Death of a Teacher (14 page)

‘OK, if you don’t want to, that’s that. And the smart young man you saw may just have been a coincidence. Frankly we’re completely tied up with Miss Hodgson’s murder at the moment.’

‘Maybe I should stop worrying about it,’ Alison said thoughtfully. ‘We’ve got assessments in a few weeks, and all that has been controversial and confusing enough over the last few years. You only have to say SATs for a lot of people to get hysterical. And on top of that, there’s the nightmare of an extra late entrance exam for Dodsworth House. It’s a tough job teaching Year 
Six, and Liz Rudder really isn’t supportive. She listens to people like Callie McFadden more than she listens to me. It would be good if both the Findleys got back in control. St Mungo’s used to have a really good reputation. Just because it’s Pelliter doesn’t mean it should be awful.’

Alison said it with conviction. She’s a really keen teacher, Ro thought. How could Jed Jackson have got her so wrong? But then, she thought, he got me wrong too.

‘Let’s sit upstairs,’ she said, ‘now that the sun has gone down across the valley.’

She led the way up the stone staircase to the big living-room, and switched on a lamp in the corner. The light flared up in the niche next to the fireplace and caught the gilded edge of the picture.

‘Oh, that’s beautiful!’ Alison gasped. ‘Art is my thing! How unusual. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

The boy on the computer started to laugh. ‘That’s Mum’s prized
possession
,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see what she’s on about. Literally!’ He seemed to think this was hilarious, and got up to face the light and peer at the golden frame. Alison watched his short-sighted play-acting until he lurched out of the room. She moved backwards, and sat suddenly into the armchair opposite the fireplace.

‘Ro, your son can’t see properly, can he?’

‘Please don’t be upset. He’s kidding a little bit. He can cope. And anyway, he’s hoping to have an operation in the summer.’

‘No, you don’t understand. Ben didn’t upset me. It’s just that …’

‘What?’

‘That was the way he looked. The man in the playground two weeks ago. He stood just like that. As if he couldn’t see.’

Phil and Judith Dixon were arguing in hushed voices in the living-room of the old farmhouse, both acutely aware that Becky was on the computer in the kitchen just past the open door. Judith was absolutely determined that Becky should sit for the Dodsworth House scholarship. Phil had finally said he was against it. They just couldn’t really afford it at their age, on a pension. But Judith had argued that if Becky got the scholarship, it would mean a huge discount on the Dodsworth fees.

‘We can manage, Philip. We owe it to her.’

Phil was unsure. Molly Spencer was going to Norbridge High. There was nothing to stop Becky getting into a good university from the local state secondary school, and that seemed to be what she wanted. He had suggested gently to Judith that they just let it be.

‘So you want Becky to turn out like her mother?’ Judith hissed. 

Phil had said mildly, ‘But you can’t blame the school for what happened to Sam.’

‘Who can you blame then? You, for spoiling her? You were soft. You let her go to that awful comprehensive and it was the beginning of everything.’

Stung, Phil had withdrawn from the battle. Then he had done something quite uncharacteristic. He had gone for a solitary pint at the Crossed Foxes in Pelliter, where he had bumped into Robert Clark. The two men had chatted for quite a while, enjoying each other’s company.

When Robert got home, he too was catapulted into a full-scale row.

‘You invited who to the barbecue?’ Suzy yelled at Robert ungrammatically. He had taken a cab from the Crossed Foxes and had rather a golden glow. ‘Phil and Judith Dixon? Judith is a bit too free with her advice,
and
she makes her own bread. I can’t handle her as well as Ro and her son. Say Judith Dixon starts giving Ro the benefit of her opinions about disability? And Becky’s so … Robert Clark, how could you? How can I cope?’

But in the early hours, with a sudden sense of impending summer that made it too hot to sleep, Suzy got up and went to the window. She opened it and felt the rush of cool air from the eastern fells.

Of course the barbecue would be good. It would be exciting to have all these people come over. There would be lots of kids: Jake, Ben, Molly. And now Becky, which was fine, of course … But what was it about Becky Dixon that was so disturbing? Feeling an uncomfortable draught, Suzy left the window, hurried over to the bed and snuggled into Robert’s back.

