Death and Deception (4 page)

Date: Monday 24
^th
April
Time: 10:57
Jamie May, St Andrew’s Academy

Jamie focused on the small figures he could see at the far end of the school field. Shock etching lines onto his smooth face, he was trying to hold back tears as he pressed his forehead against the classroom window.

Claire Quick watched him. The Head had broken the news to each class in turn, and told them that they would be sent home. Until then, he expected that they would honour Carly’s memory and be quiet and respectful. Jamie had let Claire get away with talking about Romeo, Juliet and Tudor attitudes towards love for ten whole minutes without making a single smart, rude or sexist comment. She didn’t flatter herself that her control of this particular class of sixteen-year-olds had improved that much from her previous lesson.
He was far more distressed than the other upset kids in the class. He’d had a real crush on Carly.

She checked the clock for the third time. They should have been called out for their buses ten minutes ago. The class was supposed to be attempting to write an essay, but the rhythmic thumping of Jamie’s head against the window-pane made that impossible. Most of the kids were staring at the question paper or doodling and whispering amongst themselves. A couple of the girls were crying and holding hands. She wasn’t planning on telling
them off.

Claire shuddered at the thought of that poor girl lying at the top of the field. It was unreal. It was every teacher’s nightmare - that no matter how much they tried, no matter what precautions they took, the kids in their care weren’t safe.

The Head had delivered the news at an emergency staff meeting, which had interrupted the first lessons of the day, but that couldn’t be helped. There had been tears and shocked disbelief. Whatever the Police said about not jumping to conclusions, most of the staff knew it was Carly Braithwaite. They’d only needed to talk to the three lads who’d found her to find out her name.

I suppose they have to speak to Mr Braithwaite before they release the name, thought Claire, good luck with that.

Mr Braithwaite was banned from the premises for threatening to wallop the receptionist, Marcia. On the other hand, quite a few people had wanted to do that to Marcia Penrose.

The Head’s plan had been to recall the school buses, carry on with as normal a day as possible and let the students go, one class at a time. Carly’s friends and key staff who would be interviewed before they went home. Claire felt tears prickle and she swallowed hard. She had to keep a lid on her emotions, at least while she was in the classroom. The kids were relying on her to provide a bit of normality. And what on earth would happen when the press got going?

Jamie stirred by the window. A couple of men in coveralls were wheeling a stretcher across the field to the waiting ambulance. The outline of a slight figure could be seen through the bag. Jamie stood up, pushing his chair back as if he was about to run after them.

‘Jamie,’ Claire called, ‘leave it. They won’t let you go with her.’

The other students stared at him, sympathy on their tear-streaked faces. He banged his forehead back on the window-pane, his hands clenched into fists, and watched the stretcher until it was out of sight.

A messenger arrived at the door and passed Claire a note. She spoke to the class. ‘Look, I know how hard this will be for us all, but let the Police find out what actually happened. Don’t start the Facebook rumours as soon as you get home. Those of you in my tutor group need to go to the meeting room and talk to the Police before you go. The rest of you, take care. I’ll see you soon.’

The buses were waiting. Claire sighed, relief mingling with dread as the class left. She touched a marked essay that Carly had completed the week before, her first grade A, and realised the girl would never know about it now. There was a police officer in the meeting room waiting to interview her. Claire could feel tears waiting to overwhelm her.

Jamie’s boots sank into the red mud of the ploughed field that ran alongside the school grounds. He sidled round the edge of the field towards the old caravan in which the farmer stored feed and fertiliser. The door was locked, so he flopped down onto the small patch of concrete on which it stood, letting his back rest against the mottled plastic side panel. He opened his guitar case, moved aside History and Maths books and found his tobacco pouch and Rizlas hidden under the body of the Fender copy guitar.

Jamie’s chest heaved. He battled the emotions down and rolled a cigarette, sucking the tears down with the nicotine. He ripped off his school tie and, in a practised movement, rolled his blazer small enough to squash into the case alongside the neck of the guitar and swapped it for a rolled-up grey hoodie he kept there. He couldn’t go back into school. There was no way he was talking to the Police.

