A Shred of Evidence (4 page)

The letter did cross his mind again then, as his thoughts took that turn, but no more than that.

Kim Walters liked Mr. Murray a lot, she had discovered by the end of registration. She liked English, too, though she wasn’t much of a speller, and she was sure it was going to be fun now that it was Mr. Murray.

She sat beside Natalie as usual, but Natalie was still in a funny mood and didn’t even look up when Kim spoke to her, never mind answer. Kim wondered if she wasn’t well.

“Show of hands,” said Mr. Murray. “How many of you believe that this is going to be your last year in full-time education?”

About half the class put their hands up.

“Keep them up,” he said. “Now, of those of you with your hands up, how many think that this year is a waste of time? If you do think that, keep your hands up.”

Some hands went down; not many.

“And how many of the ones with their hands up have a job to walk into when they leave school?”

All the hands went down.

“None of you?” said Mr. Murray, looking startled. “I thought you must all have, if you think this year’s going to be a waste of time.”

“What else is Shakespeare and stuff like that?” Dave Britten asked.

“Well, what do you think you might do for a living?”

“Plumber,” said Dave. “Like my dad.”

“And you don’t think a basic understanding of Shakespeare’s use of irony will help in this endeavor?”

Dave’s eyes widened as he tried to work out the question. “I don’t see that I need to learn about Shakespeare,” he said defensively. “You might, if you want to be a brain surgeon or something.”

“Brain surgeons need a good education, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Dave nodded, relieved to have got his point across. “But plumbers don’t need to know all that stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Well … it’s not as important.”

“Plumbers aren’t as important as brain surgeons?”

“Well, they’re not, are they?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Murray. “I’m willing to bet that there are thousands of plumbers who have gone from cradle to grave without once requiring the services of a brain surgeon. But I doubt if even one brain surgeon has gone through life without …”

The class laughed, supplying for themselves the end of his sentence, and Kim was gratified to see that even Dave looked thoughtful, for possibly the first time in his life.

She really liked Mr. Murray.

Tom Finch walked across the little car park to where his acting chief inspector’s car sat, screwing up his fair lashes as the late afternoon sun slanted through the trees that hid the police station from the houses opposite.

The car was making disconsolate and distinctly dodgy noises as Judy tried to start it. Even Tom’s rudimentary knowledge of the internal combustion engine was enough to tell him that this car was not going to start, whatever she did, unless something mysterious was accomplished under the bonnet.

He watched, amused, as her face grew pink with frustration. She sat back, pushing her hair away from her face, and saw him.

“Having trouble?” he asked.

“No, I enjoy doing this,” she said, then took a deep breath, and tried again. She hit the steering wheel in frustration, and gave up, getting out. “It took me about fifteen minutes to start it this morning,” she said. “I knew this would happen.”

“Do you want me to get one of the lads from the garage to have a look?” asked Tom.

“No,” she said. “It isn’t worth having to put up with all the remarks about women drivers.”

Tom smiled. “I don’t know anything about what goes on under the bonnet either,” he said.

“You’re allowed not to.” She sighed, then smiled, turning her puppy-brown eyes his way, and giving him the benefit of her very best smile. “I don’t suppose you could give me a lift—”

“Sorry,” said Tom. “I’m waiting to interview a witness who is on her way here as we speak.”

“Would you believe the next bus to Malworth isn’t until quarter to seven?” she said.

“You’ve already checked on the buses, then,” he said, with a grin.

“I knew it wouldn’t start. Quarter to seven! And it takes over forty minutes.”

“It’s probably something and nothing. One of the lads could have it fixed in a jiffy.”

“No,” she said firmly, heading back into the building.

Tom caught her up.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Why do you give a monkey’s what some oily rag has to say about women drivers? You could have him crying for his mum inside a minute.”

He held the door open for her, then wondered if it was a bad time to be chivalrous. But she was his senior officer, so it was probably all right. Life did get very complicated at times.

She went in, anyway, without comment.

“Why?” he persisted.

“Oh, I suppose it’s because I’m being seen as some sort of representative of all female police officers,” she said as they walked along the back corridor.

