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By Linda’s desk a CSI was documenting the photographs, which had been flung round the room. These were the first hint of Linda Gibson’s personal life. They showed her with a man, both swathed in hats, woolly scarves and padded mountaineering jackets, smiling together on a hill, arms round each other.
‘Presumably this is her husband?’ I turned to Dan. ‘How is he?’ It wasn’t just the greying hair. The man’s clothes and mottled skin tone suggested he was a good ten years older than Linda. Next to this was a close-up of the same man. Kindness emanated from his features. Soft, intelligent eyes and a warm demeanour.
‘Still in the Royal London Hospital. They’re monitoring his heart and blood pressure. He hasn’t taken the news well. Not long retired, apparently. Medical grounds.’
I took a closer look at the man in the photographs. Perhaps ill health accounted for him seeming older? It was hard to tell when Linda radiated so much energy and strength.
I was keen to get cracking with the investigation. Lines of enquiry were settling into place in my mind. The writing on the card was likely to be the killer’s signature, and it was a good place to start while the forensic data were being processed.
Beside me, Dan was swiping at his smartphone.
‘What d’you reckon that writing is?’
‘I can tell you.’ He enlarged the text and showed it to me. ‘It’s Pali. Part of a system of ethics. From a set of five ancient Buddhist precepts.’ His pale face was alight. ‘This one is the second precept and translates as: I shall abstain from taking the ungiven, whatever that means.’ He screwed up his face, clearly no wiser than me.
Buddhist precepts? Bound wrists and strangulation? It looked like this was a ritualised killing – and rituals always held enormous significance for the murderer. They also involved careful thought and planning.
What was Linda’s killer trying to tell us?
Wednesday (#ulink_7523e97b-5792-5341-bcd8-97b8de7a7f24)
The precept says:
adinnadanna veramani sikkhapadam samadyani
I shall abstain from taking the ungiven
A Buddhist would say that where coercion is used, whatever is obtained hasn’t been freely given. That includes manipulation and exploitation. Instead, we are encouraged to do the opposite of taking: to give without any desire for thanks or benefit.
I know you believed that your role gave you the right to make decisions, but surely someone in your position should have exercised discernment? Shouldn’t you have put the needs of the vulnerable before your own selfish desires?
Mile End High School, 1989 – Maya (#ulink_1cccced0-293a-50de-bdd2-8912764026a2)
All summer I’ve been wondering how this moment would feel. With each step along the corridor the knot in my stomach tightens. Lockers line the walls ahead like a metal tunnel, so much bigger than the ones at primary. All the classroom doors are closed. Everyone else has arrived on time and they’ve started without me.
A tired ceiling light flickers. The corridor of scuffed linoleum yawns ahead. Today it’s the rush and hurry that I feel in the small of my back, pushing me on, but for a moment it reminds me of Heathrow airport, the day we arrived. Of being herded along endless tunnels with the others from our plane, in the wrong season’s clothes. Past faceless officials shouting things we couldn’t understand, as we left one world behind and were jostled into another.
Muffled voices bring me back to the present.
Giggles ricochet off the metal lockers and excitement bubbles up. New things to learn, new people. But anxiety soon dampens my eagerness: I knew my class at primary school but I’m not going to know anyone here.
Sabbir is a few steps ahead of me, his gangly legs striding forwards. He tugs the arm of my hand-me-down blazer with one hand, carrying my bag in the other.
‘Come on,’ he keeps urging. ‘You aren’t the only one that’s late.’
I’m glad my brother’s with me. Not Mum, whose spokesperson I always have to be. Or Jasmina, whose poise and beauty means I may as well be invisible.
‘Here we are,’ Sabbir announces finally when we arrive outside one of the closed doors. He checks the room number, peers in and hands me my bag. ‘I’ll meet you at the front entrance at 3.45 p.m. Okay?’
My guts crunch again, and I screw up my face to say don’t leave me, attempting to swallow down the panic that’s creeping into my chest. ‘How do I know what subject they’re doing?’ It’s a croak. My throat has dried out on the silent walk to school.