T
he Bank Holiday weekend was a fraught one for Norbridge Police. The CID were ignoring the holiday, still examining every scrap of paper and clothing in Brenda Hodgson’s house. The only item which seemed odd was a Zimmer frame, along with some articles and books on physiotherapy, but it suggested that maybe Brenda was thinking of a change in career. Her brother Father Peter Hodgson had become increasingly standoffish and touchy about police questions, but it seemed he had neither listened to nor known his sister very well.

The police had also started going through the hard drive of the school computer. With the help of the uniformed force, they were bringing in anyone local with a history of violence towards women. A profiler from Manchester was reputed to have said the attacker could have been female, because the knife assault on the victim’s flesh was light and not sexual.

‘Just like the bloke at the chapel,’ Jed Jackson mentioned to Sergeant Liddle. ‘Mutilated after death.’ But it was hard to see any other connection between the two bodies. Unlike the CID, George Liddle gave the community team Sunday and Monday off.

On Sunday, Ray and Sheila Findley lay together in bed. They were holding hands after making love.

‘That was nice,’ Sheila said.

‘Yes.’ Ray was frightened to break the spell. ‘Thank you.’

‘Nonsense! I should thank you. I hardly look like Kate Winslet at the moment, do I?’ Sheila giggled.

Ray could hardly believe the sound. He looked at the ceiling where the lampshade became fuzzy because his eyes were moist. Would it last? Against all the odds in a week that followed a ghastly murder and had most people 
still reeling, Sheila had been better. On Monday she had got up to wave him off. And in the evening, though she was still in her dressing-gown, she had asked him what had happened at the school. On Tuesday, she had been wearing jeans and a jumper when he came home and she had wanted to know all about Year Four and the PCSO’s talk to Year Six. On Wednesday she had made him some breakfast.

And on Saturday they had gone to the garden centre. She hadn’t shied away from babies in buggies, or children in the play area.

I mustn’t expect it to go on like this, Ray told himself. It will be one step forward and two steps back. But at least it was one step forward. It’s a reward, he thought, because I’ve been tougher. For a moment he thought about Callie McFadden. He wondered what revenge she would take, because he had ignored her demand for a meeting. She would want some petty advancement, or endorsement of her power. She fed on attention. She would try something, he thought. But he would face that when he had to.

He and Sheila had a Sunday morning breakfast of toast and tea in the bright sunny kitchen. Sheila said, ‘I think I’ll do some gardening. I can put those bedding plants around the lawn. You stay and read the paper.’

‘Fine.’

Ray stationed himself by the French windows and watched her to see if she would really do it, or relapse into a sort of depressed stupor. For weeks in the early spring she had sat on the bench in the garden, swaddled in fleeces and a big anorak, lost in depression.

But this time she was serious about the gardening. He saw her walk down to the shed, get out the trug and the trowel, and put on the gardening gloves. The bright bedding plants, sweet william and busy lizzies, were the sort of thing at which she would have turned her nose up in the past. But this year the sharp colours had amused her, and he had bought trays of them for the pleasure of hearing her laugh.

‘You should get a gnome, while you’re at it.’ It was the first joke she had made for months.

‘I’ll buy you one with a golden fishing rod if it makes you laugh like that….’

‘Don’t push me, Ray,’ she had said, but with a rueful smile of
acknowledgement
which made him want to hug her. He had looked at her as she stacked the plants in the trolley and seen the old Sheila – thinner, with dark shadows under her eyes and longer, untidier hair. But different from the jaded angry woman he had been living with for the past six months.

He and Sheila had been ready to leave the garden centre when the Rudders’ car had driven into the car-park. Ray could smell fresh plants and potting compost, and the sun had come out from behind greyish clouds. 
Sheila was beside him in the passenger seat. He had been allowing himself to feel happy. But the sign of Liz Rudder’s little red Volkswagen had turned his mouth instantly dry; he had glanced at his wife.

