A Deadly Lesson Read online

  PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a Science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.

  Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said ‘he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve’. Over twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*

  You can learn more about Paul’s writing at www.paulgitsham.com or www.facebook.com/dcijones

  *This is a lie, just ask any of the pupils he has taught.

  Also by Paul Gitsham, featuring DCI Warren Jones

  The Last Straw

  No Smoke Without Fire

  Blood is Thicker than Water (A DCI Warren Jones novella)

  Silent as the Grave

  A Case Gone Cold (A DCI Warren Jones novella)

  The Common Enemy

  A Deadly Lesson

  A DCI Warren Jones Novella

  Paul Gitsham

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2019

  Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008314378

  Contents

  Cover

  Author Bio

  Praise for

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Day One

  Day Two

  Day Three

  Day Four

  Day Five

  Day Six

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader

  Backads

  About the Publisher

  Welcome to the world Oscar!

  That’s a good strong name, I’ll have to use that one day.

  Lots of love, Uncle Paul XX

  Prologue

  The rope bit deeply into her throat, the rough hemp abrading her skin. The surprise of the attack left her with no time to make more than a strangled gasp. She grabbed the rope, desperately tugging at it, but it was no use. Try as she might, she couldn’t loosen it. By now, her vision was starting to fade, pinpricks of light exploding in front of her eyes like tiny supernovae in the night sky.

  Giving up on the rope, she groped blindly across the desk, her flailing hand knocking a pot of stationery over. Picking up a pencil, she struck out wildly over her shoulder, hoping to catch her assailant somewhere significant. A muffled grunt suggested that she might have struck something delicate, but there was no let-up on the pressure on her throat.

  Abandoning the pencil, she continued her desperate search. By now the only sound she could hear was the loud booming of her heart. Her vision had shrunk to a tiny tunnel and so she identified the stapler by touch rather than sight. Lifting it, she flipped it open, like she had a million times before. Was it even loaded? Too late to worry about that now, the whole world had turned black. She lifted the stapler, seeking her attacker’s hand. All she needed was a few seconds’ respite. Just a few seconds to fill her lungs with air. Just a few seconds…

  Day One

  DCI Warren Jones leant on his car horn. Obligingly, the uniformed officer standing at the gate shooed the gaggle of school kids trying to see through the closed gates out of the way.

  Ignoring the shouted questions from the nosy parkers, Warren pulled through the opening gates and into the school car park.

  Three patrol cars sat parked in the visitors’ spaces, their blue lights flickering maddeningly out of phase. Beside them, a Scenes of Crime van straddled a disabled spot. Both its sliding side doors and rear doors were open, allowing glimpses of the stacked shelves of equipment stowed neatly within.

  ‘Get yourself suited and booted, Moray, I’m going to have a word with the attending officer.’

  The bearded young DC unfolded his substantial bulk from the passenger seat and headed towards the van to find a paper suit, plastic booties and a hairnet.

  Warren recognised the uniformed sergeant standing by the reception desk.

  ‘DCI Jones, this is Mr Ball, head teacher.’

  The man next to him was about sixty years old, Warren judged. With a slim build and thin spectacles, he looked more like an accountant than the highly regarded head teacher that he had heard his wife talking about. By all accounts, Noah Ball was a strict disciplinarian, who’d led the struggling Sacred Heart Catholic Academy from Needing Improvement to an Outstanding OFSTED. At this moment, he was pale and shaken.

  ‘I believe that you found Ms Gwinnett’s body? She was the school’s deputy head, I understand?’

  The man nodded, before taking his glasses off and rubbing them vigorously with his tie.

  ‘I wonder if you would mind taking me through what happened?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Despite his appearance, the man’s voice was deep and steady. ‘I arrived at about 7 a.m. and went immediately to my office.’

  ‘How did you enter?’

  ‘Through the fire exit at the end of the admin corridor.’ He held up the ID badge on the lanyard around his neck. ‘The swipe cards of senior members of staff are programmed to allow us out-of-hours access.’

  ‘And I assume that would include the victim, Ms Gwinnett?’

  ‘Yes, her car was already parked in its usual spot. I just assumed that she had got in before me.’

  ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘Sometimes. As I said, we all have out-of-hours access.’

  ‘Could she have been here all night?’

  ‘I guess so. I didn’t actually see her leave.’

  Warren made a note.

  ‘When did you find her body?’

  He took a shuddering breath.