Taller than me, he ruffles my hair with his hand.
‘Don’t.’ I dodge out of reach, smoothing the everywhere hair that I’d brushed and brushed this morning to try and get under control.
The classroom door opens inwards, and suddenly a frowning face is in front of us, all lipstick and powdery skin. ‘Can I help you?’ The woman glances from Sabbir to me and looks me up and down.
She’s seen the pins in my skirt. The floor draws my gaze like a magnet.
‘Sorry she’s late,’ Sabbir mumbles. ‘Our mother isn’t . . .’ His voice dies out.
Inside the room I hear chatter swirl. And giddy, first-day-of-term laughter. The sounds are amplified like when we go to the public baths to have our showers.
‘And you are?’ The voice has an accent.
Sabbir nudges me and I raise my head.
She’s peering at me, as if she’s used to having her questions answered immediately.
And now I wish Jasmina was here and then the woman would look at my sister and not me, and ask her questions instead of me. I swallow hard. You’ve practised this. Come on. ‘Rahman.’ Then louder, ‘Maya Rahman.’
‘Oh yes.’ The frown’s still there beneath a thick fringe. ‘The Bangladeshi girl. I wasn’t sure whether to expect you.’ She steps back. ‘You’d better come in.’ She leads me into the classroom with a swish of her patterned skirt, and Sabbir fades away as I’m swept in front of a cascade of faces, and rows of tables, not like the individual desks at primary school.
Everyone freezes the moment they see me, halting their conversations and their carefree laughter to stare.
‘Now, year seven,’ the woman announces, with a chirpy lilt, ‘this is Maya Rarrrman.’ She presents me with a flourish of her hand, like I’m a stage act.
There I stand, weighed down by dread, swamped by my sister’s old uniform, with my raggedy hair and my funny surname. And the fear leans in: you aren’t the same as them.
On the giant pull-down board there’s writing. I can’t read it. It’s not English and it’s not Maths.
‘We’ve just started to introduce ourselves in French,’ the woman says, as if she read my mind. ‘Je suis Madame Bélanger. Bonjour May-a.’ Her pasted smile does little to reassure me, and all I can think about is that everyone’s still staring at me and I can’t take in a word she’s saying and I haven’t a clue what she said her name is.
The room smells like stale crisps. I’m searching for a free seat.
‘Do you want to sit on the end there, next to Fatima?’ The teacher points to a grey table, wagging her finger. ‘Fatima, bougez-vous, s’il vous plaît? Voilà. You can have my chair.’ She picks up her seat, sets it down next to the wall and pats the back rest. ‘You can be friends, you two, n’est-ce pas?’
I take my bag over and perch.
‘Alors, on continue,’ the woman says as she glides back to her desk and surveys the class.
All the sounds merge together now. My senses swim and I eye the door. I can make it if I run. Throat tight, my eyes fill up. I blink and blink, determined not to dab them, and wipe my nose rather than sniff conspicuously. All the time I’m thinking, it wasn’t meant to be like this.
And I’m wondering whether I would feel different if Mum or Dad had come with me.
Wednesday – Dan (#ulink_46233708-7b85-5c18-a533-1719cea5aafb)
As soon as Dan entered Roger Allen’s scruffy office, two things struck him: Allen was out of favour, and was at the bottom of the management pecking order. Scuffed walls were crying out for a lick of paint, and two of the ceiling lights were on the blink. It gave a very different impression from the showroom of Linda Gibson’s office and the swish reception area.
Steve Rowe cut a dejected figure in a chair behind the desk. Trackie top. A face full of stubble. Mid-to-late twenties. A rookie.
Maya took the lead. ‘Mr Rowe? I’m DI Rahman and this is DS Maguire.’
It was a small space and there wasn’t much choice about where to stand. On a dusty cork notice board, a newspaper article was two years out of date, and someone had pinned a flyer for a new breakfast club next to a leaflet on pregnancy advice.
