Читать книгу Missing Pieces - K L Harrison - Страница 5

Mid-March

….He did as she demanded. She selected a cane from a tall bucket which contained many such instruments.

“Over!”

She moved behind him and commenced. Each stroke of the six was delivered with her customary firmness, but not too hard; that was for later.

“Stand. Go to your desk. Detention will now begin.”…….

He sat down. The pain had been excruciating but he was used to it; indeed he longed for it. He sat there, arms crossed and looked at her.

“You will copy out the first sentence of Chapter One. You will write it out three times. You will do it with the utmost neatness. I shall inspect the lines that you sent me last week. If I discover any errors or any sloppy handwriting, you know what to expect. She placed the book on his desk and returned to her desk and began to carefully scan his “lines”. Her red pen was soon in action. This could only mean one thing.

Meanwhile, he started writing.

“EmmaWoodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.”…..

Mid-November: The next morning

Spence was in his element. The odour of fried eggs and bacon had taken over his kitchen and the coffee was brewing. Radio Four’s ‘The Today Program’ was blaring out and Spence was smiling. Every time James Naughtie was introduced, he simply cracked up.

“Why couldn’t I have had a name like that?” he often thought.

And then memories of the previous night came drifting back and Spence became whimsical. He was managing to place his daughter’s vomiting and Roger Davidson’s demise in the dark recesses. He was remembering Susannah Pearson as he stared out the window at the frost.

“Dad, what the fuck? You’ll set the house on fire!.” She threw her phone on to the table and quickly grabbed the smoking frying pan.

Laura Hargreaves was in remarkably good condition considering what she had gone through only a few hours earlier.

“Where’s the coffee? And what’s that bloody row?”

Laura’s demeanour was the exact opposite of how she was feeling. She loved these mornings with her father, the English fry-up, the strong coffee and Radio 4. Spence knew she loved it.

“Eggs, bacon, mushrooms and fried bread – and the French think they can cook.”

Laura laughed at her father. It was not what he said but the fact that he said the same thing every time they shared a cleansing English breakfast.

“So what was the problem last night? He left you waiting in the cold, he’s started voting conservative or he’s run off with your friend Millicent? Ah yes, Millicent.”

“Dad, stop it! I really can’t handle it when you start fantasising about my friends!”

There were a few moments silence as each of them got stuck into their food.

“Anyway, it was worse than any of that. If he was shagging Millie, I could handle that, after all she’s cuter than me. No, the bastard forgot he was meeting me in town for a feed, and do you know what he was doing instead?”

Spence knew it was best not to answer.

“He was at the football watching Swindon play!”

“They were playing Portsmouth. They got beat. One nil.”

Laura’s expression turned colder than anything outside.

“Sorry Laura, yes he should not have done that. Especially as it was so cold last night.”

“Well that’s it dad, we’re through. He’s treated me wrong for the last time. I’ve made a decision, I’m going to find myself a decent guy, go on one of those computer dating sites. Someone considerate, someone who puts me first.”

They continued eating, Spence poured some more coffee. The Today program continued.

“The Prime Minister has said that he has no intention of seeking the resignation of the Trade Minister, Christopher Morgan. Mr Morgan had been photographed at a Soho gay club two nights earlier, wearing a blonde wig, full make-up and school girl’s uniform. And now the weather.”

Laura and Spence exploded into laughter.

“Of course he’s not going to resign, he’s a Tory for god’s sake. I’d be doubting his allegiance to the party if he wasn’t doing something like that.”

They were laughing when Laura’s phone started vibrating. The few seconds that passed seemed like an eternity.

“Are you going to answer that?” Spence asked. “It might be important.”

“It’ll be Joel. If he thinks he can soft talk me, give me some pathetic story about why he let me down last night, he’s got another thing coming. He can drop dead for all I care.”

Laura continued eating as if she had not eaten for days. Her phone continued to bounce around the table and she did not take her eyes off it for one second. Suddenly, she stood up and grabbed it.

“Yes?!!”

Laura stood stock still, staring at the floor. Spence watched as his daughter’s rage gradually subsided. She grabbed her coffee and wandered back into her room.

“They’ll be in the cot by lunchtime,” he mused.

“The Prime Minister has dismissed calls to raise VAT, despite the deteriorating budget situation. In the studio this morning to discuss the government’s economic policy we have….-“

Spence had had his fill of news.

“Right Frederick, your turn.”

Another morning routine that never failed to get rid of the cobwebs as on went the CD player. Loud.

“I’ve paid my dues, time after time…”

“Dad!” Laura slammed her door shut.

“You used to like Queen.”

At that, it was Spence’s phone that came to life.

“Sorry Freddie, I’ve got a murder to solve.” Silence.

“Spence.”

It was Ferguson. Spence knew that his DS would have been up for a couple of hours putting things in place. The preliminary medical report would be ready by 2.00. Forensics would be able to give him something soon after, and WPC Grant had something she wanted to tell him.

“Can’t you tell me Ferguson? Okay, tell her to catch me when I get in. Did you fix up my appointment at the school? All right Ferguson, the Academy. Who’s the Headmaster? Who? Well I’ll be buggered. No, no problem. I’ll be in about 2.00.”

Spence was smiling broadly. “Robert Hamsby. Brilliant!”

As Spence headed up the A 419, his mind drifted back to his sixth form days. He had cycled along this road to South Cerney more than once to visit Susan Pratt, in the vain hope of losing his virginity.

“It was you who was the prat, wasn’t it Spence?” The target of his affections – lust – ended up with Graeme Morris, Tony Smith, everyone it seemed but him.

