eleven, but we do ours at the start of year twelve. I had an appointment at nine fifteen, in the High Street.' At first she felt embarrassed. It sounded trifling, but the detectives' eyes were riveted on her. Their interest couldn't be misinterpreted and Heather wondered why she'd hesitated to come forward. The police were very pleasant about it and encouraged her to tell them everything she could remember.

  'Where was the appointment?' Heather saw the sergeant was taking notes. She was childishly excited to think they might check her story. She knew it would be corroborated.

  'My first appointment was with Mr Proctor at Miles and Proctor, number 7, the High Street.' The inspector nodded. 'He had one of our year twelve boys there for a week. Andrew Marsh.' The sergeant was busy writing. 'My next appointment was at Bretts, the music shop in Waverley Street, with Mr Williams, the manager. I was due there at ten.' The inspector's chair creaked. 'I was crossing the park,' Heather said. The inspector stared at her, unblinking, as though willing her to speak. 'It must've been around nine forty-five. There was no one about.' It was raining, she explained, and went on to describe her encounter with the man on the path. 'It's so difficult to be sure now,' she concluded apologetically. 'I remember thinking there was something odd about him – I mean, apart from his not speaking. I wondered if he was deaf, actually. I think there was something strange about him, but I can't be sure that's not hindsight, because I've been wondering if he could have been the man you're looking for. The one who murdered the girl in the park.'

  The inspector nodded, searching her face. 'Where do you teach, Mrs Spencer?' she asked at length, sitting back in her chair.

  'Redhill School.' The inspector thanked her for coming forward and nodded at her colleague. Heather grinned in relief. 'I just felt, on balance, that I should tell you, in case it might be useful. I mean, that's not for me to decide, is it? And I often pop into Waitrose on my way home …' She tailed off lamely, regretting her reference to the supermarket a block away from the police station. It must sound as though she thought helping to catch a murderer was something to be fitted into her busy schedule when it was convenient, like doing her weekly shopping.

  'Mrs Spencer,' the young sergeant said, 'can you describe the man you saw in the park on Wednesday morning?'