The guy was leaning over the desk, a blanket pulled round his shoulders. Dan got a waft of stale booze mixed with tinges of sick. He looked rough. All the staff were in civvies for training day but this guy could’ve just got out of bed.
‘I understand you found Mrs Gibson.’ Dan stood back and watched his new colleague at work. Maya’s manner was gentle. You wouldn’t mess with her, but she cared. That was obvious. ‘What made you go into her office? Weren’t you all eating lunch?’
‘Yes, we were, but I’d finished and I wanted to get some air. Today is my first day here and I was feeling a bit . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Overwhelmed. When Mrs Ahmed asked for a volunteer to go and fetch Mrs Gibson, I jumped at the chance. Thought I’d nip out for a fag.’
‘And why was Mrs Gibson not with you all?’
‘I’m not sure. She left the hall when we had the power cut. Said she was going to find the caretakers. I got the impression she was planning to join us in the staffroom straight after. But it took a while for the electricity to come back on and someone suggested ordering pizzas.’
‘I see. How well did you know Mrs Gibson?’
Rowe frowned. ‘Hardly at all,’ he said. ‘I met her a few months ago at my interview. Would’ve been October. Then again when I came into the school for my induction day in December. And obviously today. She kicked off the staff meeting before lunch.’
‘What was your impression of her?’
‘She seemed friendly. And passionate about the school. I got the feeling the staff liked her.’ Rowe took a swig from the mug in front of him. ‘Is Mrs Gibson . . .?’ His words petered out and he swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry. I’m shattered. I got about an hour’s sleep last night and had a couple more drinks than I intended. I keep seeing her eyes. Bulging. And her face was all swollen. She’s dead, isn’t she?’ The words came out in a splutter.
‘We can’t say at the moment, I’m afraid. There has been a very serious incident. You’ve had a nasty shock. Have you got someone at home this evening to look after you?’
‘I’m staying with my sister. She should be home after work.’ His complexion looked pale and clammy.
‘You might want to lay off the drink this evening.’
It would’ve been easy for this to sound patronising but it didn’t. And it was true: he looked dreadful.
Rowe blushed. Glanced at Dan in embarrassment. ‘I’m sure I come across as a right numpty, getting drunk the night before starting a new job.’ He paused, as if he was thinking about what to say. ‘I’ve just got back from visiting my fiancée in New York – she dumped me. My own stupid fault.’ His voice trembled and his hands were shaking.
Dan felt sorry for him. It had seemed odd to turn up for a new job with a hangover.
‘We all make mistakes,’ Maya said, then shifted gear. ‘Was it you who vomited — ?’
‘Ugh.’ Rowe covered his eyes. ‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘When you went to fetch Mrs Gibson, did you see anyone?’
‘No. I walked from the staffroom and along the main corridor. There was no sign of anybody.’
‘After you found Mrs Gibson, what did you do?’
‘I went straight back to the staffroom and told Mrs Ahmed.’
Maya’s phone vibrated. She indicated to Dan to take over the interview and shifted towards the door, reading the message and watching the teacher from the corner of her eye.
Dan moved over and sat in the chair in front of the desk. ‘Going back slightly,’ he said, ‘did you think Mrs Gibson was dead?’
Rowe nodded. ‘She felt warm. Sort of soft. But she didn’t move. I thought dead bodies went stiff?’ He shivered in his seat, the unpleasant memory beckoning to him. ‘It was the expression in her eyes. Staring.’ He covered his mouth, shaking his head. ‘Why would someone bind her wrists?’
‘That’s what we need to find out.’
Maya tucked her mobile in her pocket and hurried back over to the desk. She lowered her voice. ‘We need to get back to the incident room. Urgently.’ She faced Rowe. ‘A uniformed officer will escort you back to the staffroom. All personnel are required to stay on site. Please let us know if you remember anything else you think could help.’
‘I will.’
Back in the corridor, Maya filled Dan in. ‘The deputy head, Roger Allen, called in sick this morning. Now no-one can get hold of him. Not even his wife.’