As Spence turned into the Academy car park, he was stopped by the security guard. “Bloody hell, what’s this country coming to, security guards at schools. What next, PCs in the corridors like the US?”

“DI Hargreaves to see the headmaster. I’m expected.”

Spence flashed his warrant card and was directed to the visitors’ car park. Hopefully, Ferguson had managed to keep Roger Davidson’s demise under wraps because he knew it would soon be Swindon’s major story. It would probably be a national story.

As usual, Spence went for a wander to get a feel of the place. Buildings new of course, couple of football fields, a gym, the usual array of science labs, computer rooms and the like. It was clean, hardly a scrap of litter, no graffiti and the kids were smart. The boys had their shirts tucked in and ties done up, and none of the girls was wearing a skirt half-way up their ass.

Eventually Spence approached one of the boys, he looked about fourth form.

“Could you tell where the headmaster’s office is please?”

“Of course sir, I’ll take you there.”

Spence was rarely lost for words, but he was this time. He’d expected the boy to tell him to ‘fuck off’; instead he was calling him sir. They were soon in the headmaster’s waiting room.

“Thanks son.” The boy smiled and walked away.

Spence turned round to find a lady he assumed was the headmaster’s secretary. No more than five feet tall, dark eyes, grey hair and a bust bigger than anything he had ever seen.

“Yes, and you are?”

This was a lady who had perfected the art of imperiousness over the decades. Ah, this was more like school as Spence remembered it. Spence felt like he was there to get a belting for smoking behind the bike sheds.

“DI Hargreaves to see-“

At that, the headmaster’s door swung open. “Winston, Winston Hargreaves.”

Robert Hamsby thrust out his hand and the two men shook hands firmly.

“Miss Tims, could you please fix us up with a pot of tea?”

The secretary gave a true death stare and then walked away.

“Don’t mind her, she is fantastic. Wow, Winston, come on through.”

To the best of his knowledge, nobody ever called him Winston. Nobody that is except Robert Hamsby. They had been students together at Reading, and then young teachers in the wilds of west London many years before. They became front line colleagues and firm friends but lost touch when Hamsby took up an exchange job some years later at a school near Campbelltown in Sydney’s south western suburbs. Since then it was the occasional Christmas card but Christmas cards weren’t really Spence’s thing.

Robert Hamsby had never called him Spence.

“I couldn’t believe it when I learned I was going to be dealing with you Winston. I just wish it was under better circumstances. Dinner, my place this weekend. I want Jill to meet you. You must bring your wife.”

Spence gave his old friend the sort of look that said he had been married, to that bitch Caroline, it was a fuckin’ disaster and that he had become a pathetic lonely old bastard. Robert Hamsby clearly understood the look.

“We’ve a spare room. No buts!”

The warmth was genuine and mutual, and for several minutes the two old friends reminisced. Spence had always liked Robert Hamsby. But he also respected him, one of the sharpest minds he had ever come across. Who better to speak to about what was going to be a tricky case?

“Bob, I assume my DS filled you in on the basics.”

“Yes, I’m still stunned. He didn’t give away much, but I get a sense it was pretty brutal.”

Spence shared with Hamsby what he knew; Robert Hamsby could be trusted.

“Roger Davidson seemed pretty young to be a Deputy Headmaster at a decent place like this. How old was he, early thirties?”

“Not quite 30. It was my call Winston, my previous deputy died during the summer holidays, tragic loss. He was a good man. I took a punt on Roger. He’d only been teaching about six or seven years, but I sensed he was quality. A really effective teacher, smart, well-organised and totally on top of all the crap that goes to make up modern education. He actually knew what the word ‘pedagogy’ means. Ambitious. I wanted to give him a chance to prove himself.”

“No advertising, just your call?”

“Yes, not common practice but the Academy Council wanted minimum disturbance.”

“I would imagine you must have pissed off quite a few people at the time.”

“You can believe it. There were at least four, possibly six people who thought the job should have been theirs. And there were others who were just plain jealous. But Roger took the job on and, though I say it myself, I believe I made a good appointment.”

“I’ll need the names of your staff and we will have to speak to them Bob, the sooner the better.”

“Surely you don’t think one of my staff murdered him? If jealousy was a motive, why didn’t someone go after me, after all it was my decision that denied them the job.”

“Murder has been committed for a lot less. But no, it’s just routine Bob.”

Spence was in no hurry to leave and when Miss Tims brought in the tea Hamsby told her that he was incommunicado unless the school was experiencing a terrorist attack.

“Oh, and Miss Tims, could you print me off a full staff list please, with the mobile numbers and addresses?”

Miss Tims looked as if she had just been asked to write out ‘War and Peace’.

“Very well, headmaster,” she replied in the most disapproving voice that she could muster.

The two men talked for almost an hour, drifting in and out of the case, old times and ‘whatever happened to so-and-so?’ Just as he was leaving, Spence asked one last question.

“What do you pay a deputy here?”

“About forty five thousand, plus a few perks. Why?”

“No reason, just interested.”

“7.00, Saturday night. I’ll text you the address. Bring someone if you like. Anyone on the scene?”

Susannah Pearson briefly flitted through Spence’s mind.

“No, pretty quiet in that area at the moment.”

As Spence walked along the main corridor, retracing his footsteps to the car park, he found himself behind a couple of the teachers.

“Did you hear about Roger Davidson? He was murdered last night.”

“What? Fuckin’ hell!”

“It will be all across the school by the time I’m half way along the A419,” thought Spence. And it was.