“I suppose so. I mean, if you think it’s for the best.”
“I do. I’ll call her right now and ask her to drop by and talk to you, shall I?”
“Okay.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?”
Maggie heard a defeated laugh over the line. “Pray for me, perhaps. I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me. For the moment, I’d just like to know there’s someone on
“Count on it, Lucy, there is.”
“Thank you. I’m tired. I have to go now.”
And Lucy hung up the phone.
After attending Dr. Mackenzie’s postmortem on the sad pile of bones and decaying flesh that had once been a young and vibrant girl with hopes and dreams and secrets, Banks felt twenty years older but none the wiser. First on the slab was the freshest because Dr. Mackenzie said it might tell him more, which seemed logical to Banks. Even so, the body had been partially buried under a thin layer of soil in Payne’s cellar for about three weeks, Dr. Mackenzie estimated, which was why the skin, hair and nails were loose and easy to pull off. Insects had been at work, and much of the flesh was gone. Where skin remained, it had burst open in places, revealing the glistening muscle and fat beneath. Not much fat, because this was Melissa Horrocks, weighing just a little under seven stone, whose T-shirt bore symbols to ward off evil spirits.
Banks left before Dr. Mackenzie had finished, not because it was too gruesome for him, but because these postmortems were going to go on for some time yet, and he had other business to attend to. It would be more than a day or two, Dr. Mackenzie said, before he would be able to get down to a report, as the other two bodies were in an even worse state of decomposition. Someone from the team had to sit through the postmortems, but this was one job Banks was happy to delegate.
After the sights, sounds and smells of Mackenzie’s postmortem, the bland headmaster’s office at Silverhill Comprehensive came as a relief. There was nothing about the uncluttered and nondescript room that indicated it had anything to do with education, or anything else, for that matter; it was much the same as any anonymous office in any anonymous building, and it didn’t even smell of much except a faint whiff of lemon-scented furniture polish. The head was called John Knight: early forties, balding, stoop-shouldered, dandruff on his jacket collar.
After getting a few general details about Payne’s employment history, Banks asked Knight if there had been any problems with Payne.
“There
Banks raised his eyebrows. “From pupils?”
Knight reddened. “Good Lord, no. Nothing like that. Have you any idea what happens at the merest
“No,” said Banks. “When I was at school the teachers used to thrash us with just about anything they could lay their hands on. Some of them enjoyed it, too.”
“Well, those days are over, thank the Lord.”
“Or the law.”
“Not a believer?”
“My job makes it difficult.”
“Yes, I can understand that.” Knight glanced toward the window. “Mine, too, sometimes. That’s one of the great challenges of faith, don’t you think?”
“So what sort of problems were you having with Terence Payne?”
Knight brought himself back from a long way away and sighed. “Oh, just little things. Nothing important in themselves, but they all add up.”
“For example?”
“Tardiness. Too many days off without a valid reason. Teachers may get generous holidays, Superintendent, but they
“I see. Anything else?”
“Just a general sort of sloppiness. Exams not marked on time. Projects left unsupervised. Terry has a bit of temper, and he can get quite stroppy if you call him on anything.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“According to head of science, only since the new year.”
“And before that?”
“No problems at all. Terence Payne is a good teacher – knows his stuff – and he seemed popular with the pupils. None of us can believe what’s happened. We’re stunned. Just absolutely stunned.”
“Do you know his wife?”
“I don’t know her. I met her once at the staff Christmas party. Charming woman. A little reserved, perhaps, but charming nonetheless.”
“Does Terry have a colleague here called Geoff?”
“Yes. Geoffrey Brighouse. He’s the chemistry teacher. The two of them seemed pretty thick. Went out for a jar or two together every now and again.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Geoff’s been with us six years now. Solid sort of fellow. No trouble at all.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Of course.” Knight looked at his watch. “He should be over in the chemistry lab right now, preparing for his next class. Follow me.”
They walked outside. The day was becoming more and more muggy as the clouds thickened, threatening rain. Nothing new. Apart from the past few days, it had been raining pretty much every day on and off since the beginning of April.
Silverhill Comprehensive was one the few pre-war Gothic redbrick schools that hadn’t been sandblasted and converted into offices or luxury flats yet. Knots of adolescents lounged around the asphalt playground. They all seemed subdued, Banks thought, and a pall of gloom, fear and confusion hung about the place, palpable as a pea- souper. The groups weren’t mixed, Banks noticed; the girls stood in their own little conclaves, as if huddled together for comfort and security, staring down and scuffing their shoes on the asphalt as Banks and Knight walked by. The boys were a bit more animated; at least some of them were talking and there was a bit of the usual playful pushing and shoving. But the whole effect was eerie.
“It’s been like this since we heard,” said Knight, as if reading Banks’s mind. “People don’t realize how far- reaching and long-lasting the effects will be around this place. Some of the students may never get over it. It’ll blight their lives. It’s not just that we’ve lost a cherished pupil, but someone we put in a position of trust seems to be responsible for some abominable acts, if I’m not speaking out of turn.”
“You’re not,” said Banks. “And abominable only scratches the surface. But don’t tell the papers.”
“My lips are sealed. They’ve been around already, you know.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“I didn’t tell them anything. Nothing
The Bascombe Building was a modern concrete-and-glass addition to the main school building. There was a plaque on the wall near the door, which read: “This building is dedicated to the memory of Frank Edward Bascombe, 1898-1971.”
“Who was he?” Banks asked, as they went in the door.
“A teacher here during the war,” Knight explained. “English teacher. This used to be part of the main building then, but it was hit by a stray doodlebug in October of 1944. Frank Bascombe was a hero. He got twelve children and another teacher out. Two pupils were killed in the attack. Just through here.” He opened the door to the chemistry lab, where a young man sat at the teacher’s desk in front of a sheaf of notes. He looked up. “Geoff. A Detective Superintendent Banks to see you.” Then he left, shutting the door behind him.
Banks hadn’t been in a school chemistry lab for thirty years or more, and though this one had far more modern fixtures than he remembered from his own school days, much of it was still the same: the high lab benches, Bunsen
