“There have been a few complaints, now that you mention it,” Knight admitted.
Banks raised his eyebrows. “From pupils?”
Knight reddened. “Good Lord, no. Nothing like that. Have you any idea what happens at the merest hint of something like that these days?”
“No,” said Banks. “When I was at school the teachers used to thrash us with just about anything they could lay their hands on. Some of them enjoyed it, too.”
“Well, those days are over, thank the Lord.”
“Or the law.”
“Not a believer?”
“My job makes it difficult.”
“Yes, I can understand that.” Knight glanced toward the window. “Mine, too, sometimes. That’s one of the great challenges of faith, don’t you think?”
“So what sort of problems were you having with Terence Payne?”
Knight brought himself back from a long way away and sighed. “Oh, just little things. Nothing important in themselves, but they all add up.”
“For example?”
“Tardiness. Too many days off without a valid reason. Teachers may get generous holidays, Superintendent, but they are expected to be here during term time, barring some serious illness, of course.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Just a general sort of sloppiness. Exams not marked on time. Projects left unsupervised. Terry has a bit of temper, and he can get quite stroppy if you call him on anything.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“According to head of science, only since the new year.”
“And before that?”
“No problems at all. Terence Payne is a good teacher – knows his stuff – and he seemed popular with the pupils. None of us can believe what’s happened. We’re stunned. Just absolutely stunned.”
“Do you know his wife?”
“I don’t know her. I met her once at the staff Christmas party. Charming woman. A little reserved, perhaps, but charming nonetheless.”
“Does Terry have a colleague here called Geoff?”
“Yes. Geoffrey Brighouse. He’s the chemistry teacher. The two of them seemed pretty thick. Went out for a jar or two together every now and again.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Geoff’s been with us six years now. Solid sort of fellow. No trouble at all.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Of course.” Knight looked at his watch. “He should be over in the chemistry lab right now, preparing for his next class. Follow me.”
They walked outside. The day was becoming more and more muggy as the clouds thickened, threatening rain. Nothing new. Apart from the past few days, it had been raining pretty much every day on and off since the beginning of April.
Silverhill Comprehensive was one the few pre-war Gothic redbrick schools that hadn’t been sandblasted and converted into offices or luxury flats yet. Knots of adolescents lounged around the asphalt playground. They all seemed subdued, Banks thought, and a pall of gloom, fear and confusion hung about the place, palpable as a pea-souper. The groups weren’t mixed, Banks noticed; the girls stood in their own little conclaves, as if huddled together for comfort and security, staring down and scuffing their shoes on the asphalt as Banks and Knight walked by. The boys were a bit more animated; at least some of them were talking and there was a bit of the usual playful pushing and shoving. But the whole effect was eerie.
“It’s been like this since we heard,” said Knight, as if reading Banks’s mind. “People don’t realize how far-reaching and long-lasting the effects will be around this place. Some of the students may never get over it. It’ll blight their lives. It’s not just that we’ve lost a cherished pupil, but someone we put in a position of trust seems to be responsible for some abominable acts, if I’m not speaking out of turn.”
“You’re not,” said Banks. “And abominable only scratches the surface. But don’t tell the papers.”
“My lips are sealed. They’ve been around already, you know.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“I didn’t tell them anything. Nothing to tell, really. Here we are. The Bascombe Building.”
The Bascombe Building was a modern concrete-and-glass addition to the main school building. There was a plaque on the wall near the door, which read: “This building is dedicated to the memory of Frank Edward Bascombe, 1898-1971.”
“Who was he?” Banks asked, as they went in the door.
“A teacher here during the war,” Knight explained. “English teacher. This used to be part of the main building then, but it was hit by a stray doodlebug in October of 1944. Frank Bascombe was a hero. He got twelve children and another teacher out. Two pupils were killed in the attack. Just through here.” He opened the door to the chemistry lab, where a young man sat at the teacher’s desk in front of a sheaf of notes. He looked up. “Geoff. A Detective Superintendent Banks to see you.” Then he left, shutting the door behind him.
Banks hadn’t been in a school chemistry lab for thirty years or more, and though this one had far more modern fixtures than he remembered from his own school days, much of it was still the same: the high lab benches, Bunsen burners, test tubes, pipettes and beakers; the glass-fronted cabinet on the wall full of stoppered bottles containing sulfuric acid, potassium, sodium phosphate and such. What memories. It even smelled the same: slightly acrid, slightly rotten.
Banks remembered the first chemistry set his parents bought him for Christmas when he was thirteen, remembered the fine powdered alum, the blue copper sulfate and bright purple crystals of potassium permanganate. He liked to mix them all up and see what happened, paying no regard to the instructions or the safety precautions. Once he was heating some odd concoction over a candle at the kitchen table when the test tube cracked, making a mess all over the place. His mother went spare.
Brighouse, wearing a lightweight jacket and gray flannel trousers, not a lab coat, came forward and shook hands. He was a fresh-faced lad, about Payne’s age, with pale blue eyes, fair hair and a lobster complexion, as if he’d been able to find some sun and stayed out in it too long. His handshake was firm, dry and short. He noticed Banks looking around the lab.
“Bring back memories, does it?” he asked.
“A few.”
“Good ones, I hope?”
Banks nodded. He had enjoyed chemistry, but his teacher, “Titch” Barker, was one of the worst, most brutal bastards in the school. He used the rubber connecting lines of the Bunsen burners in his thrashings. Once he held Banks’s hand over a burner and made as if to light it, but he backed off at the last moment. Banks had seen the sadistic gleam in his eye, how much effort it had cost him not to strike the match. Banks hadn’t given him the satisfaction of a plea for mercy or an outward expression of fear, but he had been shaking inside.
“Anyway, it’s sodium today,” said Brighouse.
“Pardon?”
“Sodium. The way it’s so unstable in air. Always goes down well. The kids these days don’t have much of an attention span, so you have to give them pyrotechnics to keep them interested. Luckily, there’s plenty of scope for that in chemistry.”
“Ah.”
“Sit down.” He pointed toward a tall stool by the nearest bench. Banks sat in front of a rack of test tubes and a Bunsen burner. Brighouse sat opposite.
“I’m not sure I can help you in any way,” Brighouse began. “I know Terry, of course. We’re colleagues, and good mates to some extent. But I can’t say I know him well. He’s a very private person in many ways.”
“Stands to reason,” said Banks. “Look at what he was doing in private.”
Brighouse blinked. “Er… quite.”
“Mr. Brighouse-”
“Geoff. Please. Call me Geoff.”
“Right, Geoff,” said Banks, who always preferred the first name, as it gave him an odd sort of power over a suspect, which Geoff Brighouse certainly was in his eyes. “How long have you known Mr. Payne?”
“Since he first came here nearly two years ago.”
“He was teaching in Seacroft before then. Is that right?”