He smoked the roll-up down to a damp end and flicked it into the mud. He rose, a slim figure in grey hoodie, white shirt and black jeans, hefted his guitar case over his shoulder and set off to walk to the only place he could think of where he knew he could hide out.
      

Date: Monday 24
^th
April
Time:11:
03
DCI Ian Gould, St Andrew’s Academy

The Head teacher had allocated two adjoining offices at the front of the school to the police team. One had a phone and both could be used for interviews. Ian Gould was pleased with the arrangement as it meant they could come and go as they liked without having to run the gauntlet of the nosy old bag on Reception. She’d already been in three times to see if they wanted more coffee, or needed to know where the facilities were. Eyes on stalks. However, he’d been in the job long enough to know that old-timers tended to know all the gossip, so he kept his patience and gracefully accepted yet another cup of weak coffee.

The other member of the interview team, DC Sam Knowles, had set up a computer in the corner and was linking in to the main police computer. He was a good lad, steady and not stupid, a bonus in Ian’s book. These flashy young characters like Dan Hellier came down here after the bright lights of the big city and thought it was all about making a name for yourself, solving the big crime.

Well, he sighed, maybe it was. It wasn’t so many years ago that he and Julie Oliver had been going for the same promotions. He wasn’t quite sure when she had got away from him, but she had, and how. Her star was burning brightly now, while his had dimmed. Gone out, in truth. He shrugged, no point getting bitter and twisted, Ian lad, he thought,
only a few weeks to go.

He was just wondering if he could get that sparky Lizzie Singh seconded to the murder team so she could give them the benefit of her local knowledge, when there was a knock on the door and the young English teacher, Claire Quick, arrived. Ian leapt to his feet, met her at the door and invited her in.

She looked nervous.

‘You alright? No need to worry, we just need to ask a few questions about Carly in school. Won’t take long.’

Claire offered a nervous smile. ‘I’ve never been interviewed by the Police before. I have this stupid idea that you can see directly into my mind and will know all the bad things I’ve done.’ She sat upright on the edge of the plastic chair.

Gould laughed, ‘I think you’re mixing us up with Voodoo, love. And I doubt you’ve done anything all that bad - or is there something terrible you want to talk to me about?’

He watched her settle back into the chair, with a shake of her head and a faint smile. What on earth did people think policing was actually about? Mind-reading?

Collecting personal details took only a couple of minutes, it was the fact that Claire had been Carly’s form tutor for four years that interested Gould.

‘Describe Carly to me, Miss Quick. Anything you think that might help us to understand what kind of person she was. Friends, boyfriends, any arguments or disagreements with them recently? That kind of thing.’

Claire thought for a moment. ‘Carly was complicated. Eleven years old when her mother left her and her sister. She was new to secondary school, already developing the hard shell of cheek and sarcasm she had used to protect herself. It took me three years to break through and build a successful relationship with her and that was because of her singing.’ She took a breath. ‘In a nutshell, she was brittle, easily offended, loud, shy, difficult, helpful, rude, vulnerable, funny, sad, talented, moody...’ She stopped. Gould was trying to get it all down in his notepad. ‘You could just write “typical teenager”,’ she said.

Gould chuckled. ‘I get the picture. What about her friends then?’

‘Hmmm, well, Carly found it hard to maintain friendships with girls. She wanted to be the centre of attention all the time, which used to annoy them. When she found her singing voice a couple of years ago it made it worse because she got so much praise. It did make her much nicer for the staff, though, as it gave her a purpose other than disrupting lessons.’ Claire paused and played with a strand of wavy, blond hair. ‘I certainly don’t think she annoyed anyone enough for them to have killed her. Surely this was a mugging gone wrong
or something? It can’t have
been anyone at school, can it?’

She looked at Gould for confirmation, but he kept his face calm, impassive. He’d seen too much over the years to offer false comfort, however attractive the plaintiff.

‘Anything else?’

