Читать книгу The Good Teacher: A gripping thriller from the Kindle top ten bestselling author of ‘The Perfect Neighbours’ - Rachel Sargeant, Rachel Sargeant - Страница 8

“I didn’t think you’d catch up with me this quickly,” a woman’s voice says through the polished brass letterbox. The door opens a fraction and the voice continues, “Can I ring Stuart – that’s Mr Perkins, my husband – before you take me in? I’m allowed one phone call, aren’t I?”

A pair of hunted green eyes appear and I wonder what crime I’ve stumbled into. Isn’t that how we caught the Briggham killer – routine enquiries into another case? I glance up the road, but my colleagues are nowhere in sight, each having allocated themselves a different avenue on the Southside estate for the house-to-house. I knocked at the first house in a cul-de-sac that runs off the road behind the Brocks’ house.

“I suppose you’ll want to come in while I’m on the phone so I don’t abscond,” the woman says. She opens the door wide.

I step over the threshold. Should I call for backup? After a shaky start on my first day are things about to get even rockier?

“I must be in a lot of trouble if they’ve sent a CID officer,” the woman says. She leads me into the lounge. What villainy could have taken place in a room where paisley pink curtains match the sofa cushions?

“What do you think will happen to me? I know it’s not much of an excuse, but I would like to say in my defence that I only saw it was back this morning.”

“Back this morning?” I ask, trying to disguise my bewilderment. The woman is chatty. I’ll feed her enough rope, get her to confess to whatever it is she’s done and make an arrest. Maybe even redeem myself in DS Matthews’s eyes.

“It was propped against the front wall. I swear it wasn’t there yesterday. And Stuart walked up and down the avenue before we spoke to your officers on Wednesday. There was no sign of it. I know we shouldn’t have kept it in the front garden. The way other people let their children stay out till all hours. It’s asking for trouble in this day and age.”

“Is it?” I ask.

“They’ll take anything if it’s not nailed down, even a tatty old thing like that. Except they didn’t take it because it’s back now. But I swear it wasn’t there yesterday, not since Wednesday.”

“A tatty old thing?”

“I’d had it since college.” She waves a hand at the mantelpiece, which displays two graduation photographs. One is of a youth with wispy hair reaching to his oversized collar and big tie. Stuart? The other is of a young woman with sparkling green eyes and a magnificent smile, lavishly framed by lipstick. I study Mrs Perkins’s tired, pale features. She must be in her late thirties but carries herself as if in middle age. She resembles an Afghan hound with messy, permed hair over her ears. Loose grey cords and a baggy cardigan conceal long limbs. Has a guilty conscience tarnished her former radiance?

“And you spoke to us on Wednesday?” I ask, trying to make a jigsaw out of the pieces the woman is giving me.

“We both came down to the station to make a statement, give a description. We didn’t mean to waste anybody’s time.”

“You wasted our time?” I begin to think she’s wasting mine.

“Are you going to charge me? We thought it had gone. It never occurred to us it would come back.”

I give up. “What came back?”

“My bicycle, of course.” Mrs Perkins raises her voice an octave but returns to deferential tones to explain that she and her husband had reported her bicycle stolen from their front garden on Wednesday but that it reappeared this morning. “I was going to phone you. I didn’t want the police force out looking for it any longer than necessary. I know wasting police time is a serious offence. I’ll just phone Stuart, or should I phone a solicitor?”

My eyes move back and forth between the woman and her graduation photograph. Intelligence manifests itself in so many ways. I reassure Mrs Perkins that the Brigghamshire Constabulary won’t be taking any further action on this occasion. Doubtless my fellow officers will be delighted that Mrs Perkins’s property has been returned safe and sound. Mrs Perkins launches into a torrent of thanks. When she pauses for air, I explain the real reason for my visit and find myself accepting an offer of a cup of tea.

“Not to worry. Thanks for your help anyway,” DS Mike Matthews says outside number 23. He puts away his notebook. All of them wise monkeys. No one saw or heard anything, and they aren’t saying much either. Not even: would you like to come in out of the heat and have a drink, officer.

Chance would be a fine thing.

“Have another piece of chocolate cake,” Mrs Perkins offers. “It’s lovely to see a young woman enjoying her food. I’m afraid with this talk of murder, I’ve rather lost my appetite.”

I hastily swallow. “Quite. Did you see anyone in the avenue during last night?”

Mrs Perkins shakes her head. “We’re heavy sleepers. Perhaps if we weren’t, we’d have seen what happened to my bicycle.”

“Maybe you saw something before you went to bed. A car, perhaps, a Ford Mondeo?” I’m anxious to steer the conversation away from the bicycle.

“I’ve got an awful feeling we’ve met the victim. I don’t think I’ve seen him round here, but there’s a chap we see up at the allotments now and again that matches the man you’ve described. Big, scruffy. Stuart says he’d lose a bit of weight if he put his back into it. His plot’s a mess. Not like Stuart’s. He’s up there every evening. We grow all our own veg.”

She smiles at his graduation photo, no doubt proud that a man in a psychedelic tie could evolve into one with green fingers. “Things taste much better when you grow them yourself. All those additives these days send children into orbit. Give them a home-grown diet and they’re good as gold,” Mrs Perkins continues. “We’re doing runner beans this time. It makes a change from courgettes. I’ve still got tubs of puree in the freezer from last year. I’ll give you some to take home. Let me put the kettle on again.”

Matthews puts a tick against number 27. It always amazes him how many people are at home during the day. Only three doors didn’t answer. He hasn’t found out anything from the others, but at least he can cross them off. Someone must have seen something. Two men forcing another man into his own car and then driving off intent on murder. It’s hardly a routine occurrence, not on Southside. On the Danescott estate, maybe, but not round here.

He goes back to the car. Perhaps the uniforms or Agatha will have had more luck. Agatha. He screws up his face and clenches his fists. Agatha. He’s only just met her, and yet … He’s worked with junior DCs before, so why does this one wind him up so much?

“Is that the time,” I say, standing up.

“I’ll get your courgette puree,” Mrs Perkins says. “Time does fly. The children will be coming out of school soon.”

Despite the risk of venturing into what must be another pet subject for Mrs Perkins, I can’t resist asking another question. “How old are your children?”

The hunted look returns to the woman’s eyes. “I don’t have any of my own. I meant the children in general would be coming out of school. Stuart and I haven’t been blessed.” She stops speaking, her eyes watering. I feel bad and sit down again to coax Mrs Perkins back to the happier topic of her vegetables.

“One, Agatha! Just one!” The blood pulses visibly through the veins in Matthews’s neck, and he grips the steering wheel. “We covered half the estate, while you interviewed one householder. So what did you get, a full confession? A request for several previous capital offences to be taken into consideration?”

I stare blindly out of the window. All I see is misery. “It’s people like that who spot things,” I offer without conviction. “And the lady seemed unhappy. She needed someone to talk to.”

“Tell her to phone the Samaritans. If I spend much more time with you, I’ll be needing them myself.”