Please God, don’t let them see each other, he thought. There had always been silent enmity between the two senior teachers and Ray knew that Liz had been part of what had pushed Sheila over the edge. But it was too late. Liz and her brother Kevin had jumped out of the Volkswagen. They appeared to be discussing the plants on sale in a rack by the entrance.

Without waiting, Ray had started the engine. But to his astonishment, Sheila had raised her hand and waved cheerily at Liz. As he manoeuvred the turn on to the main road, he could see Liz Rudder’s amazed face in the
rear-view
mirror as she stood holding a begonia.

Kevin had spent Saturday morning with Liz at the garden centre while his wife took their children to the swimming pool in Norbridge. Liz had surprised him by suggesting they could leave John on his own for a few hours and use the time to go out to buy more bedding plants.

‘You never know when we might have to sell the house,’ Liz said. ‘And most sales around here are to local people wanting to trade up. If they’re used to seeing the house looking smart it will help maintain the value, these days.’

But Liz had been in a foul mood when they got back from the garden centre. She had driven home irritably and parked the car without speaking. Then she had silently unloaded the plants, putting the begonias and alyssum on to pages of newspaper spread out at the side of the garage in the shade.

‘I’ll do those later,’ she had said crossly. ‘I want to make a phone call now.’

She had been crabby with Kevin because his trainers were dirty and she had made him take them off before he went into the house like she always did.

And poor John was actually standing up when they came into the lounge. Kevin guessed that he hadn’t heard them because they were walking around on the carpets in their stockinged feet. Liz leapt forward. ‘John, sit down,’ she shouted, and she had run over and pushed him back into the wheelchair. She was right: John could have fallen and caused himself such damage!

Oops … Kevin had to admit that John walking by himself so soon had not been in the Great Surprise Plan. Of course, he had been getting stronger every week, and in their last session, even without Brenda, he had managed to walk. He had always needed lifting up, though. Or at least he had, until today. But there he was, standing by himself.

If he had fallen, where would they be? He couldn’t even call for help. Oh dear, oh dear, Kevin thought. The cat was very nearly out of the bag!

Liz had been even crosser after that. Not that she suspected anything. 
Tentatively, Kevin had said, ‘It looks like John might be getting his strength back, Liz. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?’

‘Wonderful? It would be a miracle,’ Liz said. ‘Victims of strokes this severe don’t tend to live for longer than a further three years. John had his stroke a year ago. He’s got two years left and I can’t see what could change that.’

Ah, thought Kevin, but you don’t know about the Great Surprise Plan! Not only will it improve John’s life expectancy, it will be wonderful for Liz to see him on his feet again. It was Liz’s birthday in June. Kevin had wondered whether on that day John might be able to stand and walk to Liz with a bunch of flowers. Wouldn’t that be marvellous?

The following day, over a routine family Sunday lunch at the Rudders’, Liz announced to Kevin and his wife that she wanted to go out that afternoon. But she didn’t want John to try to stand again, and risk falling, with all the fuss and blame that would go with an accident.

‘If the boys are happy to play in the garden, would you look after John if I popped out, Kevin?’

Kevin was surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Thank you. I need to go and speak to someone from school. These exams for Dodsworth are taking place next Saturday and we’re having a meeting about it. You’ve all had a lovely lunch, haven’t you?’

Kevin said, ‘Super. Of course we’ll stay with John. He’ll be very happy with the boys.’ His eldest son grimaced and did Quasimodo-style actions behind John’s wheelchair, out of Liz’s eye-line.

‘Be careful!’ Liz said ‘I don’t want John trying to get out of that chair again. Kevin, make sure John stays sitting down. Don’t let him move. It’s not safe.’

‘OK,’ Kevin said. ‘You just leave him with us, Sis. He’ll be fine.’

Liz Rudder got into her little red car and drove out of the drive. If Kevin had watched her go, he would have been surprised to see her turn towards the Pelliter council estate.

Liz drove efficiently but angrily. She had been horrified, the day before, to see Sheila Findley at the garden centre. It had almost looked like the old Sheila waving jauntily to her from the car. She had written off the possibility of Sheila ever coming back to St Mungo’s, but now she wondered. If Sheila Findley was back in the saddle it might make Liz Rudder’s new-found powers hard to wield. And there was that that awful business of seeing John standing up by himself! Liz had been highly perturbed. If John was on the mend, and the Findleys back on top, her cosy little world would be upside down after all she had done to secure it. 