  ‘About fifteen minutes after I came in. She was supposed to be hosting a re-admission interview mid-morning for a young man who got himself suspended last week. I wanted to go over the behaviour contract that we were going to insist that he and his parents sign. No big deal really, just don’t swear at staff, do what he’s asked to do first time and meet all deadlines…’ He was starting to babble and Warren cleared his throat to refocus him.

  ‘I’m sorry, please forgive me. Anyway, I knocked on her door. There was no answer and the privacy shutters were across. I assumed that she’
d gone to the bathroom or was off doing some photocopying, so I returned to my office, printed a copy of the contract and went to put it on her desk.’

  He paused.

  ‘I didn’t see her at first, since the blinds were down and it was still quite dark. But then my eyes adjusted.’ He swallowed.

  ‘She was slumped forward on her desk. I called her name, but she didn’t move. I think I already knew she was dead. I guess I assumed she’d had a heart attack or something. I went to shake her and she sort of rolled over. That’s when I saw the colour of her face and the red welts across her throat. I checked her pulse – well, you do, don’t you? But I knew it was too late. Then I backed out and called the police.’

  ‘Was anybody else in school at the time?’

  He shrugged. ‘I saw Stanley Cruikshank, the deputy site manager walking across the car park. He’d just opened the main gates. But the side entrance to the building is open to the rest of the staff from 7 a.m. I know that some colleagues prefer to do their planning and photocopying first thing. Admin and finance usually come in between seven and seven-thirty.’

  ‘Would you be able to find out who was in the building or on site during the last few hours?’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Not really. All staff use swipe cards to enter the buildings outside of 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., and to access the school site through the main gate at other times, but we don’t log whose card is used.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘The unions didn’t like the idea that we could spy on staff’s working hours, not to mention the expense. Besides which, colleagues routinely leave and enter the building together.’

  ‘And once a person is inside the school building, can they move anywhere?’

  ‘Pretty much. Some of the offices which contain sensitive information have locks restricted to certain swipe cards to stop unauthorised access, and there are keypads on the computer suites and the Science and Technology labs to stop students messing around in there when staff aren’t present.’

  ‘What about Ms Gwinnett’s office?’

  ‘Her door lock is restricted to SLT swipe cards.’

  ‘SLT being Senior Leadership Team?’

  ‘Yes, sorry.’

  ‘When did you last see Ms Gwinnett?’

  ‘We had an SLT meeting yesterday evening. It finished about six-thirty and Jill headed back towards her office.’

  ‘Was anybody else with her?’

  Ball shrugged. ‘Sorry, I left immediately. I can give you the names of everyone else who was present at the meeting.’

  ‘Thank you, that would be very helpful.’ Warren snapped his notebook closed and called over the sergeant who’d greeted him at the door.

  ‘Can you escort Mr Ball outside and take a list of names from him.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘We’ll be wanting a full statement later, of course. I’m afraid that we’re going to have to ask for fingerprints and a DNA sample. Purely for exclusionary purposes.’ Warren looked carefully at the man as he made his request. Ball nodded his compliance – he appeared more shocked than nervous at the request; no indication either way of his guilt, Warren decided.

  ‘Sir.’ The flick of the sergeant’s eyes over Warren’s shoulder and a slight smile heralded the return of DC Moray Ruskin.

  ‘I think I’m going to have to start carrying my own suits with me.’

  Warren was amazed the poor lad could breathe, let alone move around.

  ‘Sorry, sir, he’s a bit bigger than most of the SOCOs that ride in the van.’ The technician accompanying Ruskin looked apologetic, as she handed Warren his own suit.

  At six foot five and eighteen stone, Moray Ruskin wasn’t the biggest officer in Hertfordshire Constabulary, but he was certainly the largest detective in Middlesbury CID.

  ‘You can’t go in like that, Moray – as soon as you bend over you’ll tear it open and compromise the scene. Why don’t you see if you can get a list of everyone in the building at the moment, both teachers and support staff. Arrange with DS Hutchinson for them to have fingerprints and DNA taken and start organising interviews. I want to prioritise everyone who was in that meeting last night, but don’t let anyone else leave until I say so. I also want to talk to the school’s governors.’

  Mustering as much dignity as he could, the Scotsman headed into the main reception area, towards the gaggle of upset-looking staff. Warren suppressed a sigh. It was his own fault; the lad was still a probationer and it had never even occurred to Warren that he’d need to carry a supply of bigger Tyvek suits than the usual large men’s size. Gary Hastings had been an experienced detective constable before Warren had even arrived at Middlesbury and so all the teething troubles had already been ironed out. It was going to take some time to get used to his replacement.

  Warren slipped his own paper suit on quickly and efficiently, although as usual he needed to lean against the wall whilst manoeuvring the plastic booties over his shoes.