Wednesday – Steve (#ulink_f05f34c1-58fc-5a37-820b-aca9b5b594d2)
The staffroom atmosphere was completely different when Steve arrived back. The heating was working and everyone had shed their scarves, jumpers and coats. They sat in huddles, wide-eyed and dazed. As he walked in, was he imagining it, or were there a few nudges and stares? Steve scanned the room for somewhere to sit down. Despite the heat, he was still shivering and felt light-headed. The sense of Linda’s body kept coming back to him: her softness beneath him; the smell of her skin; her hair in his mouth… how he’d thrown up over her.
He spotted a chair by the window, slunk over and slumped down on it, relieved to be out of the deputy head’s office and among other human beings, even if he didn’t know any of them yet. He wanted to reflect on the police interview. He’d burbled about Lucy. How embarrassing. Otherwise he thought it had gone okay but he wasn’t sure. Was he a suspect? After all, he had found the body.
Near the door, a woman was firing out questions, repeating them hysterically to anyone who was in the vicinity. ‘Why is no-one telling us anything? Is Mrs Gibson dead’ Her voice trilled out. ‘Has she had a heart attack? Oh my God, she hasn’t been murdered, has she?’
Her voice grated. Steve felt like snapping at her to shut the fuck up. But this was a new job. He had to be on his best behaviour. Having a row with a colleague on the first day was not the way to go.
Steve could hear the two people nearest to her doing their best to calm the woman down, while a couple of other staff members stared, panicked into inertia and silence. It was as if they had all been plunged into an existence that was cut off from this morning. Set adrift into a new reality that none of them could quite accept.
Then the woman blurted out, ‘He must know.’ She pointed at Steve. ‘He found her, didn’t he?’
Steve’s stomach did a somersault.
‘Is she dead?’ the woman asked in his direction, staring at him expectantly.
Shit. What should he say? The police had told him not to discuss what happened. He looked away, tried to tune out, and a few of the people nearby shushed her.
His thoughts drifted to Lucy and he wondered how she’d felt after she’d seen him off at the airport. And over the next day. Perhaps she would forgive him if he gave her time? He’d just have to be patient. Except he’d been patient over the last few months and it hadn’t made any difference. Cheating was the one thing she’d told him she’d never accept in a relationship. And his stupid pride had got in the way. When she’d told him she wanted to go back home to America, he’d reacted childishly. And now he had to suck up the consequences.
Someone coughed and cleared their throat. Neil Sanderson, the school bursar, was standing at the counter by the kitchen area. He wiped his forehead with his palm. ‘Could you gather round, folks, please?’ His cheeks were mottled, and patches of sweat stained the armpits of his mauve shirt.
Mutterings flew round the room, some of complaint, others of curiosity and dread.
Neil adjusted the rimless glasses on his nose. ‘As you all know, there’s been a serious incident involving Mrs Gibson. At the moment the police aren’t giving out much information. They have a number of teams here carrying out forensic work. We don’t know yet whether the school site will be closed tomorrow, but there will be no lessons or students in school.’ He reached over to the counter and took a swig of water from a plastic cup.
A few people put their hands up and he gestured them down. He checked his notes. ‘Mrs Ahmed and I have been liaising with the police, the LEA and our governors, and we’ve produced a . . . a . . .’ He looked round for Shari.
‘Media and community strategy,’ she prompted.
‘Yes. With a close community such as ours, word travels quickly. We have contacted all parents to inform them there will be no school tomorrow. The police request that you do not tell anyone what has happened. Not even close friends and family.’ He mopped his forehead again, and faced Shari. ‘Is there anything else we need to cover?’
Shari came to his aid. ‘It’s a bit tricky as parents are already gathering outside the police cordon to find out what’s happened. One of our parent governors is here trying to smooth things over.’ She scanned the room, as though trying to gauge the mood. ‘Everyone needs to stay on site until we dismiss you. Before you leave, we will inform you of the plans for tomorrow. The police are trying to speak to everyone as quickly as possible. Any urgent questions, please ask either Mr Sanderson or myself.’
Voices flared up again as soon as she stopped talking and people darted across the room to join groups of colleagues.
