3
Thread Street Comprehensive had seen better days. Then again, mused Byford, hadn’t we all?
The Superintendent was on an impromptu walkabout. He was searching for signs to the head’s study and at the same time, taking in pointers to the state of the school. Five out of ten, could do better, was his initial verdict. Its paintwork was having a mid-life crisis; ubiquitous, grey vinyl flooring was stained and skid-marked; discarded sweet wrappers lurking in corners, keeping the dustballs company. Byford was taking mental notes and trying not to make assumptions. He still hadn’t tracked down the study. He was beginning to think it was a deliberate ploy to keep the little dears at bay; either that or the little dears had been playing silly beggars with the signposts.
There was no point in following his nose; everywhere he went was the same strange smell. It was difficult to pin down but encompassed cheesy socks and stale curry.
“Can I help you?” A cut-glass voice that evoked Home Counties’ home comforts had no difficulty carrying the length of the corridor.
Byford turned. A tall woman, late thirties, not unattractive, was standing in a doorway. She was wearing a well-cut, dark blue trouser suit but there was nothing masculine about her. He wondered how long she’d been watching him.
He retraced his steps. “Detective Superintendent William Byford. I’m…”
She glanced at her watch. The movement was meant to be noticed. “Yes. I’ve been expecting you. I’m Elizabeth Sharpe. Headteacher. Will this take long?”
He bit back his first response. He might regret it later. “Hope not. Let’s make a start, shall we?”
“Follow me.” She spoke without smiling. He trailed behind, feeling like a recalcitrant schoolboy. Again, he noticed her height. He was six-two and she wasn’t much shorter. She was big-boned but not fat: not yet. There was a faintly regal air about her. She was walking at a sedate pace with her head held high and her shoulders back. He could imagine her waving from the back of a Bentley Perhaps it came in handy when dealing with hundreds of truculent kids.
She reached her study, held the door open to let him pass. No sweaty footwear or bearded vindaloo here. It was more furniture polish and air freshener.
She gestured him to a chair and talked as she walked across her own spotless floor. “It’s quite beyond me. Absolutely unbelievable. Michelle Lucas. Dead.” She didn’t actually utter, “And on school grounds,” but the words hung in the air. “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”
How many times had he heard that? “Quite.”
Her eyes were a pale-blue and her gaze hadn’t left his since he’d sat down. Byford wasn’t a fan of unremitting eye contact. He put it in the same league as an overfirm handshake.
“Thank God it’s Saturday,” she said.
His face must have betrayed his reaction and she lifted a hand to quell a protest he hadn’t voiced. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… well, at least the children are at home. By Monday perhaps…”
He watched as she returned an errant strand of chestnut-coloured hair to an otherwise obedient bun. His first impression was wrong, he realised now. She was older.
“We’ll need a room,” he said.
“A room?”
He might just as well have been asking for a handbag. Byford nodded. “Just for a few days. The main incident unit will be at headquarters but we’re going to need something nearer the scene.”
“But surely…” She put a hand over her mouth. He noticed that the red nail polish was chipped and make-up was caught in the creases around her eyes. At this distance, it was highlighting the defects she hoped to hide.
He tried an encouraging smile. “We may get an early break. But it’s not something we can bank on. We have procedures and we have to implement them as soon as we can.”
“Yes.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“A girl’s been murdered, Mrs Sharpe. We have to find out who did it.”
“Of course. It’s just that the whole thing is so distressing. We have exams coming up. An OFSTED next term. The children will be…”
Byford was picturing Michelle’s body. “One of those children has been murdered.”
Her mouth tightened slightly. He thought she was about to argue but she said nothing.
“What can you tell me about Michelle Lucas?”
She walked to the sash window behind her desk, stood with her back to it and casually ran a finger along its dust-free ledge.
“What have you learned already?”
He shook his head. “That’s not important. I’m interested in what you can tell me. I need to know everything about her. Who her friends are. Where she went. What she did.”
“Surely you don’t think someone here..?”
“I don’t think anything at the moment, Mrs Sharpe. All I know is that a girl is dead and whoever killed her is still out there.”
Her eyes widened. “My God.”
He looked at his watch. The gesture wasn’t lost. She returned to the chair, sat back with legs crossed, hands in lap. “Michelle was a lovely girl. Especially when you consider… Well, her life’s not been easy.”
He bit back a remark about her death.
“Are you aware she was in care, Superintendent? She’d been at Fair Oaks Children’s Home for about two years. Michelle was abandoned by her mother. There were rumours of abuse. Violence.”
“Rumours?”
“Nothing ever got to court.” She looked at her nails. “And… Michelle…”
“Michelle?”
She forced a smile. “Let’s just say there were times when she had a vivid imagination.”
Byford scratched his left eyebrow. It was a warning – to anyone who could read the sign.
Elizabeth Sharpe leaned foward, rested her elbows on the desk. “Michelle liked to be the centre of attention, Superintendent. It happens a lot with children from broken homes. They need to be noticed. They want everyone to like them. Sometimes they make things up… I suppose it’s compensation for what they’ve lost.”
Spare me psycho-crap, thought Byford. “And Michelle…”
The silence was uneasy. He had no intention of breaking it.
“Michelle could be very caring. Very helpful.”
“But?”
She shrugged. “Mostly when there was something in it for her.”
Sounded like every teenager Byford knew. “For instance?”
“Oh, little things. Offering to tidy up after class to get out of a detention. Carrying a teacher’s bag to her car – so as to get a lift into town. That sort of thing.”
