Читать книгу The Good Teacher: A gripping thriller from the Kindle top ten bestselling author of ‘The Perfect Neighbours’ - Rachel Sargeant, Rachel Sargeant - Страница 13

It’s like walking through treacle, trying to shorten my stride to match Gaby’s. I tell myself to feel more compassion; the woman has been beaten to a pulp, walking must be painful. Linda Parry, who flanks Gaby’s other side, is struggling with her heels on the vinyl floor of the hospital. No doubt she’s grateful for the plodding pace.

Maybe there’s a chance that the formal identification process, the follow-up paperwork and then the trip to the station to view mugshots will make me miss the 11 a.m. post-mortem. I’m clutching at straws.

The atmosphere in the glazed corridor is stifling. Glad I ignored Mum’s advice and opted for bare legs. If it’s good enough for DI Bagley, I can get away with it too.

“Sorry it’s such a long walk,” I say. “This place is worse than the police station. Corridors everywhere and they all look alike. I forget where I am sometimes.”

Linda smiles, but Gaby seems not to hear.

When we reach the door to the viewing area, Linda cuts through my chatter. “You don’t have to do this, Gaby. I can go on my own.”

Gaby glances wearily at her sister-in-law. “I’m fine,” she says and pushes open the door.

A blue curtain is drawn across a large window. When I press a button on the wall, a hand appears around the curtain and pulls it back to expose another room. In the centre is a table draped by a cream sheet, with the contours of a body visible. The scene reminds me of the chapel of rest where I last saw my grandfather, except that this room lacks the yellow lilies and burning candles. Instead, several harsh fluorescent ceiling tubes light the space.

The attendant turns down the sheet to reveal Carl Brock’s head and shoulders. The morticians have taken great care to comb his hair and tidy his chin.

“Oh, my God.” Linda presses her hands against the window, sobbing.

Gaby Brock also steps nearer. Her eyes burn through the glass into the closed lids of the corpse. “Yes, this was my husband, Carl Brock.”

The vivid black and purple bruises around her eyes and across her forehead make it hard to gauge her reaction. Her eyes linger over his face, studying all his features. Despite the circumstances, she carries her battered body with poise, arms by her sides. Is she indifferent to her husband’s death? Or enveloped in a grim and silent grief?

Linda’s sobs become louder.

“Would you like to go to the hospital chapel for a few minutes, before we do the paperwork?” I ask, glancing at my watch, still lots of time until my date with post-mortem destiny.

Gaby shakes her head. “Better get it all over with.”

When we arrive at the police station, the sergeant handling the ID photos says that he can manage without me and I’m free to report to DI Bagley for the post-mortem. He suggests Linda get a coffee while Gaby goes through the photographs.

“I’ll show you where the canteen is, Mrs Parry,” I say, grasping the opportunity to delay my return to Bagley.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say, handing Linda a steaming polystyrene cup and sitting down opposite.

Linda peers into the coffee. “We weren’t that close, but it’s still a shock to see him lying there.”

She rests her open fingers against her throat. I note the gesture. If only I could remember what I’ve been taught about body language.

“It’s awful to think that Gaby was inside, all tied up when we called round,” Linda says, close to tears.

“You called round? What time was that?” I try to keep the eagerness out of my voice. And the smugness. This is news. DI Bagley was so intent on grilling Gaby Brock yesterday that she ignored Linda Parry.

“We dropped the kids at school and called on Gaby at about nine. We were supposed to be taking her to the Monday market. I thought she’d forgotten and gone out, although she doesn’t go out much.”

My excitement fades; the kidnappers would have been long gone by 9 a.m. Whether Bagley knows about it or not, it’s highly unlikely that Linda’s visit to the Brocks’ house will have a bearing on the case.

“Did you hear or see anything near the house?” I ask, but it’s hardly worth asking.

Linda shakes her head. “Only their milk on the doorstep. I moved it into the shade.”

“Will your sister-in-law be all right? I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet. She’s very quiet.”

“Gaby always is. That’s her way. She was the same when Pipkin died.”

“Who’s Pipkin?” I ask. Maybe getting some background information on the family will give a lead.

“Her pet cockatiel. He died a couple of months ago. Mangy old thing. First his tail feathers went black and then he started pulling them out of his chest. He was practically bald before he finally fell off his perch. Gaby adored that stupid bird. It became her world after she lost the baby.” She fishes a soggy tissue out of her handbag and blows her nose. I wait for her to continue and hope she will without prompting. I need to know, but am reluctant to probe into the obvious tragedy.

“She had a miscarriage last year. Didn’t say much then either. Didn’t even cry. Carl took a week off school to look after her. He wouldn’t even let me visit so she had complete rest. When I did see her, she was quiet. Didn’t want to talk about it.” She cups her drink and blows on the surface. “After another week she picked herself up and carried on as if nothing had happened. Threw herself into her yoga. Not classes though; she said it was more restful to use tapes at home. I expect she’ll return to it now.”

My eyes moisten. At least the books on yoga on the Brocks’ bookcase will be read again. I’m about to give Linda’s hand a sympathetic squeeze but pull back when I remember Bagley’s earlier rebuke about being overfamiliar.

“How long were Gaby and Carl married?”

“Two years. A whirlwind romance. She was a classroom assistant at the school where he works. They got married soon after they met.”

“Does she still work there?”

“She gave up work after they married.” She takes a sip of coffee and wraps her arms around herself. “They hoped to start a family.”

“Did Carl like being a teacher?”

“He loved it. He thought he could make a difference. Especially to the ones everyone else had written off as the no-hopers.” Her fingers touch her throat again, and she breaks into loud sobs.

Grief. I remember: an open hand to the chest means the woman is grieving despite saying she wasn’t close to her brother. Ditching Bagley’s instructions, I pull my chair around, lean a consoling arm around Linda’s shoulder and let her cry. I catch sight of my watch and sigh; acres of time to spare.