The Teacher: A shocking and compelling new crime thriller – NOT for the faint-hearted! (3 page)

‘You did your time, we all make mistakes, I have had a few mishaps myself over the years.’ Morris looked up as there was a gentle tap on the glass door. ‘Ah, speaking of mistakes.’ He took a deep breath and signalled to the woman standing outside the office. ‘Come in!’

‘DCI Morris? I’m Imogen Grey.’

‘Yes, I know who you are. Perfect timing, come in and sit down, please, DS Grey.’

The scruffy brunette sat down next to Adrian and immediately started picking her thumbnails anxiously and biting her lip. She was wearing a shapeless sweatshirt and baggy combat trousers. She crossed her legs away from Adrian without looking at him once.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘DS Grey, I would like you to meet DS Miles, you will be working together for the foreseeable.’

‘Guv?’ Adrian interrupted. Was she here to make sure he didn’t mess up again?

‘I know it’s not ideal but Grey’s just transferred up from Plymouth and I need someone I can trust to show her the ropes.’

‘Babysit, you mean?’ Grey scowled. Adrian realised he wasn’t the one who was being monitored here; she was defensive and hostile about something. She was in the doghouse, too.

‘Oh good, a couple of sulky teenagers, you two should get on like a house on fire.’ Morris walked towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you alone to make your introductions.’

She didn’t turn to look at Adrian. Instead she feigned interest in the standard-issue police posters. He knew what she was waiting for, she was waiting for him to speak first. It was a game, a manipulation. It was childish. He respected that.

‘Well, you must have done something really fucked up to get stuck with me,’ Adrian laughed and stood up. ‘Come on, let’s go and get your access codes sorted out.’

‘Why? What did you do?’ For the first time since she had entered the room she looked at him and he saw her face properly. Her freckled skin was peeling across her nose and cheeks, she spent a lot of time outside. Her hazel eyes were framed by the longest blackest eyelashes he had ever seen. Not a trace of make-up and he had no idea how old she was, her clothes suggested she was a fifteen-year-old boy.

‘Lost some evidence, let a major local dealer walk. You know, a real career-defining moment.’

‘Are you always this forthcoming?’ Grey’s face softened to reveal a cheeky smile. Adrian suspected that she was relieved that he was out of favour too.

‘Definitely not. But if we’re stuck together I would rather you heard it from me, Grey.’

‘I guess that makes sense.’ She smiled begrudgingly.

‘So what did you do?’ Adrian held the door open, instantly realising his mistake as she grabbed the door and signalled him out first.

‘None of your business.’ She winked, he almost thought she was going to slap his backside and, unless he was mistaken, the thought had crossed her mind too.

The Taxidermist

She stared into the beady eyes of the dead cat, its lustrous fur still soft to the touch. As her finger brushed against the side of its hardened stomach she saw the dust erupting in tiny clouds. She put a yellow sticker on the animal, yellow means ‘restore’, this animal needed to be returned to its former glory, or as close an approximation as anything dead can have to something that was once alive. Abbey Lucas had worked in the Eden House Memorial Museum for five years now, she never ventured out on to any of the four main exhibition rooms, hardly spoke to any of the other staff and never dealt with the public, she just stayed here in the archive rooms. For the last five years she had been working her way through the thousands of stuffed animals, from kangaroo to platypus, from a common goat to this stunning example of evolution, the cheetah. She wondered why no one ever bothered to stuff cows or sheep, maybe they were too boring to part with your money over. Although, Abbey had always thought cows were rather beautiful, with their big sad brown eyes.

Abbey walked down to the lobby, the porters were bustling. They were just reassembling the lobby after a week’s closure in order to redecorate it. The whole building was undergoing refurbishment after a large sum of money was bequeathed to the museum when the former director died just a few months ago. They had been trying for the last fifteen years to get the funding to put the place back together. Only fourteen of the possible thirty-two exhibition rooms had been open to the public for quite some time, with most of the smaller ones on the second floor closed. The museum had been ravaged by an electrical fire around twenty years ago, bad wiring and a faulty circuit breaker had caused damage to at least a quarter of the building. As the owners had been unable to fix the place straight away, some of the rooms had been cordoned off or used as storage until they had enough money to go ahead with the refurb. The Neo-Gothic museum, built in the eighteenth century, housed various Celtic and Roman artefacts that had been discovered in the local area. It was also home to a huge menagerie of various animals, costumes and fossils. Fortunately the damage was predominantly cosmetic. The new colour on the walls was vermillion red, almost a bright orange. Abbey didn’t think it belonged in a place like this, it was garish and distasteful. The red was a far cry from the drab Georgian grey that had been the colour in every single exhibit room since she had started here. Now each room had an accent colour, as per the interior designer’s remit. Of course the most striking had to be the entrance. It was less of an accent colour and more of a full assault on the senses.

