Unlikely Graves (Detective Inspector Paul Amos Mystery series) (4 page)

Chapter 10

The telephone stood in the hall on a small, nondescript table about three feet high and about four feet by two.  Amos opened a drawer at the end. Two diaries, one for the current year and one for the previous year, were at the front.

He and Detective Sergeant Juliet Swift had cut round the north and west side of Lincoln, avoiding the worst of the end-of-the-working day traffic and, more importantly, the dreaded level crossing gates in the lower part of the High Street which would be rising and falling more frequently at this time.

The judicious occasional use of sirens had carried them through rapidly towards North Hykeham on the directly opposite side of the county capital from Nettleham.

The road where the murder had taken place was a quiet one with detached and semi-detached houses. The victim, identified from the electoral roll and confirmed in the telephone directory as Harry Randall, lived on the north side of the road, the rear giving a partial view of the cathedral perched on the edge of the ridge.

Amos flicked over the pages of the current diary. Its pages were completely blank. The one for the previous year was similarly empty as far as events or appointments were concerned but it did contain first names and, in some cases, initials that appeared on two or three weekdays each week.

The officer went back to January of the earliest year and looked through. The first two names appeared on the sixth: Emma J and Chris. There was nothing else that week but Emma J and Sue appeared on one day the following week while Pat and Kate S made an appearance two days later along with Chris.

Lizzie V was listed a week later with Emma J and Chris again recorded. Amos flicked on. Names were repeated and new ones appeared, including Emma T, Jo B and Hilary. The name Lizzie cropped up again but with no initial, although there were two other Vs in the following two weeks, Jane and Teri.

Amos flicked on, pausing less as he worked through April and May. Lizzie never reappeared although Teri and Jane were back several times without the initial.

In June, for the first time, words appeared. The names Emma J and Kate T were followed in capital letters and with two exclamation marks by the remark: TENNIS SHORTS!!  It was not clear whether this related to the two girls. It was written beneath their names but could be a separate entry.

As none of the names had previously had any other wording, Amos decided to keep an open mind although, as he commented to Detective Sergeant Swift who appeared at his elbow: ‘Randall was a bit old for taking up tennis and he would hardly have rated buying a pair of tennis shorts as worthy of two exclamation marks.’

A couple of weeks later the sport rated another mention under the names Kate T and the V-less Jane. This time the message, again in caps but minus exclamation marks, was: “LATE. 5PM. TENNIS PRACTICE”.

Tennis practice occurred each week on a Thursday until the second week of July, when it ceased abruptly. The names thinned out rapidly and there was a gap for about five or six weeks before they started up again on the seventh of September. One or two new names appeared, including Joan V, while Emma J and Kate T, so prominent earlier in the year, had vanished.

Arrivals and departures evoked no comment or explanation in Randall’s diary but hockey practice now caused delays, with 5pm or even 5.30pm recorded on some Tuesdays. As with tennis, the same names tended to appear on hockey practice days. The names petered out towards the end of September and the last entry, the lone Jane, was recorded in mid-October.

‘What strikes you?’ Amos asked his deputy.

Swift replied promptly.

‘All the names are either girl’s names or could belong to either sex. Chris or Pat. There are no entries that are specifically boys.’

‘The initials are presumably surnames to distinguish the Kates and Emmas of this world.’

‘Strange that the letter V crops up several times,’ Amos replied thoughtful. ‘It isn’t a common initial for a surname. Vernon, Vaux, Vardy.’

‘Sisters, cousins,’ Swift suggested.

‘There’s something else,’ Amos continued, effectively ignoring Swift’s contribution. ‘In all other cases where a letter is used, there are two similar first names and the initial appears every time. But with the Vs, they occur even where there is no duplication of name and the letter disappears after the first mention.’

Amos put down the diary and rooted around in the shallow drawer. Pushed to the back were two more books of similar size. They turned out to be diaries for the previous two years. Underneath them was a photograph of the dead man.

The pattern of names, some with initials, some without, was repeated in these diaries.

The previous year, netball rated a mention in February and March together with the epithet: ‘SHORT SKIRTS!!’. Again, capitals and two exclamation marks.

‘Look,’ said Amos. ‘Some names disappear in the summer just as they did in the latest diary. I think we can work out why.’

Chapter 11

Amos spotted Constable Gordon Dean through the open door of the living room. Dean, he knew, was a local man and would be familiar with the immediate neighbourhood.

‘Gordon,’ Amos called. ‘Which is the nearest school to here?’

Dean answered without hesitation: ‘The county primary is just up the road and round the corner. No more than a couple of minutes walking.’

Amos stood thinking, which gave Dean time to consider further.

‘There is a girls’ secondary school but that’s a good bit further. It’s in Sandy Lane. Walkable but 10 to 15 minutes I should say.’

Amos took out a notebook and wrote down the names of the girls, divided into school years as they appeared in the diaries. It was a failing of his to do jobs that he ought to delegate to his juniors.

The willingness to get drawn into time-consuming, nit-picking work had often stood him in good stead when it came to solving crimes but it took his attention away from the big picture, the commitment to overall strategy that was essential in the winning of promotion.