‘I was giving her extra English lessons to help get her grades up so she could stay on and do A levels. That would be quite an achievement for someone from Carly’s background.’

Gould interrupted, ‘What other subjects was she good at?’

‘Well, obviously Music, she would have taken that at A level as part of a Performing Arts course, and probably Art and History. She was in every school production, usually singing the lead role. There wasn’t a scientific bone in that girl’s body, though.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘God, what an insensitive thing to say.’ Claire’s eyes filled with tears, which she tried to cover by foraging for a tissue in her bag. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘Sorry. But how can she be dead? It’s so wrong, I can hardly believe it.’

Gould nodded, ‘Wrong, it is. Let’s see if we can find out who was responsible, eh?’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’ She sniffed. ‘I suppose her best friend was Jamie May, also in Year 11. I teach him English.’

‘Is it likely that he saw her on yesterday?’

Claire nodded. ‘Could have. She was very excited about the recording session last night. They may well have met up for a rehearsal. I don’t know if he was supposed to be going along to the recording or not. Perhaps her Dad took her?’ She hesitated and looked at Gould. ‘Jamie was madly in love with Carly, Chief Inspector. He’s devastated. You will be gentle with him, won’t you?’

‘I’ll need to see him today, but I won’t make it worse for him, I promise. I assume he’ll be waiting with the rest of the class?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll check on them, but I saw him heading off across the field when the buses arrived. I think he’s gone. You might be better off seeing him at home, later. It was the stretcher coming down the field that did it.’

‘Yes, it wasn’t good timing. We thought the students had all gone by then. Thank you, Miss Quick. You’ve been very helpful.’ Gould saw Claire Quick out of the room and beckoned in a subdued Lee Bateson.

‘Sit down, lad.’ Gould said, and flopped back down onto his own chair, waiting until the boy had seated himself. ‘No need to be frightened. You’re not in any trouble with me. I just need to know, in your own words, what happened this morning.’

Bateson shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘We was playin’ a game in the woods, and she was just there, beside the log where we always sit.’

Gould nodded. ‘Good so far. What did you see first when you got to the clearing?’

‘Nothin’. It was Ryan who saw Carly’s hair. I went in for a better look and saw…’ He faltered.

‘Go on, it’s OK.’ Gould smiled in encouragement.

‘It was ‘orrible, sir. Her finger was all bloody and a crow was eatin’ it and tryin’ to get her ring off. Her eyeball was just hangin’ there, on her face. Tim Parker was sick all over his shoes. Gross.’

Gould saw Bateson’s eyes shine as he re-lived the moment. Blood-thirsty little sod. He’ll dine out on this story for weeks.

‘How did you know it was Carly?’

Bateson looked up at Gould as if he was stupid. ‘Everyone knows her. And her sister’s in my tutor group.’

‘Did you notice anything strange about the area? Anything different from usual?’

‘You mean apart from Carly lyin’ there?’

‘Yes, apart from that.’ You’re asking for a smack, smartarse, thought Gould.

‘Well, the branch that was covering her wasn’t there last Friday, but…’ he thought for a moment and shook his head. ‘No, it was like it always is.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yeah.’ Bateson nodded to emphasise that he had finished and looked over his shoulder at the door until Gould let him loose.

The interviews with the other two boys followed a similar track without, Gould was pleased to note, the same fascination with blood and gore shown by young Master Bateson. As he and Hellier had suspected, the place where the body was found would tell them little about when, how or why the girl had been killed. It was just a dumping ground.

Gould sighed and checked his watch. Half an hour should do it. It had taken him twenty minutes to get Marcia Penrose out of the door after her interview, and he’d only managed it by taking her elbow and propelling her into the corridor. Not a classic exercise in positive community policing, but at no point during that time, or in the corridor after the interview as she walked back to Reception, did she stop talking. She was indeed a mine of information, but most of it was gossip, and the only bit that helped with the case was her altercation with Alan Braithwaite. Braithwaite was apparently ‘aggressive, vicious and argumentative, just like his daughter,’ and she ‘wasn’t surprised at anything that little madam got up to.’