‘Abbey!’ Mr Lowestoft, the director, exclaimed with a winning smile. He was a gentle old man. Like a grandfather, with his round glasses, ruddy cheeks and novelty dickie bow, he always brought a warm feeling to her. It had been that way from the start. He had not only welcomed her but made her feel like this was her home. Every time he said hello it was as though he were greeting a beloved family member. Mr Lowestoft was one of the few people in the world who put her at ease.

‘Mr Lowestoft, hello.’ She smiled, a real smile full of genuine warmth, truly glad to see the old man. His presence in the museum had decreased since he had received the cancer diagnosis. A finished, fully functioning museum was to be his parting legacy.

‘Ah, Abbey, I was hoping you would be here. What do you think? Do you like it?’ He beamed, glowing with pride.

‘It looks amazing.’ She didn’t have the heart to tell him anything different.

‘I’ve been asked by the University if we would accommodate one of their PhD students for the foreseeable future while he writes his thesis on historic preservation, or something to that effect. I thought you would be the best person to deal with him.’

‘Me?’ She didn’t know what else to say to that. She was used to working alone, she liked it that way.

‘Oh, and I’ve got another surprise for you! Come and see!’ He walked over to something large covered in a sheet, reluctantly she followed. She hated surprises. He pulled at the sheet and she was confronted with the grimacing mask of a samurai looking down on her from his lofty frame. His rigid leather body armour was polished to the point where she could see her reflection. ‘I never understood why we keep this hidden upstairs. It’s one of my favourite pieces.’

An evil grin was spread across the surface of the mask and a gaping black hole where the eyes should be. The demonic red horns that protruded from the helmet and towered above the face were razor sharp, menacing. She had forgotten just how vile the warrior’s face was. It had been years since she had seen him, always walking the long way around to avoid ever walking in his path. The face had always seemed so inhuman and she could feel the black nothing staring into her. Involuntarily she found herself stepping backwards. She didn’t want to have a panic attack; she had to get away from him.

‘It looks perfect here.’ She stepped back further, flustered, off balance.

‘Are you all right, Abbey?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. I just need to use the bathroom.’

Abbey rushed into the toilets reserved for the public and dabbed her face with cold water, trying to normalise the temperature of her skin. She could feel it burning. She really didn’t like surprises.

Abbey emerged from the bathroom into the empty hallway. The silence of the museum magnified her solitude, the faint whisper of the atmospheric music in a distant corner of the museum at the edge of her hearing. She turned the corner and bumped straight into the security guard.

‘Busy day?’ Shane Corden was standing in her way. His bleached-blonde hair stuck to his glistening forehead.

‘Yes.’ She tried to manoeuvre around him but he side-stepped into her path again. He would play these games purely because he knew it disturbed her. ‘Excuse me, I have to help get ready for the reopening. We’ve only got a couple of months. Don’t you have somewhere to be?’

‘Doesn’t it bother you? Touching dead stuff all day?’ He sucked on his bottom lip slowly and stared at her mouth.

‘Not really.’ She tried again to move around him but this time he just moved closer. She could smell cigarettes and alcohol on his breath as he stood almost toe to toe with her. It’s just a game, he doesn’t know anything, she repeated to herself over and over. She had to decide between looking him in the eyes or shifting her gaze and staring down at her feet. She wanted to do the latter but that’s what he wanted too. So she would stare him down, hoping to God he couldn’t see the darkness behind her eyes. She knew all he wanted was to make her feel uncomfortable. To exercise the tiny bit of power he had in this world over someone he knew he could get a reaction from. He liked to play this game with someone who was easily flustered.

His eyes dropped to her chest, hidden beneath the olive green blouse. She tried not to breathe hard as she didn’t want to give him any more food for thought. She could feel her lungs tightening and her mouth desperate to suck in more air. She would rather pass out than give him the satisfaction. Instead he backed away, eyes still fixed on her body.

‘Have a good one then.’ He smiled, his hand firmly on his baton, finger circling the tip. She slowly exhaled as invisibly as possible. He was such a creep, but at least he was honest about it. Before she had fully filled her lungs again he was gone. She scuttled back to her darkened corner of the museum. That was enough social interaction for one morning.

Abbey went to the museum canteen at noon, as always, to pick up her lunch, which she ate at the same table every day. Routine was everything, right down to the brown corduroy skirt she wore at the end of every week. It didn’t take much to bring on her anxieties. Luckily this was not a popular or busy museum, if people were curious about anything these days they would just look it up on the internet, this suited Abbey just fine. Today she had a tuna sandwich; Friday was fish day at the museum, Mr Lowestoft insisted on this throwback to a more religious time, when people had values.

Abbey genuinely loved her job, she could not imagine doing anything else. She liked the familiarity of working with the same people every day, good people, and aside from Shane they were mostly sensible people. Abbey also liked that she got to spend most of her days alone, with only the dead for company.

‘Is this seat taken?’

Abbey looked up at the stranger, her mouth full of food, she chewed quickly to reply. The canteen was empty and she couldn’t say it was taken. Did he just want the chair? Was he going to sit with her?

