She shook her head. “I would swear it was no one in her class or in her year. I know the boys the girls fancy and it wasn’t any of them. I think it was someone outside of this school.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I teach English, and for Jessica’s form it’s the last lesson of the day. Towards the end of the lesson, she would keep looking out of the window and fidgeting. Her eyes were bright and shining. She looked like a girl waiting for a lover.”
“Did you ever see her go off with anyone?”
“I’m afraid not. What a waste of a bright girl.”
“Is there a school counsellor? Might she have consulted someone?”
“There is a counsellor, Mrs. Aynton, but if Jessica consulted her, she can’t really tell you anything. What the pupils say to her is confidential.”
“But Jessica’s dead! Surely that makes a difference.”
“Wait here and I’ll see if she’s still in the building.”
I went to a school like this, thought Agatha. Built of breeze block and already crumbling at the edges. Thrown up cheap. The smells are the same. Disinfectant and the metallic odour of school meals.
Alice Rook came back. She shook her head. “Jessica never consulted the school counsellor.”
“What was her best subject?” asked Phil.
“Definitely maths. The only subject she still got A’s in.”
“Who taught her?”
“Mr. Owen Trump. Why?”
“Pupils will always work hard for a teacher they admire and she might have said something to him,” said Phil. “Is he still in the school?”
“I’ll have a look.”
Agatha was torn between wishing she had thought of that idea herself and a feeling that she really ought to give Phil a little praise. Instead, she said, “We’ll review your wages when we get back to the office. I think we can say your trial is over.”
Phil’s face lit up. “Thank you very much.”
“Only what you deserve,” said Agatha gruffly.
The staffroom door opened and a young man came in. “I’m Owen Trump,” he said. “Alice has gone home.”
Agatha’s heart gave a lurch. He looked in the dim room like a younger version of James Lacey. He had thick black hair and bright blue eyes. “I’ll put the light on,” he said. “I think we’re going to get rain at last.”
He switched on the light and Agatha realized he wasn’t like James Lacey at all. His face was handsome but not as strong and he was wearing blue contact lenses. Where as James Lacey’s mouth was long and firm, his was full-lipped and sensuous.
“How can I help you?” he asked. He sat down in a battered armchair by the two-bar electric fire, and Agatha and Phil, who had risen when he entered, resumed their seats.
“As Miss Rook probably told you,” began Agatha, “I am a private detective investigating the death of Jessica Bradley.”
“That was an awful business. She was my brightest pupil.”
“She had fallen off in all her other subjects,” said Agatha. “Did she have a crush on you?”
“Oh, well,” he said with an irritating air of complacency, “they all have a crush on me from time to time.”
“So did she confide in you?”
“No. She would sometimes stay behind to ask me some question about maths.”
“Did you ever see her outside school?”
“What exactly are you implying?”
Agatha back-pedalled. “I mean, did you ever see her in Mircester after school hours with anyone?”
“Only with that precious pair, Fairy and Trixie, in the mall. I hardly recognized Jessica. They were all in school uniform, but Jessica had hitched up her skirt and she was heavily made up.”
“What were they doing?”
“They were waiting under the clock in the centre of the mall. It’s a favourite meeting place. I assumed they were waiting for boys.”
“Did Jessica show any interest in any boy in the school?”
“Not that I know of. You see, she was always a quiet, scholarly girl, up until about six months ago. I didn’t notice much difference, but her other teachers wondered what had happened to her. If that is all…?”
Agatha gave him her card. “If you hear anything that might be important, let me know.”
“I will let the police know. They are better equipped to deal with this.” And with that, he walked out.
“Pompous twit,” muttered Agatha. “And vain. Did you notice those contact lenses?”
“No, but a lot of people wear them. How can you tell?”
“It’s that unnatural bright blue. Well, I suppose we’d better get over to the mall. I’ve got a photograph of Jessica. We’ll see if any of the shopkeepers near the clock recognize her, although this photograph makes her look just like a decent schoolgirl, and if she was heavily made-up, they might not remember her. Still, it’s worth a try.”
But the shopkeepers could not remember seeing Jessica. “I took photos of Fairy and Trixie,” said Phil. “I’ll get them printed up and try again tomorrow if you like. If they recognize Fairy and Trixie, they might remember a third girl. What now?”
“We’ll go back to the office and start again tomorrow. I need to get rid of Harry Beam.”
Harry Beam was slouched on the sofa. On the floor in front of him were three cat boxes and a small Jack Russell was sitting on his lap.
“Good heavens!” said Agatha. “You’ve found them all. How did you do it?”
Harry had told Mrs. Freedman not to say he had found them all at the animal refuge. “Just walking miles looking and looking.”
Agatha regarded him suspiciously. “Are you sure you’ve got the right animals? Let me see the photos.”
She studied the photos and the animals.
“Am I hired?” asked Harry.
“I suppose so,” said Agatha ungraciously. Then an idea struck her. “Do you feel like working tonight?”
“Sure. What is it? More cats?”
“No. I would like you to go to that disco Jessica visited on the night she was murdered. You look the part. Get friendly with the young people and see what you can find out. Have you phoned the owners of the cats and that dog?”
“Thought you might like to do that personally and phone the local rag so they can photograph the happy reunion.”
“Right.” Agatha arranged a wage for Harry and an increased wage for Phil with Mrs. Freedman and then phoned the owner of the animals, telling them all to call at the office at six o’clock and then phoned the local paper.
After she had dealt with the delighted owners and posed with them for photographs, Patrick arrived.
“Anything?” asked Agatha.
“I went to the village pub for starters. Smedley is disliked, but everyone thinks his wife is a saint. There’s a rumour he beats her. His electronics factory is out on the industrial estate. They have a showroom, so I went out there and pottered around. I talked to the sales staff, asked them about their boss and all that. Don’t like him. Asked if they’d ever met the wife and they brightened up. Say she’s a gem. He’s so mean that he gets his wife to do all the catering for the Christmas party. They said the food was great and she was absolutely charming. Brick wall so far. But I’ll keep at it.”
Phil said, “Maybe if Harry comes home with me, I can print up the photos of Trixie and Fairy and let him see them. If they’re at the club tonight, maybe he can get into conversation with them.”
“He knows them. Remember? But print them up anyway.”
Agatha was just microwaving her dinner that evening when the doorbell rang. She found Bill Wong on the step. “I couldn’t get round earlier,” he said.