She had phoned the one person she knew she could trust to help.

Callie didn’t have a car. She had obeyed Liz’s instructions and was waiting in the car-park of the Crossed Foxes. Liz swept around and parked, opened the door, and Callie climbed in. What could be more natural than two colleagues getting together for a chat and a sentimental walk after the awful murder of a mutual friend? Liz drove to the Marshes in a silence which Callie did not break. Liz was the only person who knew Pelliter and its people better than Callie, and the only person at St Mungo’s never fazed by Callie’s
loud-mouthed
bullying.

Liz pulled up near to Brenda’s house. She and Callie got out of the car and walked to the point on the road where they could look over the river. To any passer-by they appeared as if they were standing respectfully in memory of their friend, within sight of where she had died only a week earlier.

‘Now then, Callie,’ Liz Rudder said, in her light, brisk, rather prissy voice. ‘It really is time to put some real pressure on Mr Findley.’

‘Maybe having this wretched barbecue tomorrow is just too much pressure,’ Suzy Spencer said on the Sunday of the Bank Holiday weekend. Robert did not remind her that it had been her idea. They were in the superstore in Pelliter. Suzy had to manoeuvre the trolley, much to her annoyance, while Robert darted round, chucking in the sorts of things he thought would be fun.

Suzy hated the supermarket and she particularly hated it on Sundays. Though she was hardly a traditionalist, she still felt she was entitled to one day of rest a week. She heard Robert greeting someone behind the wine bottles. It was both a joy and a huge irritant to her that Robert seemed so popular and knew everyone in the area. She trundled behind him, nearly slicing his ankles with the trolley. Robert was talking to a plump, pretty girl with glossy brown hair sporting a few blonde stripes, and a variety of odd droopy earrings.

‘Suzy, this is Poppy Robinson. You remember. Poppy and Tom. What are you up to now, Poppy?’

‘Great to see you, Poppy,’ Suzy said. ‘Sorry I haven’t got time to chat, I’ve got to get over to the bread counter before all the buns go.’ She backed the trolley away, hearing Robert encourage Poppy to talk about her career to date.

‘I’m going to be a journalist,’ Poppy said enthusiastically. ‘I’m doing a
postgraduate
MA and I’m back here doing work experience. I’m at the
Tribune
group. The free papers.’

‘And what story are you working on? Brenda Hodgson’s death, I suppose?’

‘No such luck,’ Poppy said, making Robert wince. ‘But I did the stuff on the mystery man. You know, the death at the chapel.’ 

Poppy was beginning to talk in headlines, Robert thought rather sadly.

‘Actually,’ Poppy leant forward conspiratorially, ‘I wrote the piece last week. I got the quote from this cute policeman. You know, about the Canadian coin, and the picture.’

‘Picture?’

‘Yes. Well, tracing really. The one the mystery man had. On tracing paper. It was so thin it was tucked in his inside pocket and the mugger missed it. It just looked like a doodle. But it must have meant something to him.’

‘And what was it like?’

‘It was quite rough. Like this. I tried to get a pic on my phone, but it was too faint.’ Poppy had a pencil in her bag, and a reporter’s notebook, Robert saw. He was amused to see she still had the old tools of the trade.

Poppy drew a square on the page. Then on one side she drew what looked like a cherub, and replicated it on the other side. In the middle she drew a letter S with a big flourish and then spiralled from it various swirls. ‘It was like one of those Victorian sampler things,’ she said reflectively.

‘Interesting,’ Robert said. The drawing reminded him of illuminated art, like the
Book of St Trallen
.

‘You can have this drawing, if you like,’ she said. ‘They’ve spiked any follow-up ’cos of the murder, and I go back to college next week. Anyway, I don’t really see the significance. I mean, why on earth would the mystery man have a tracing like that? What could it mean?’

‘Well,’ Robert said thoughtfully, ‘I suppose it could mean he was interested in art.’ He put the drawing in his jeans pocket.