“So? You’re a bloody good representative.”

“Maybe. But I still feel I’m letting the side down.”

“Because you can’t strip down a car engine?” asked Tom incredulously, stopping at the inner door to punch in the security numbers.

“In a way.” She pushed open the door that led down yet another corridor, past the collator’s office, past the duty inspector’s office, to the CID suite, so called, in the new extension. All that that meant was that two reasonably large
offices had been made into three that were too small for their occupants.

“They unnerve me,” she said.

The woman who had achieved what a gunman and two desperadoes with knives had failed to do, and had made him break out in a cold sweat of sheer panic, would sooner leave her car sitting out there on the car park than admit that she didn’t know how to mend it?

Tom risked overstepping the mark again. “I know if you want my advice, you’ll ask for it,” he said. “And it might seem odd coming from someone you reduced to a jelly this morning, but if you ask me, it’s advice on believing in yourself that you could do with.”

“Oh, I get more than enough of that,” she said as they went into the empty CID room.

“Maybe you should listen to it,” Tom said, sitting down at his desk for the first time that day, and picking up the precious expenses claim. “Ma’am,” he added, mischievously.

“Maybe I should,” she said, going into her office and snapping on the light. “Sergeant.”

Tom smiled as she went in and closed the door. She was all right, Judy Hill. Even if she did have a wicked line in wind-ups. He’d had much worse governors than her.

“You’re not forgetting the stuff for the CPS on that aggravated burglary, are you?” she asked, popping her head round the door again. “I want it on my desk first thing tomorrow. And I mean it, Tom. No excuses. I don’t care how many witnesses you’ve got to see.”

“Right after I’ve seen this one,” said Finch, and looked at the pile of work that awaited him, his shoulders drooping. He reached for the phone to call Liz.

Worse governors, anyway. Maybe not that much.

Patrick was preparing his lessons for tomorrow; he always preferred to do all his school work at school, so that he could forget about it once he got home. Or wherever. But tonight he was going home. He enjoyed his home, his married life. He really didn’t want to give his wife a hard time. He had, of
course, more than once. And he would again, if she found him out again. But not tonight.

The staff room was hot and dusty, and had the smell of coffee and Pledge and a hint of cigarette smoke. They all did, really. Patrick liked staff rooms. He liked schools. He liked teaching. He pulled his shirt away from his back, and stretched. When he was little, all he had wanted to do was work in a garage, like his dad. Mending cars. And as he grew up he often did help his dad out, once he’d started his own business. He had had every intention of being a motor mechanic, despite the kind of marks he was getting at school, which suggested an academic career.

His father hadn’t tried to influence him one way or the other; all that had happened was that one day he had looked up from the book he was reading and realized that what he wanted to do more than anything else was tell other people about the joys of learning. Learning anything. Everything. How to mend cars, how to read Shakespeare. How to play the saxophone. He wanted everyone to realize that learning was fun.

“How was your first day, then?” asked the head, suddenly appearing beside him.

It ruined the stretch. “Oh, not bad at all, thanks,” said Patrick. “Is it all right to leave my jacket off tomorrow, though?”

“You weren’t wearing that thing all day, were you?” said the head, horrified. “You must have been abominably hot.”

Patrick smiled. “I was,” he said. “Only at my last place you had to wait until you got the word that jackets could be removed.”

“Did you?” The head’s brow cleared. “Oh yes—of course, you taught at …” He moved his hand backwards and forwards in what Patrick was already able to recognize as his substitute for any name he couldn’t remember, which was most names. “Yes. But we’re not that formal here. No, no. Actually—I was thinking. The uniform … I mean, the children must have been too hot.”

“They were,” agreed Patrick. “But I don’t think you’re supposed to call them children any more.”

“Oh, no. Pupils. Students. It’s so difficult trying not to offend …” He waved his hand. “Anyone,” he finished. “I keep forgetting that I’m not a headmaster any more. Head teacher, head teacher, I have to say to myself.”

Patrick smiled.

“I was going to say that they should wear summer uniforms while the weather continues like this,” the head went on. “But most of them won’t have the summer uniform. This is the first year we’ve had a uniform at all. Well, since the sixties, that is.”