Results, in the police as elsewhere, did not count for everything. Still, they gave Amos a pride in his work. As he sometimes remarked, you have to live with yourself.

Amos left his team searching through the dead man’s house and made the short walk to the local county primary school. There were no more houses between Randall’s house and the left hand turning that the constable had directed him to take except for a Victorian redbrick building just on the corner.

It had been the old all-age school before the coming of secondary moderns and, subsequently, the comprehensives that had been long resisted in rural Lincolnshire.

The building had now been converted into flats. To retain the air of authenticity so beloved of those who like to live at addresses such as the old rectory, the old bank or the old school, the lintels bearing the respective inscriptions Boys’ Entrance and Girls’ Entrance had been retained but the doorways had been bricked up and new ones knocked out.

Those were the days when people knew where to put apostrophes, Amos mused as he walked past. And why retain the lintels but not the doorways, he wondered. Around the corner a narrow roadway now gave access to the playground, which had inevitably been converted into a car park. It was about half full at this time of day, the ranks of dwellers split between those who drove to work and those who walked, used public transport or stayed at home.

About 100 yards or so further on was the new primary school, its thin prefabricated walls a stark contrast to the solid Victorian building it replaced.

The single storey building was concrete up to window level then wood and glass. The roof was flat. Although the height of the rooms was considerably lower than in its predecessor, it probably cost a good deal more to heat, Amos thought, and probably to maintain as well.

Amos walked along the high wire netting that marked the edge of the playground. Here and there it had become unravelled and at one point it was possible for a small child to squeeze through.

The entrance to the school was a wide double gate, one of which had been left open in disregard of safety. With a sigh, Amos closed it carefully behind him lest he be accused of the misdemeanour.

A sign over the door proclaimed that Karen Jackson was headmistress. Karen was one of the names in the diaries. There had been a Karen J, Amos recalled.

The name of the previous incumbent had been painted over, fairly recently Amos suspected, and the replacement inserted, rather in the way that pub licensees dispatch the departed landlords to oblivion.

From her name, Amos assumed this addition to the upper ranks of primary education was comparatively young. He knew of no-one over the age of 30 called Karen. Names come in waves. It wasn’t always a guarantee but it was a useful tip in sorting out suspects.

When he was young, no-one under the age of 70 was called Sarah. Just as it appeared that the name would be consigned to history, it reappeared among the grandchildren of those preparing to meet their maker, an example of how life renews itself just when you think it is about to be stamped out.

Emma was another, better example. Once gaunt and grey, worn down by care and sheer weariness, Emma had been reborn as vitality, prettiness and exuberance. Two Emmas had appeared in the diaries.

His own name, Paul, had risen and fallen, never reaching the heights of fashion but never facing extinction either, running in gentler waves that would never quite wash out the writing in the sand.

But what of Amos? His surname was also a boy’s name or, at least, it had been. Amos was old and sunburnt, with leathery skin from farm work. Amos was all but gone. Why had Josh returned to run through the cornfields of youth while Amos was condemned to pass away slowly and painfully, unwanted and unloved?

A quiet voice made Amos jump. A middle aged woman had appeared at his side from nowhere, too old or too young for an Emma or a Sarah, more a Marion or Marjorie, names that were approaching their own midlife crisis before their children decided whether to save them for posterity or discard them without a thought or a regret.

This woman was plain and uninteresting. Probably childless like himself, Amos decided for no good reason. Her name would die with her, as perhaps his would, not from revulsion but from boredom.

‘Can I help you?’

There was a slightly accusatory tone to the voice. Amos was an intruder, a possible threat to the natural order of school life, an evil sprite intent on some wickedness against the gathering of innocents.

Amos fumbled for his warrant card, causing some concern to Marion or Marjorie or whatever she was called, who stepped back for fear he was searching for some offensive weapon.

Yet she still held open the door through which she had noiselessly materialized. A gap in the fence, a gate wide open and unlocked in any case, and a door ajar. It was as well that he could give his name and rank and legitimately request a chat with the headmistress in her vulnerable inner sanctum.

The youthful Karen was, as it turned out, better protected than her protégées, not least because the fearsome Marion shielded her tactfully but firmly from those who sought her. Only when Amos insisted that he speak to the head, and only the head, was he admitted with reluctance.

Marion, or Marjorie, unlocked the outer door to the head’s office, leading the way into what was presumably the secretary’s quarters, and walked straight in without a knock through a second door, leaving the first to swing back into Amos’s face as he followed.

The inner door was pulled closed before Amos reached it and he could hear a few words of explanation and apology before being informed perfunctorily: ‘Mrs Jackson will see you.’

As Amos had theorised, Jackson was 18 years old. At least, that was how she looked to Amos. Hardly old enough to be legally married, let alone have qualified as a teacher and certainly not sufficiently mature to be running a school. But then, Maid Marion probably did it for her.

Like her school buildings, Jackson lacked the substance of those who had gone before. She flustered and fussed. Amos noticed that she was well advanced in her pregnancy. A wedding photograph on her desk showed that her voluminous wedding dress had not entirely hidden the early stages of the bulge.

