‘Yeah, post-traumatic stress disorder.’
Translating for Plod cos he thinks we’re thick as mince, thought Noakes wrathfully.
But Markham was unruffled. ‘Can you tell us some more about it?’
Cue intensely compassionate face from the assistant head.
‘That’s if you feel able to, Ty.’
Ty? Oh for fuck’s sake.
Stow it, Noakesy. We’re on to something here.
So the DS assumed an appropriately solicitous expression. With a flicker of amusement, Markham reflected that it lent his subordinate an unfortunate resemblance to Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
Back to Tyrone, whose mouth seemed to be perpetually agape. Catching flies.
‘Something about a victim of child abuse, is that right?’ Markham prompted.
Noakes’s eyes swivelled to the boss’s face.
Though the guvnor rarely spoke about it, his DS had long since pieced together the bare fragments of Markham’s early biography. The abusive stepfather, the brother long since lost to drink and drugs, the mother who’d looked the other way and died before her son had a chance of finding closure. Noakes was a strange compound of bone-headedness and the most delicate sensibility. Without any overt acknowledgment from him, the DI was aware that his wingman knew and, more importantly, fully comprehended his troubled hinterland without the need for words. It was enough that sympathy, trust and affection were all there. A given.
No one could have deduced from Markham’s face that he had anything other than a professional interest in the sixth-former’s disclosures, but Noakes knew that, somewhere deep within, an old pain briefly flared and died.
Tyrone swallowed a yawn. Noakes could have thumped him.
‘It was my girlfriend Fran — she’s at Holy Cross — gave me the idea.’ Might have known, the DS reflected sourly. This Neanderthal didn’t look the type for anything deeper than Top Gear.
‘Oh yes?’ Markham’s courteous interest never faltered.
‘Yeah. She said how about a student who accuses his teacher of something.’ An embarrassed sliding of the eyes towards Mary Atkins whose fixed smile must have been giving her lockjaw.
‘How does the story develop?’ Markham enquired as Tyrone sputtered to a halt.
‘Well, the teacher gets loads of grief . . . loses his job . . . all kinds of stuff . . . Even though he hasn’t ackshually done anything wrong.’
‘What about the student?’
It was like trying to get blood out of a stone.
‘Oh, right . . . well, he never, like, meant to do it?’
Noakes couldn’t help himself. ‘Why did he, then?’
‘He was dead . . . confused . . . being bullied. It was, like, him getting back at everyone . . .’ A momentary clearing of the dull features. ‘Sort of putting two fingers up at the world.’
Bet he hadn’t come up with that by himself.
‘So nowt happened to the little scrote, then?’
The assistant head looked pained.
‘I think what my sergeant wants to know is whether there was some kind of moral outcome.’ Tyrone’s face was a study in bewilderment, so Markham clarified. ‘Did the student pay any sort of price — suffer for his wrongdoing?’
‘Like an eye for an eye.’ Noakes had always felt a relish for certain passages of Sunday School scripture.
‘Nah.’ The sixth-former clearly hadn’t engaged with notions of atonement or redemption. ‘He jus’ always feels . . . emotional . . . about what happened . . . An’ then later on he finds out the teacher killed himself an’ realizes he never got a chance to say sorry, like . . .’
Something about Noakes’s face suggested he found this denouement distinctly less than satisfactory. Typical frigging snowflake.
‘And Ms Shawcross liked your idea?’
‘Yeah . . . she looked dead weepy when I read it out.’
‘Weepy?’
‘Dead moved, like.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘Jus’ that she was interested in PTSD an’ writing something herself.’
‘Did she ever show you any of her own work?’
‘Nah. Fran tole me to ask, but Miss Shawcross said she didn’t want to, like, pollute my thoughts . . . yeah, pollute them,’ he concluded with a certain swagger as though they’d been his own thoughts to begin with.
Not much danger of any big idea getting a toehold in your brain, mate, Noakes thought, mixing metaphors as he was inclined to do in moments of purest exasperation.
Tyrone sat cheerfully picking his nose while the assistant head and Leo Cartwright exchanged glances.
Some invisible signal must have passed between the two teachers, because Mary Atkins piped up brightly (and, of course, caringly), ‘If that’s all for now, Inspector, perhaps we could let Tyrone get back to his lessons.’ And with false bonhomie, ‘We know you wouldn’t want to miss any more of functional maths, Ty.’ Ho ho.
‘Of course, Ms Atkins.’ Markham smiled warmly at Hope’s answer to Smike.
‘You’ve been a great help, Tyrone. That’s all for now.’ And off he shuffled.
‘Well, Inspector, nearly half ten. How about I arrange some tea and biscuits for you and the sergeant.’ Atkins glanced meaningfully at Leo Cartwright who took the hint.
‘A colleague’s covering my class, Inspector, so if you’ve finished with me . . .’
‘Just one more quick word, Mr Cartwright, and then we’ll leave you in peace.’ The DI gave the assistant head the special smile he reserved for simpering women. ‘Some refreshment would be delightful, Ms Atkins.’ It was effectively a dismissal, so the woman had no choice but to leave them, though Noakes was willing to bet she’d be back sharpish. Didn’t want Leo Cartwright spilling any beans while she was gone.
The DI was clearly thinking along the same lines. As the door closed behind her, he turned to the drama teacher. ‘You and Rebecca Shawcross were pupils here together, weren’t you?’ he said without preamble, his voice low and urgent.
Cartwright a student at Hope too!