  ‘What have we got?’ asked Warren as he stood on the threshold of the late deputy head’s office.

  Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison’s portly shape and Yorkshire accent made him recognisable even in his protective suit.

  ‘The deceased was found where she’s lying now, face down on this desk. According to Mr Ball, the desk was as you see it, and is uncharacteristically messy. Obviously, a full post-mortem will be needed, but preliminary indications are strangulation, probably by some sort of rough rope. You can see that by the marks on her throat.’ He held up a handheld infra-red gun. ‘Her core temperature is down eight degrees. It’s not a very reliable indicator, as you know, but my gut feeling is that she was killed last night, rather than this morning.’

  Warren looked around the room. The desk was a cheap, pine version, with a built-in set of three drawers by the occupant’s right knee. It had been positioned directly in front of the window, so that anyone working at it sat with their back to the door. In the centre of the room was a round wooden table flanked by two padded visitors’ chairs.

  Jillian Gwinnett’s head rested barely an inch from the open laptop’s keyboard. An upturned pencil pot had scattered its contents across the rest of the desk, and a pile of papers had been knocked so that half were on the edge of the table, and the remainder on the floor beneath.

  To the left of the room, and behind the victim, was an open archway. Warren walked across and looked into what seemed to be a narrow waiting room of sorts. Three hard-looking plastic chairs sat facing a wall adorned with a picture of Jesus and a pinboard covered in posters primarily dedicated to school rules. Four tall filing cabinets took up the remaining space. There was no natural light.

  Harrison had followed him.

  ‘I reckon this probably used to be a classroom, and that was the stockroom. Now it’s a waiting area for naughty kids.’

  ‘Could the killer have hidden in here?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Quite possibly. There’s no sign of forced entry, of either the office door or the window. The door has an electronic lock on it.’

  ‘So either the killer was already in this little corner area waiting for her, they entered with her, or they came in through the door and surprised her?’

  ‘I can’t imagine that they were able to surprise her, unless the victim was deaf. The electronic lock makes a loud whirring noise and an electronic beep for good measure.’

  ‘So that means they either came in with her – and so she knew her killer – or they were already in here, waiting for her.’

  ‘We’ll use UV to see if we can find any footwear impressions to give us a clue where the killer stood, but I wouldn’t bank on it with this type of carpet.’

  ‘What about other points of entry?’

  ‘The office is self-contained, with no connecting doors. The windows are double-glazed and can only be opened a few inches. There’s no sign that they’ve been forced wider than they should be.’

  ‘And what about exiting?’

  ‘You use a swipe card to enter, but there’s a mechanical handle
to exit for fire safety. The victim still has her card. Even assuming that there’s a log kept of entry and exit, it would be easy to either walk in with someone else, or have them open the door to let you in.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Harrison pointed to the desk.

  ‘The laptop is still switched on, but has powered down to hibernate mode. If Forensic IT can figure out when that happened, it might put some brackets around the time of death.’

  Warren made another note.

  ‘Any idea where the killer was standing?’

  ‘Assuming she wasn’t moved post-mortem, I imagine the killer stood directly behind her. Again, we’ll use the UV to see if we can find any footwear impressions.’

  ‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’

  ‘No rope at the scene. The pathologist is due in the next half-hour. When the body’s gone, we can do a proper finger-printing and trace evidence collection. I’ll try and send you a preliminary report by the end of today.’

  Warren recognised a dismissal when he heard one.

  * * *

  A murder inside a school, even out of hours, was the very definition of a major incident. There was no keeping it quiet; the first pupils were turned away by shellshocked staff – thus starting the social media rumour mill – before Warren had even been called.

  By 9.30 a.m., local media had got wind that something big was happening at the school, and by 10 a.m., the first long-distance images showing the activity around the school’s main entrance were being shown on the national 24-hour news channels. Nobody had released any information to the press yet, but that didn’t stop theories, ranging from a terrorist incident to a multiple shooting, being given airtime.

  In the briefing room at Middlesbury CID, Warren was more interested in dealing with facts.

  ‘The deceased is Ms Jillian Gwinnet, fifty-three years old and the deputy head of Sacred Heart Catholic Academy. She’d been in that post eight years, and at the school for seventeen in total. Her main subject specialism was Religious Studies, which she still taught on a reduced timetable. She was the member of senior staff specifically in charge of staff recruitment and wellbeing and she also took the lead on the most serious pupil discipline issues as well as child protection and safeguarding. Apparently, Ms Gwinnett was the one that the kids feared being sent to.