He preferred not to pass moral judgement, though his puritanical spirit found it hard to accept that a young woman who got pregnant before marriage should be running a primary school. Sex before, or indeed without, marriage was acceptable between consenting adults in private but really there was no excuse for getting pregnant in the 1990s. What sort of example was that for children who would soon enough be single mothers or absent fathers?

Years in the force had taught Amos that he should judge all those whom he interviewed solely on the grounds of truthfulness. Balanced against this were the last vestiges of his Baptist upbringing, long since left behind, which made him ponder whether young children should be in this young woman’s tender care.

Soon she would be off on maternity leave, leaving a void until she returned, baby in her arms distracting her from the work that was already abrogated to her administrative assistant. At least the baby would be part of her charges’ education, for better or worse.

Amos had time to ponder all this because Jackson flustered around with the papers on her desk, creating a mess for the invaluable Marion to put back in order.

The power behind the throne, easily sensing the head’s discomfort at being approached by a police officer, made to sit down but Jackson quickly interposed: ‘That’s all right, Joan, I shan’t need you.’

Joan then, not Marion or Marjorie. A name that was never really fashionable and never out of use, like Paul. Put your prejudices aside, Amos told himself.

Joan look distinctly put out. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked aggressively. ‘Are you quite sure?’ Her stare suggested otherwise but Jackson looked down at her papers rather than meet the persistent stare.

‘No, no, it’s all right Joan. Really.’

More shuffling of the papers on the desk. Joan showed no signs of budging. Jackson showed no sign of looking her in the eye. Finally Joan edged reluctantly to the door, taking six steps where two would have sufficed.

‘Please see we are not disturbed, Joan,’ the headmistress ordered with a moderately successful attempt at firmness and authority.

Jackson sat down and got up again a couple of times, called in her secretary to repeat that she was not to be disturbed and finally settled down, plonking her clasped hands on the desk.

‘Inspector, what have we done? We promise not to do it again.’

A weak smile matched the feebleness of her little joke. Amos returned the flicker of the mouth corners and began: ‘I have some names Mrs Jackson. I’d like to see if they match …’

Jackson was on her feet in a shot, cutting him short.

‘Inspector,’ she interrupted. ‘I can explain. It was all something and nothing. We had an internal inquiry and this talk of child abuse was all nonsense.’

‘But there were suspicions of child abuse?’ Amos inquired. He had been wondering how to raise the subject, or whether to raise it at all until he was sure there was a connection with this particular school. He had dreaded confronting the issue, hoping that his worst fears were unfounded. Why would Randall keep a list of victims that might come to light at any time?

Yet the girls’ names in the dead man’s diary seemed to point only one way, especially the references to sports activities with exclamation marks. Was Jackson about to confirm the abuse of children under the age of 11, albeit by denying it?

‘Joan is completely above reproach,’ Jackson responded. ‘She loved the children here as if they were her own. She never married. This was her life.’

And in her lifetime, women didn’t get pregnant outside marriage, Amos thought. Not respectable ones, anyway.

However, he did not voice his views on matrimony and motherhood, pointing out instead: ‘You speak in the past tense, Mrs Jackson. When are we talking about?’

‘Christmas ’89 . How could I forget?’ Jackson went on bitterly. ‘It was my first nativity service as deputy head. That wretched woman.’

‘I don’t mean Joan,’ she added hastily. ‘It was that wretched Thelma Vernon.’

‘Did she have a lot of children, this Mrs Vernon?’ Amos asked. Could she account for all the Vs in the diary after all?

‘Just two, and that was two too many. They were real pains.  I mean real pains. We had to handle them with mega kid gloves. They swore at the playground helpers and when we called Mr and Mrs Vernon in they accused us. They said their children never swore at home and couldn’t possibly have learnt the words there so they must have learnt them at school.

‘They said if it wasn’t the teachers then it must be the council house children and we really ought to keep them under control. What a nerve.’

‘So what happened?’ Amos prompted.

‘Nothing for the rest of the term. The Vernons were friends of the chairman of the school governors. He wouldn’t back us up. We just had to try to keep a lid on their children’s behaviour but the other children started using bad language when they saw that the Vernon boys could get away with it. So the other parents weren’t happy. I just didn’t see how we could get through the next two years before both boys went to secondary school.

‘We struggled on to the end of the autumn term, heaven knows how, then we had the incident you obviously know about,’ Jackson assumed erroneously. ‘It killed Mr Smith, you know. Although we were completely exonerated, and Mrs Vernon removed her little brats, he never got over it. He took early retirement at Easter and died two months later. But you know all that.’

‘Tell me about the contretemps. The accusation by the Vernons,’ he added hastily on realising that Jackson had no idea what a contretemps was.

The headmistress eyed him suspiciously. She was not sure what he was implying. However, after a short pause, she explained.

‘Well, as I said – and you obviously already know – it was at the nativity service on the last afternoon of term. A lot of parents were there and those who weren’t were supposed to come at the end of the service to take their children home.