At least the two detectives had arrived after the start of lessons, so they didn’t have to brave the usual mad stampede in the corridors.
‘Same old puke-coloured walls,’ Noakes grunted, eyeing the scuffed eau de Nil paintwork with disfavour.
There was definitely something bunker-like about Hope, thought Markham, notwithstanding the cacophony of posters clamouring for attention with their headache-inducing primary colours and PC slogans. A lingering smell of burgers and cabbage overlaid the scent of JaysWax and polish in a combination which made the DI’s stomach lurch uneasily.
Mercifully, they were swiftly whisked off to Matthew Sullivan’s office at the rear of the ground floor.
‘Blimey, mate, no risk of them spoiling you,’ Noakes said looking round the distinctly shabby office with its strictly functional furniture and uninspiring view of the potholed netball courts. ‘Shouldn’t you have a few perks . . . what with being deputy head an’ all?’
‘We’re in a new era of virtuous cost-cutting, Noakesy.’
‘Oh aye, after the way the previous lot cooked the books, guess it stands to reason you’d want to be Captain Sensible.’
Sullivan chuckled at the pained expression on the DI’s face. ‘It’s all right, Gil. You know I always enjoy your sergeant’s frankness. Very refreshing given the usual doublespeak that prevails here.’
‘’Ow’s old Aber Wotsisface?’ enquired the DS nothing abashed.
‘Doctor Abernathy’s with the lower sixth just at the moment. Pearls before the proverbial, but at least he’s enjoying John Donne’s sonnets.’
‘Still wear the Batman gown?’
‘Indeed he does. Hope’s very own answer to Mr Chips.’
‘Nice old git. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.’
While Sullivan and Markham boggled at this encomium, there was a gentle knock at the door and a fresh-faced young man, dark hair curling over his collar in a way that immediately had Noakes narrowing his eyes, came into the office.
‘’Lo, Mat. This the fuzz, then?’ He held out his wrists in mock self-depreciation, putting on an exaggerated Cockney accent. ‘It’s a fair cop, guvnor. I’ll come quietly.’
‘Let’s have some respect, Leo.’ But Sullivan’s tone was mild. It was obvious he was fond of his youthful colleague. He turned to Markham, ‘Would you like me to make myself scarce?’
‘Not at all.’ Markham was genial, as though to compensate for his subordinate who was regarding Cartwright’s over-long hair, rolled up shirtsleeves and what looked like stonewashed denim with the darkest suspicion.
‘The drama department’s always had a relaxed vibe compared with our more straitlaced subject areas,’ Sullivan said propitiatingly.
More’s the pity, Noakes added mentally. But he didn’t actually say it aloud.
Cartwright flung himself into one of the three drab olive-green conference chairs lined up in a row on the other side of his boss’s desk.
Introductions followed.
Mercifully for Noakes’s blood pressure, the teacher’s playful facetiousness gave place to a more sober tone. ‘Bex was a mate. Whatever I can do to help you nail the shit who did this, just say the word.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Markham responded with his trademark quiet courtesy. ‘Can you take us through your timetable on Monday.’
It transpired that the drama teacher had been filming GCSE assessments, with a roomful of adolescents and two members of the English department able to place him at Hope from 10 a.m. till 4 p.m.
As far as opportunity and means were concerned, Leo Cartwright appeared to be in the clear. Of course, there was always motive . . .
‘I understand you were close to Ms Shawcross.’
‘Not as close as I’d like to have been, Inspector.’ Cartwright’s tone was rueful.
‘Someone else on the scene was there, mate?’
Noakes’s relish of the fact that this cocky upstart hadn’t made it to first base with his babelicious colleague verged on indecent, but Cartwright responded good-naturedly enough. ‘We were “friends with benefits”.’
‘Eh?’ The DS was nonplussed.
Sullivan tried not to laugh at the look on Noakes’s face. ‘I think,’ he said tentatively, not trusting himself to look at Markham, ‘that Leo means he and Rebecca enjoyed an on-off relationship . . . a sort of open arrangement.’
‘That’s right,’ Cartwright concurred cheerfully. ‘You know, sex without strings.’ Suddenly, he appeared to register Noakes’s aghast expression. ‘Not that I didn’t want to be exclusive,’ he added hastily, ‘but it wasn’t on the cards and I never played the possessive boyfriend.’
Whatever Noakes had been expecting to learn about the behaviour of young teachers at Hope Academy, it clearly didn’t encompass anything as left-field as this. Markham felt a pang. For all the old horror’s Yorkshire down-to-earthness, he was curiously innocent in his reverence for The Professions. And now here was another ideal shattered.
‘Do you know if there was anyone who might have enjoyed a more, shall we say, serious relationship with Ms Shawcross?’ Markham asked.
‘I had the feeling there was someone, but I took good care not to pry. With Bex, the barriers came up if I pushed too hard.’
The DI tried another tack. ‘I understand she was a pupil here.’
Was it his imagination or had he touched a nerve? Leo Cartwright looked suddenly wary . . . watchful . . . as though afraid of being caught out over something.
What was it?
Sullivan was quick to notice. ‘Rebecca was one of Hope’s success stories,’ he said lightly. ‘Dad was a local councillor . . . very proud of her. He was killed in an accident just before she took her A levels. Even so, she got two Bs and a C — enough for her first-choice university.’
As he spoke, the deputy head was watching Cartwright out of the corner of his eye, the easy patter allowing his colleague to regroup.
The moment passed. Surreptitiously, Cartwright exhaled.
‘Yeah, Bex was a legend,’ he confirmed. ‘Brilliant with the kids too. Her creative writing club always had them signing up in droves.’
‘Did she write herself?’ The DI was interested.
‘She was working on something called The Amber