His withering expression suggested it was hardly major league.
She pursed her lips and upped the ante. “She smoked in school. And several times, my staff suspected she’d been drinking.”
“What about drugs?”’
“Not in school. But… she took rather a lot of unauthorised absences.”
Byford nodded. Bunking off they called it in his day. It was time to get on. “I’d like a list of her teachers and how they can be contacted. If you can think of any pupils she was particularly close to – put their names on it as well.”
“I’ve already made a start.” She handed over a file. He wondered why he wasn’t impressed with her efficiency. “You’ll need to speak to her Head of Year, Henry Brand. He works very closely with the children in his care and he’s been on the staff here for many years.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll keep you informed.”
She smiled for the first time. “Actually if you don’t think you’ll need me…”
He waited. Was the woman incapable of finishing a sentence? “It’s just that when your man called at my home this morning, I was actually on my way out…”
He nodded but said nothing.
“It was no problem, of course. I don’t live far. I have to pass school to get to the course anyway.”
“Course?” He had visions of lecture halls and seminars.
“Golf. Woodley Manor. There’s a tournament on today.”
He was shocked, wondered if he had the right, had to stop himself bridling. “Don’t let me keep you, Mrs Sharpe. If we need you, we can always catch up with you on the green.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Inspector.”
He ignored the deliberate demotion. “In a murder inquiry, anything might be necessary, Mrs Sharpe.”
He remained silent, again wanting her to break it, wondering how she would. She sighed. “Michelle will be missed. She was very popular here. A lovely girl…”
Not for the first time, Byford thought that what Elizabeth Sharpe didn’t say was more interesting.
“But?”
She stood, held out a hand. “Nothing. I don’t believe in gossip and tittle-tattle.”
Byford shook her hand, trying not to feel that he was being dismissed; trying not to feel the antipathy and hostility she had, perhaps unwittingly, aroused. He couldn’t work her out; couldn’t get a handle, to borrow one of Bev’s favourite sayings. He made a mental note to point Bev in the woman’s direction. His sergeant had a knack for cutting to the chase by cutting out the crap (her words again). Byford reckoned she could sniff out bullshit in a rose garden. “Before I go… we haven’t sorted a room.”
“Use the one next to mine. It’s yours as long as you need it. If I’m not on school premises…” She paused, wanting to make a point but unwilling to spell it out. “I’ll be at home.”
He nodded: point taken. She walked him to the door, halted before opening it and placed a hand on his arm. He hoped the shock hadn’t reached his face.
“My staff and I will do everything we can to help. No one deserves to die in this terrible way. Whoever killed Michelle needs to be caught. And the sooner the better.”
The man tightened his grip on the girl, pulled her in close.
“I am not happy, Cassandra.”
There was a wide smile on his face but it didn’t get anywhere near his narrowed eyes. To a casual observer, they were love’s young dream, snatching a Valentine’s Day kiss in a shop doorway. No one was near enough to hear; he’d made sure of that. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you. You do understand?”
He licked his lips, brushed them gently against her cheek then released her.
“Honest to God, Charlie. It’s the truth. Straight up.”
He laughed, sending out waves of garlic and tobacco fumes. He wasn’t much taller than her own five-six, but workouts and weight training made every inch count. Cassie had fallen for his dark good looks. She’d always fancied blokes with long hair, especially pony tails. She couldn’t stand the sight of them now. He put his finger to her mouth. “You’d better hope so, Cassandra, baby.”
Cassie Swain wished she was a baby: a babe-in-arms. None of this would be happening if her stupid, crazy mother hadn’t swallowed a load of paracetamol then thrown herself in the river. Cassie wouldn’t be living in some poxy kids’ home. She’d never have heard of Charlie Hawes, let alone whored for him. And she wouldn’t be standing here now, scared shitless with wet knickers.
She took a step back. Why had she ever let him anywhere near Michelle Lucas? The sledge-hammer had added weight to his argument; he’d been swinging it at her knee caps. She tried to smile but her mouth hurt.
Cassie had long realised that Hawes had only wormed his way into her affections as a way of getting to Shell. Shell Lucas was a real looker: a nice little earner. Charlie had a string of girls but Shell was the youngest. And Cassie had led him right to her.
A year ago now it was. They’d started sharing a room at Fair Oaks and Shell wanted to know where Cassie was getting her swank clothes and posh jewellery. Charlie was dead generous in those days. Groomed his girls well. Till he got them where he wanted them: up against fat beer guts and inside thick wallets. Shell was his richest picking.
Cass’d had a load of grief from Shell’s mate, Vicki Flinn. Vick had gone apeshit. She was on the streets herself but she couldn’t be doing with pimps, especially Mad Charlie. Vick had been doing her best to protect the girl. At this moment, protection was the last thing on what passed for Charlie Hawes’s mind.
“Soon’s I see her, I’ll get her over to you, Charlie.”
“Yes,” he drawled. “You do that.”
It was easier said than done. Cassie hadn’t a clue where the silly little cow was. One thing was certain: she hadn’t slept in her own bed last night. Cassie had covered for her at breakfast: lying to the staff, coming up with some old tosh about a migraine. They looked out for each other at Fair Oaks. But getting on the wrong side of Charlie Hawes was something else.
She watched as he pulled up the collar of his brown leather trench coat then tightened the belt. Word was that he’d used it to top some crackhead. Probably just big talk but right now – Cassie really didn’t want to know.