The Good Teacher: A gripping thriller from the Kindle top ten bestselling author of ‘The Perfect Neighbours’. Rachel Sargeant
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He looks towards a patch of ground a few feet ahead. “From a bicycle, I think. The grass is flattened as if someone’s laid a bike down.”
“That fits. The man who found the body was on a bike. Where’s Dr Spicer?”
Chisholm points to the white incident tent a few metres behind him. “In there with the victim.” He folds his arms, a half-smile hovering over his mouth.
In that moment Liz hates him. Clockwise Chisholm might be the station’s resident anorak, with his hand semipermanently stuck up the back of a computer, but he’s astute enough to realize that, to get to the tent, she’ll have to cross the ditch. Its banks could harbour a few wet spots despite the heatwave. She isn’t going arse over tits for anyone.
“Get me a plank,” she says.
“I’ll call DC Holtom.”
“Not that sort of plank.”
Chisholm grins. “I meant he’s got the bridge.”
“Tell him to be quick,” she says, cursing herself for not bringing her wellies. She took them out of the car caked in mud weeks before, but forgot to put them back.
DC Holtom comes over with a duckboard. She steps across the ditch, placing one foot deliberately in front of the other. Her expression hardens against the curious gazes of Chisholm and Holtom. No way is she giving them the satisfaction of seeing her slip.
At least DS Mike Matthews isn’t here. He’d enjoy watching her walk the plank. The man is dire. So polite and correct, apart from his outsize broomstick hair. “Yes, ma’am, certainly ma’am. If you want me to, ma’am.” But behind the plodding reliability, Liz has the feeling he’s waiting for her to fall flat on her face. It’s a good thing he’ll be preoccupied from now on with supervising DC Adams. He’ll be too busy keeping that towering toddler on her feet to trip up his detective inspector.
Matthews and DCI Hendersen did the interviews for the vacancy, so it’s their fault they’ve ended up with a girl trainee. Lads are much easier to knock the corners off. They’re a bit wet behind the iPhone, but they know who’s boss. Women, on the other hand, make loose cannons.
Liz complained to John Wise about it, of course. That’s lover’s perks. But Assistant Chief Constable Wise was non-committal. There was no suggestion, on his part anyway, of wading into Hendersen’s office and pulling rank.
And the upshot is DC Pippa Adams. An overgrown cheerleader, all pink cheeks and ponytail. Detective material? Unlikely. Time will tell.
As Liz steps off the duckboard, she goes down on her ankle but rights herself despite the pain. With all the dignity she can muster, she heads into the incident tent.
“I didn’t think you’d catch up with me this quickly,” a woman’s voice says through the polished brass letterbox. The door opens a fraction and the voice continues, “Can I ring Stuart – that’s Mr Perkins, my husband – before you take me in? I’m allowed one phone call, aren’t I?”
A pair of hunted green eyes appear and I wonder what crime I’ve stumbled into. Isn’t that how we caught the Briggham killer – routine enquiries into another case? I glance up the road, but my colleagues are nowhere in sight, each having allocated themselves a different avenue on the Southside estate for the house-to-house. I knocked at the first house in a cul-de-sac that runs off the road behind the Brocks’ house.
“I suppose you’ll want to come in while I’m on the phone so I don’t abscond,” the woman says. She opens the door wide.
I step over the threshold. Should I call for backup? After a shaky start on my first day are things about to get even rockier?
“I must be in a lot of trouble if they’ve sent a CID officer,” the woman says. She leads me into the lounge. What villainy could have taken place in a room where paisley pink curtains match the sofa cushions?
“What do you think will happen to me? I know it’s not much of an excuse, but I would like to say in my defence that I only saw it was back this morning.”
“Back this morning?” I ask, trying to disguise my bewilderment. The woman is chatty. I’ll feed her enough rope, get her to confess to whatever it is she’s done and make an arrest. Maybe even redeem myself in DS Matthews’s eyes.
“It was propped against the front wall. I swear it wasn’t there yesterday. And Stuart walked up and down the avenue before we spoke to your officers on Wednesday. There was no sign of it. I know we shouldn’t have kept it in the front garden. The way other people let their children stay out till all hours. It’s asking for trouble in this day and age.”
“Is it?” I ask.
“They’ll take anything if it’s not nailed down, even a tatty old thing like that. Except they didn’t take it because it’s back now. But I swear it wasn’t there yesterday, not since Wednesday.”
“A tatty old thing?”
“I’d had it since college.” She waves a hand at the mantelpiece, which displays two graduation photographs. One is of a youth with wispy hair reaching to his oversized collar and big tie. Stuart? The other is of a young woman with sparkling green eyes and a magnificent smile, lavishly framed by lipstick. I study Mrs Perkins’s tired, pale features. She must be in her late thirties but carries herself as if in middle age. She resembles an Afghan hound with messy, permed hair over her ears. Loose grey cords and a baggy cardigan conceal long limbs. Has a guilty conscience tarnished her former radiance?
“And you spoke to us on Wednesday?” I ask, trying to make a jigsaw out of the pieces the woman is giving me.
“We both came down to the station to make a statement, give a description. We didn’t mean to waste anybody’s time.”
“You wasted our time?” I begin to think she’s wasting mine.
“Are you going to charge me? We thought it had gone. It never occurred to us it would come back.”
I give up. “What came back?”
“My bicycle, of course.” Mrs Perkins raises her voice an octave but returns to deferential tones to explain that she and her husband had reported her bicycle stolen from their front garden on Wednesday but that it reappeared this morning. “I was going to phone you. I didn’t want the police force out looking for it any longer than necessary. I know wasting police time is a serious offence. I’ll just phone Stuart, or should I phone a solicitor?”
My eyes move back and forth between the woman and her graduation photograph. Intelligence manifests itself in so many ways. I reassure Mrs Perkins that the Brigghamshire Constabulary won’t be taking any further action on this occasion. Doubtless my fellow officers will be delighted that Mrs Perkins’s property has been returned safe and sound. Mrs Perkins launches into a torrent of thanks. When she pauses for air, I explain the real reason for my visit and find myself accepting an offer of a cup of tea.
“Not to worry. Thanks for your help anyway,” DS Mike Matthews says outside number 23. He puts away his notebook. All of them wise monkeys. No one saw or heard anything, and they aren’t saying much either. Not even: would you like to come in out of the heat and have a drink, officer.
Chance would be a fine thing.
“Have another piece of chocolate cake,” Mrs Perkins offers. “It’s lovely to see a young woman enjoying her food. I’m afraid with this talk of murder, I’ve rather lost my appetite.”
I hastily swallow. “Quite. Did you see anyone in the avenue during last night?”
Mrs Perkins shakes her head. “We’re heavy sleepers. Perhaps if we weren’t, we’d have seen what happened to my bicycle.”
“Maybe you saw something before you went