‘Thanks – I’ll need something to send the insurance company. So we can prove exactly where these things came from.’
There’s the sound of feet on the stairs and Gislingham appears with one of the other forensics officers. Between them, they’re carrying a computer, swathed in plastic.
‘Any luck?’ asks Somer.
Gislingham makes a face. ‘We’ve been through upstairs and the loft, and there’s nothing. The computer doesn’t even have a password on it, and deffo no dodgy images or porn sites in the browser history. If he’s a paedophile he’s got a funny way of showing it.’
‘And that’s definitely the only machine he has – no laptop or tablet?’
He shakes his head. ‘Judging from the state of this thing our man is not exactly what I’d call a gadget geek. I mean look at it – it’s probably fifteen years old. These guys are going to rake it over just in case. But if you ask me, this is a dead end.’
*
Two hours later, at the school, Somer is wondering whether that’s going to be the theme of the entire day. Though perhaps ‘brick wall’ is a better analogy this time round. As she sits in the school secretary’s office, watching her fiddle about with a computer that’s clearly beyond her, she wonders, as she has many times before, what it is about schools and doctors’ surgeries that makes their administrators such paradigms of the passive-aggressive. Is it the job that does it or is that sort of person attracted to the job in the first place? The secretary at the last school she worked at could be the clone of the woman she’s looking at now. The same rigid hair, the same blouse and skirt and cardigan in shades of blue that don’t quite match, the same glasses hanging on a chain.
‘What date was it again?’ asks the woman, poking at the keyboard.
‘June 24th, 2015,’ says Somer, for the third time, with the same smile she had for the previous two, though her jaw is starting to ache with the effort.
The woman looks over her glasses at the screen. ‘Ah, here we are. According to the timetable, Mr Walsh had a double period with the third form that morning.’
‘And what time would that have started?’
‘Ten thirty.’
‘Nothing before that?’
The woman looks at her. ‘No. Like I said, he had the double period. Nothing else.’
‘And he was definitely here that day – he wasn’t off sick?’
The woman sighs audibly. ‘I would have to check the absence records to tell you that.’
Somer refreshes her smile. Again. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
More tapping at the keyboard, and then the phone rings. The woman picks it up. It’s clearly some immensely detailed query about the admissions process, and as Somer sits there, telling herself not to get pissed off, the door to the head’s office opens.
Sometimes – just sometimes – the uniform is useful.
‘Can I help you?’ asks the man, coming towards her. ‘Richard Geare, I’m the head.’ And then, seeing her smile (a real one this time), he smiles in turn. ‘It’s not spelled the same way, before you ask. I guess my parents weren’t to know. I tell myself it helps my cred with the kids, but I’m not sure it does really. They probably don’t even know who he is. Now if it was Tom Hiddleston, that might be different, but I’m a good ten years too old to pull that off.’
‘PC Erica Somer,’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘Miss Chapman is helping me with some information.’
‘About?’
‘One of your teachers. Donald Walsh.’
Geare looks curious. ‘And why, may I ask? Is there some sort of problem?’
Somer glances at the secretary, who’s still talking on the phone but trying to signal to the head. ‘Perhaps we could go into your office?’
The room is surprisingly modern for a school that takes so much care to look traditional. Smooth pale grey walls, a vase of white peonies, a desk in dark wood and steel.
‘You like it?’ he says, seeing her looking round. ‘My partner did it for me.’
‘She has good taste,’ says Somer, taking a seat. Geare does the same.
‘He, in fact. But yes. Hamish has great taste. So, how can I help you?’
‘I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The girl and young child who were found in a cellar in Oxford?’
Geare frowns. ‘What on earth can that possibly have to do with Donald Walsh, of all people?’
‘The house they were found in – it belongs to Mr Walsh’s uncle. His aunt’s husband, strictly speaking, they’re not actually related.’
Geare puts his fingertips together. ‘And?’
‘We’ve been trying to establish who visited the house, and when. Miss Chapman was helping me with a particular date in 2015. Checking whether Mr Walsh was in school that day.’
‘So that girl had been down there as long as that?’
Somer hesitates, just for a moment but long enough for Geare to register.
‘We’re not sure,’ she says.
He frowns again. ‘I confess I’m confused. Why do you want to know about one specific day, unless you think that was the day the girl was abducted?’
She flushes slightly. ‘Actually, it was the day Hannah Gardiner went missing. You may remember the case. We believe there may be a connection. And if there isn’t, we need to rule it out.’
‘And you think Donald Walsh could be that connection?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
There’s a silence. She can see him thinking.
‘Obviously we don’t want that information getting into the public domain.’
He waves a hand. ‘Of course not. I understand that. I’m just trying to reconcile what you just said with the Donald Walsh I know.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Diligent, hard-working. A little tiresome if I’m honest. And a bit reactionary, which can make him seem hostile on occasion.’
She nods, wondering if the real problem was Geare’s sexuality.
‘And in case you’re wondering,’ he says, ‘I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I’m gay. Either to the staff or the parents.’ He sits forward, suddenly earnest. ‘Look, PC Somer – Erica – I’ve only been in this job nine months and there are a lot of changes I want to make. This school may look like a museum piece but I have no intention of running it like one. This room,’ he says, gesturing, ‘is a better indication of the sort of school I want this to be than the crusty armchairs in the staff common room. Which is why I bring prospective parents here, long before I take them round the rest of the school.’
‘Perhaps you should change them as well.’
‘The staff?’
She smiles. ‘The armchairs.’
‘It’s on the list. But yes –’ more serious now ‘– it wouldn’t surprise me if there were some changes in the staff too.’
Somer can’t help herself glancing towards the door, and when she looks back Geare is smiling drily. ‘Miss Chapman was already planning to retire at the end of this term. Sometimes it’s best not to make too many changes all at once, don’t you find? But some of the teaching staff may choose to move on of their own accord. Not everyone shares my vision of where we need to go.’
‘And Walsh is one of them?’
‘Let’s put it this way, I suspect he’d probably have left already if he had another place to go. Or enough money not to care.’
‘I was going to ask you about that – well, indirectly. I believe Mr Walsh has had three different jobs in the last ten years. This one is the longest he’s had in that time. Is there anything you can tell me about that – about why he left the two previous schools?’
He frowns. ‘I’m not sure how much I can say, what with data protection –’
‘That doesn’t apply in a murder inquiry, sir. But feel free to check if that would give you some reassurance. To be honest, it’s in Mr Walsh’s interests that we get as full a picture as possible. If it turns out he had nothing to do with any of this, the sooner we establish that, the better. I’m sure you know what I mean.’