“Yes.” Patrick wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be saying.

“I like them, myself,” said the head. “I think it gives the … students … a touch of pride in their school. It makes them look smart. And you can’t tell the well-off ones from the ones whose dads are on the dole.”

“No,” said Patrick.

“But they must be far too hot,” said the head. “Do you think I should say that the uniform needn’t be worn until further notice?”

“Well, it’s not up to me, but it would be easier teaching people that weren’t wilting before your eyes.”

“Yes. Yes—I’ll get …” He waved his hand in the direction of the office.

“Erica?” suggested Patrick. The lovely Erica, who had repulsed him yet again, only this evening.

“Erica. Yes. I’ll … yes.” He peered at Patrick. “I’ll get her to do a letter to the parents,” he said, absently.

“She’s gone,” said Patrick.

She had left at five, walking home so that Colin would have the car when he came out of the drama group that he belonged to. Colin needed the car because he always had a lot of stuff to lug backwards and forwards, she had told Patrick. He didn’t dare leave good equipment and kit at the school.

Patrick hadn’t demanded an explanation; he had just been given one. In his experience that meant Erica was justifying what seemed to her to be unreasonable, and that meant she might no longer be off-limits, if “Cocky” Cochrane, as the
papers were wont to call him, was beginning to get on her nerves again.

Patrick had offered her a lift but she had said that it wasn’t far. She had thought, though, just for a moment, before she had refused. If he had pressed her, she would have accepted, and he might not have been doing his lesson preparation, or going straight home, after all. But he mustn’t make things even more complicated than they had already become.

“Is everything all right?” the head demanded. “You look worried.”

“No,” said Patrick. “Hot, that’s all. Just hot.”

“You’d tell me if anything was bothering you about the school, or anything like that?”

Not on your life, thought Patrick. “Yes,” he said cheerfully, turning back to his work.

“The caretaker locks up at eight,” said the head.

“I’ll be out from under his feet before then, sir,” said Patrick.

“Yes, er …” The head waved his hand about, as Patrick’s name escaped him. “And it’s Max … We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

At least he could remember his own name, Patrick thought. It was a start.

“Cheer up,” said Lloyd’s table companion. “You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”

Lloyd looked up from his meal. “How?” he asked, uncomprehendingly.

The surroundings were very pleasant, particularly during this surprising weather, and the house had been built by the sort of Elizabethan yuppie that he always found intriguing, but he wasn’t here to soak up the atmosphere. He had applied himself with considerable determination to the course, but he was not, and never had been, a career policeman, and enjoying himself was not what he was doing.

Why other police officers apparently broke their necks to get on courses was a mystery to him, or, at any rate, to the short bald bloke, who had no apparent interest in boozing or betting or women, all of which pursuits were made easier when you
temporarily had no wife to whom you had to account for your doings.

But that lure would never have been Lloyd’s, either, fond though he was of a dram and the occasional flutter and the pleasures of the flesh; he had no wife, and what he did have wasn’t something from which he needed escape.

“You’re off the hook, man! It’s all over bar the shouting. So now you get to unwind a bit, let your hair down while you’re out of the missus’s clutches.”

“I haven’t got a missus,” Lloyd said. “Not any more.”

Lloyd wasn’t at all sure that the short bald bloke should be divorced, but even he drew the line at inventing a wife.

“I’ve had two. Still got the second. Shows you what a glutton for punishment I am, doesn’t it?” A dig from his elbow accompanied this remark, causing Lloyd’s fork to ship its cargo on its way to his mouth.

“Look round. They’re not half bad. See her?” He pointed to a young woman at a far table. “She’s a DI from up north—a right little goer, by all accounts.” He laughed. “I’m all for women getting into the higher ranks if they’re lookers,” he said.

“I don’t think that wins points for political correctness,” said Lloyd, in some danger of stepping out of character. The short bald bloke might not mind having his evening meal thus interrupted, but he did, and he wanted this moron to go away. He would probably be Chief Constable somewhere in about five minutes, he thought sourly.