‘It’s not perfect but it’ll do,’ Cam grudgingly admitted. A sudden thought had him floundering again. ‘But it’s just after nine in the morning. The theatre won’t be open.’
‘The café bar will be, though,’ Penny countered. ‘It opens for breakfast. I’ll give them a buzz – somebody will have a key for the main auditorium. Or they’ll be able to get in touch with a key holder.’
Cam stared at her. How could she be so calm? He’d always known that she was a solid leader, probably better than him, if he was being honest with himself, but he was starting to wonder if he’d badly underestimated her capabilities. Which only added to his worries.
‘Mr Cleaver?’ The DI had obviously asked Cam a question which he hadn’t heard as he’d been so focused on his realisation about his deputy.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said we’re going to need somewhere to set up an operational base. Somewhere in school. There’s a large team on their way and they’re going to need space to set up their equipment.’
‘You could use the gym,’ Cleaver suggested.
Pearson shook his head. ‘It’d take too long to fit it out with desks and chairs. Which is the biggest classroom?’
‘The library?’ Penny suggested, undermining Cleaver again. ‘It might be a bit cluttered, but it does have everything you’ll need. There’s a suite of computers in there so there’s plenty of electrical sockets, phone lines, internet…’
‘Perfect,’ Pearson said. He nodded to the uniformed officer who’d just returned from his recce of the school with no additional information and a puzzled shrug. ‘Ms Bainbridge, can you show my colleague to the library? He can make a start on getting it ops ready. Mr Cleaver, I’d like you to organise your sixth-form students so we can get the evacuation underway, I’ll come with you in case there are any awkward questions, and to offer reassurance. After that I’ll need to interview the students who were released.’
Cleaver resented the implication that he couldn’t support his own students but he acknowledged Pearson’s instructions with a curt nod of his head.
‘I want this site cleared as quickly as possible. And I need that list of names. I want to know exactly who’s in that classroom.’
Ruth Warnesford passed a sheet of A4 across the reception desk. ‘That’s this morning’s register. Two students absent. The teacher is Donna Frith.’
Pearson took the paper and scanned the list. He looked at the PA and then at Cleaver. ‘Are you sure it’s this class?’
Cleaver nodded. ‘Yes. My son’s in there.’
‘That might explain everything,’ Pearson said cryptically.
6
Cam led Pearson to the sixth-form area in silence, trying not to think about Tom. Whoever was holding the students hostage might know that the head’s son was in the room. Was that what this was about? Pearson certainly seemed to think so.
‘Through here,’ he said, holding open the door that led into the sixth-form block. Cam was especially proud of the facilities for sixth formers at Fellbeck Academy; OFSTED had commented on the ‘supportive study atmosphere’ that helped each student work out their path through A-levels. And it was A-levels that mattered – privately Cam didn’t give a toss about the few NVQ courses that various departments had insisted upon. What really mattered were the grades that would enable Fellbeck students to get onto prestigious university courses and make him and the school proud – and richer. With a strong reputation and favourable OFSTED report parents were queuing up to get their kids into the school and they were the sort of parents who didn’t mind offering a bit of financial support when it came to fundraising. Most of his staff understood the importance of those results and those that still had that old-fashioned touchy-feely approach and allowed students to ‘develop at their own pace’ didn’t last long at Fellbeck.
Since he’d been the headteacher, Cam had set up a dedicated study room which was staffed by a supervisor throughout the school day. The two study supervisors worked on alternate days, both for little more than minimum wage despite the responsibility of their position – Cam saw no point in wasting money on glorified babysitters. There was also a small library which operated on a trust system. It was only a few shelves containing texts that students could use to expand their knowledge of most of the A-level courses but the inspectors had been extremely impressed – especially when Cam had explained that he’d funded it using donations from local companies.
‘Sixth-form lessons are taught in the main school,’ he explained as they hurried along the corridor towards the common room. ‘But I wanted to give them somewhere of their own, somewhere that they could take responsibility for.’
Pearson looked at him as though he was speaking a foreign language and Cam realised his mistake. He’d clicked into salesman mode – showing a prospective parent or donor around the school. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, picking up his pace. ‘Force of habit.’
The sixth form were still in assembly when Cam and Pearson approached the glass doors of the common room. Jack Raynor, head of sixth form was pointing to a still from a black-and-white film and smiling as he spoke. Leena Sykes, one of the study supervisors was standing outside the door looking agitated.
‘Cam! I haven’t been in yet. Jack’s in full swing. It’s his It’s a Wonderful Life assembly. What’s going on? Ruth rang down and told me to keep year twelve here until you arrived.’ A petite woman, always immaculately dressed, Leena Sykes hadn’t been one of Cam’s appointments. He tried to leave sixth form staffing matters to Jack and he could see why the head of sixth form had been keen to have Leena on his staff. Her efficiency and no-nonsense manner quickly earned her a reputation as somebody not to cross and her dark hair and olive skin seemed to draw many male students and staff (and a few female ones) to the study room for the
