‘Why did she leave?’
‘Well, it was a little out of the blue, if I’m honest, and I never quite got to the bottom of it. It was time for a change was all she said; she was quite adamant about that. She had been here a long time, I suppose. She’d arrived here as a teaching assistant and not everyone becomes part of the furniture like me.’
‘It’s understandable, wanting to spread your wings,’ I say, half-genuinely, half-wanting to draw her out further. ‘I’ve been with the same team for most of my career and I guess I’ll have to spread mine eventually. I’ll miss them like crazy, though. I take it Serena, Miss Bailey, stayed in touch? Her first school must have been special to her.’
‘She sent a card the following Christmas.’
‘That was it? No reunions over the years?’
‘No reunions.’ Her expression tightens. ‘People come and go, Miss Kinsella. Of course, I would have loved to have heard about her progress. I told her on her last day that if she ever needed advice, a mentor, then she could call me any time. But life takes over, things move on, especially when you’re young. I don’t think she even went straight into a new role. I certainly didn’t receive a reference request for some time afterwards – a year or so, if I remember rightly.’
‘When exactly did she leave Riverdale?’
‘One moment.’ She turns back to the screen, presses a few buttons. ‘Just before Easter, 2012.’
Which means taking into account a notice period, she must have resigned very soon after her encounter with Holly Kemp. My brain screeches ‘curiously soon after’, and even more curiously – to the point of weird, I’d say – Mrs Gopal seems to know nothing of Serena’s starring role in ‘The Roommate’ drama. She certainly hasn’t mentioned it, and surely she would, what with it being back in the news? Surely she’d make the connection to my visit?
‘Mrs Gopal, is there any chance Miss Bailey could have been absent that afternoon and her absence not recorded?’
She brings her hands together, her face turning from warm to professionally stern. ‘Record-keeping has to be rigorous in this day and age. I’m sure you understand that more than most.’
‘So that’s a no?’
I’m not in the habit of being snippy with kindly women in their mid-sixties, but this could be big. I need answers, not policy statements.
She sighs. ‘Miss Kinsella, in my forty years of working in education, I’ve learned that definite “yes” or “no”s are as rare as hens’ teeth. What I will say is that it’s unlikely Serena was absent without it being recorded, but records are only as good as the humans who manage them. And I assume human error also exists in the police force, does it not?’
I knew it was impossible. I knew there was no way I could stand in front of a head teacher without feeling chastened.
I try another tack. ‘What if she’d just left a bit early – say two, two thirty? Would that have been recorded?’ I’m covering all bases, pre-empting Steele’s landslide of questions.
‘Possibly not, but you must understand, teachers don’t just “leave early” without good reason, especially those as diligent as Miss Bailey. Two, two thirty, is still very much part of the teaching day. Her class would need to be covered, arrangements made for home-time supervision. Of course, teachers are human. We’re not immune to needing doctors or dentist appointments like everyone else. Generally, though, staff try to schedule these outside school hours. But that’s not to say that emergencies don’t crop up that require someone to leave at short notice. That could have happened here, I suppose.’ She smiles. ‘You know, I do pride myself on my memory, Miss Kinsella – it’s an important asset in this job – however, I’m afraid the exact whereabouts of an individual over six years ago are a little beyond even me.’ She beckons me forward, then points at the screen – at the date 23.02.12 and the blue tick right next to it. ‘All I can go by is the system, and the system is telling me Miss Bailey was here.’
I don’t have the heart to ask if purchasing Lady Gaga tickets falls under the banner of ‘emergency’.
Somebody should have, though.
The officer who took Serena’s statement.
*
I phone through an update and get DC Susie Ferris’s name from Craig Cooke on the QT. Parnell might be the guy I’d trust with my life – let’s be honest, I’ve trusted him with my boyfriend and it amounts to the same thing – but when it comes to things like this, boy, does he ask a lot of questions. Far quicker to call Cookey, the soul of discretion – or the king of complete apathy, depending on your view.
DC Susie Ferris isn’t DC Susie Ferris anymore, in that she’s no longer a DC, or a Ferris, for that matter. It’s a DI Susie Grainger who sweeps into Caffè Nero, just a few minutes down from Lavender Hill Station, the place where Christopher Masters gave his fingerprints, admitted his guilt, then said no more. Detective Constable to Detective Inspector in six years is no mean feat, to say the least. She looks well on it, too. Sturdy, almost stately, with a swishy auburn bob, and the kind of clear, radiant skin that suggests five a day, eight hours a night, and a commitment to drinking the recommended daily water intake.
‘A full-fat Coke and a caramel brownie,’ she says, proving my health-nut radar to be wonky. Unable to decide, I order the same for myself and after a long wait in the queue, we sit down.
‘So, you obviously like it here?’ I say. ‘Clapham, I mean, not Nero’s.’ She smiles but I don’t sense a whole lot of warmth. ‘Had you been here long before the Masters case?’
I mask it as a pleasantry but – pathetic, I know – I’m trying to work out her age. Or more to the point, I’m trying to work out how far I’m lagging behind.
‘No, it was only my second case,’ she says, which isn’t conclusive, really. She could have been an early bird, or a late starter. She could have had a different career before joining up – Blake spent a whole ten years in banking before his proficiency in sums and spouting leadership shite became his fast-track ticket to superintendent. ‘I’ve only just come back to Lavender Hill, though. I followed Tess to Shepherd’s Bush for a couple of years, then Southwark, Stoke Newington, I headed up a project in Cyber Crime. I’ve been all over.’
‘You’re making me dizzy,’ I say, not sure whether to use her title. It feels odd to call someone ‘ma’am’ when there can’t be more than a couple of years between you. When you could have effectively shared a paddling pool, or a birthday party, or a first fag.
She twists the cap off her Coke. ‘Yeah, well, I’m a product of the Tess Dyer School. Never let the grass grow. Don’t ever get too comfortable.’
I used to think that when I joined the Met, I’d be a go-getter like Grainger and Dyer. The plucky little change junkie, never settling in one place long enough to become complacent, always looking for the bigger thing, the better thing, the chance to prove myself all over again.
You’d think with all the therapy I’ve had, I’d know myself better.
‘So come on then, Serena Bailey?’ Her manner’s frank and unsparing, designed to make you feel like you’re keeping her from something incredibly important. ‘You said on the phone you wanted to ask me about her.’