‘No,’ she finally managed.

He put his tray down opposite her and sat down, smiling. He took his coat off and hung it on the back of the chair, making himself comfortable. He was a young, slender man with black floppy hair. Although definitely older than her, she couldn’t quite place his age. He looked eccentric, different. The most remarkable thing about him though were his eyes, they were cold and grey like cut glass, Abbey had to force herself not to stare.

‘I’m Parker, Parker West.’ He held his hand out to her over the table. She rubbed her palm on her skirt to remove any traces of tuna mayonnaise and then shook his hand.

‘Hello.’

‘You’re Abigail Lucas?’ He smiled again, she could not hide her surprise – how did he know her name?

‘Who—’

‘Oh, they didn’t tell you? I’m going to be helping you with the archives. I have a masters in zoological archaeology and I’m working towards my PhD,’ he said, almost embarrassed.

‘Oh, yes, Mr Lowestoft did mention it. I didn’t realise it would be today.’

She had already worked her way through Australasia and Southern America on her own, cataloguing every single animal, noting down its region and its place on the food chain. Up till now she alone had the power to decide the fate of these creatures. She could mark the animal for restoration or for destruction. Where possible she was to save the animals, although it felt so futile – so far she had condemned over two hundred animals to the incinerator, their final resting place. The worst cases were in the northeast corner of the building where there had been a leak in the roof that had gone unnoticed for far too long. She hadn’t been able to save any of those, the mould and rot had set in so much that their deterioration had sealed the deal. She wasn’t sure if she trusted a stranger with this responsibility.

‘He just said you could probably do with a hand. This museum has a particularly quantitative supply of species and sub-species; it’s a lot for one person to get through … in two months, is it?’

‘I can manage it,’ she said apologetically, internally scolding herself for apologising at the same time.

‘Oh, no one said you can’t. To be honest with you, I volunteered, no one is paying me. I’m writing a paper for my PhD, you see, well I won’t bore you with the details of it but you would be doing me a huge favour if you would allow me to tag along, I might even be able to offer you my expertise with the identifications at least; you would obviously have to handle the actual restorations.’

‘If you think …’

‘The final decision is yours, my fate is in your hands.’ He had a soft, pleading but mischievous look in his eyes, she wanted to smile at him, she wouldn’t because that’s not who she was. People, she knew, are rarely who they show themselves to be. There is always a lie, always a mask.

‘Hello, Parker, you can call me Abbey,’ she said after a pause. She would just have to deal with it.

‘Nice to meet you, Abbey.’ He half smiled. His anticipation was evident as he ploughed his way through his lunch, raring to go, eager to meet her dead little friends.

She thought of all the animals she had already worked through alone and decided maybe this wasn’t the end of the world, it didn’t mean that Mr Lowestoft didn’t trust her, it just meant she could take her time and not worry so much about the self-imposed deadlines she had assigned. The hardest decision she had made on her own so far was on a small creature whose identification numbers had been ruined by water and damp, she did not recognise the animal and could not find it in any of the encyclopaedias. Maybe it was stored in the wrong part of the world, but there was no saving her – she knew the creature was a female, her teats were still enlarged from recent motherhood. Abbey wondered what had happened to this little beast. Her cheeks had been ravaged by termites but her black eyes were so calm. As Abbey had fingered the tiny bullet hole in the animal’s chest, a spider had crawled out and she dropped the animal in shock, smashing what was left of her face. Abbey could not stop the tears as she placed the red sticker on the small animal, wondering if her children had befallen the same fate or if they had made it, at least for a little while. She wondered if they had got the chance to have children of their own; she liked to think they had.

When she took Parker through to the floor where all of the Asian cadavers were kept she saw how exhilarated he was, his eyes transfixed and wide, like a child on their first trip to a toy shop, not knowing where to start, unsure what to break first.

‘Follow me.’ She led him to the far end of the room, her voice echoed as did her footsteps when her shoes thumped against the polished wooden floors. The room itself was lit from a double row of green glass bricks slotted in above where the original windows had been, long since boarded up to accommodate the large metal shelving units that had been put in after the fire; metal didn’t burn like wood. Everything in the room had taken on a hint of pale green as though it had been dipped in Chartreuse, a warm honey-green liquor. They could hear the music from the next room seeping in through the metal ventilation grates that sat above the oak skirting. It was the same music that had played every day since she had started. She didn’t know what it was called but it was classical, sometimes the melody would run through her mind as she tried to sleep at night. She looked over at Parker, noticing him trying to take it all in, looking up and down, occasionally uttering an exclamation at something he had seen.

‘So incredible,’ he muttered. She got the impression he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Usually when people learned what Abbey did they pulled a face and said something like ‘Oh, that’s nice’ in the worst impression of a sincere voice they could muster, the idea of stuffing dead animals was completely repulsive to them, although they were entirely missing the point. Parker’s response was a refreshing change, she was proud of her occupation; it was all she had.