There’s no way Lenny would have asked for a transfer. Ever since I’ve known her, she’s worked towards becoming a detective.
‘If you ask me, Heller-Smith wants her out of the way,’ whispers Antonia, brushing biscuit crumbs from the shelf of her bust.
‘Lenny isn’t a threat.’
‘A lot of people are suggesting that the next chief constable should be a woman.’ She taps her nose as if she’s giving me the name of a sure thing running in the three-thirty at Doncaster.
The office door swings open and Lenny emerges, shrugging on her overcoat. ‘There’s a car downstairs.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Jodie Sheehan had a school locker.’
Lenny picks up keys at the front desk and we take a side door into the parking area. She presses the fob and waits for the telltale blink of lights to show her to the car.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask.
‘About what?’
‘Uniformed operations.’
‘We’re not married, Cyrus.’
‘You love this job,’ I say.
‘We’re not talking about it.’
‘Isn’t there something you can do?’
‘Yeah. I can tell people to mind their own business.’
Lenny eases out of the car park and we head south-west along Rectory Road until we reach the West Bridgford Baptist Church and turn right towards the River Trent. It’s ten minutes before she speaks again.
‘I’m thinking of retiring. I can take it next year and get a full pension.’
‘And do what?’
‘What do other people do? They travel, read books, binge watch TV . . .’
‘They die young.’
‘Not all of them.’
There is another long pause before her shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. ‘There are some right bastards loose on this earth, Cyrus. And some of them are supposed to be on the side of the angels.’
Forsyth Academy takes up a corner of the Clifton Playing Fields less than five hundred yards from where Jodie’s body was found. Knocked down, rebuilt and renamed eight years ago, it looks more like a germ warfare laboratory than a secondary school.
Lenny pulls up in front of a green electric barrier and presses the intercom, announcing herself to the office. The gate slides open and we drive past all-weather pitches where boys in black trousers and untucked white shirts are playing football. Meanwhile, the girls are sitting on benches in the weak sunshine, or clustered around tables in the quadrangle.
A young student comes to escort us, her blonde ponytail swinging as she walks. A piece of colourful braided rope is tied around her wrist.
‘Some of the girls are making them,’ she explains. ‘They’re in memory of Jodie. Would you like one? They’re free.’
She reaches into her pocket and produces four similar-looking bracelets of different colours. I choose one as Mr Graham appears, the executive head teacher.
‘Thank you, Cassie,’ he says, nodding to the girl. ‘That bracelet isn’t part of the official uniform.’
He notices me tying one around my wrist and lets the subject drop.
Mr Graham is in his late fifties with a long, thin face that falls like a landslip towards his chins. He whispers his greetings.
‘Dreadful business. Such a shock. We’re all feeling it – the staff, the students . . .’ The office door closes. ‘Some girls have been crying for days. I’ve called a school assembly for midday. What do I say to them?’
He seems to be addressing me. Instinctively, I understand why. He knows who I am – about my family – and this somehow gives me some special insight or monopoly on words that might help children cope with loss. I’m transported back to my first day at school following the funerals of my parents and sisters. My grandparents wanted to keep my life as normal as possible, so I went back to the same school. Miss Payne escorted me to my first class. Biology. As I walked into the room, I was greeted with absolute silence. A pin dropping would have sounded like a crashing cymbal. My eyes didn’t leave the floor. I don’t blame my classmates for staring at me. I blame Elias. It was always my brother’s fault.
‘Should I tell them Jodie was murdered?’ asks Mr Graham.
‘I think that ship has sailed,’ I reply, regretting my sarcasm. I start again. ‘Be honest. Don’t manufacture emotions. Don’t say, “I know what you’re going through,” or tell them you’ve lost someone too. Don’t offer your thoughts and prayers. Don’t look for a bright side. There isn’t any.’
‘What do I say?’
‘Listen.’
‘I can’t listen to them all.’
You can’t even listen to me.
‘Children are especially vulnerable to grief. Some will struggle with how to communicate their sadness, or fear, or confusion. Accept their feelings. Not all of them will have known Jodie, so don’t say that everyone will miss her. Say that you’re sad for her friends and her family.’
I want to warn him about inviting bereavement counsellors into the school, because they can reinforce the idea that people should be traumatised. I know this because I’ve been there, passed between psychiatrists, therapists and counsellors, who squawked at me like seagulls fighting over spilled chips; spending hours telling me how I should be feeling or asking me to vent, when I simply wanted to be left alone.
Lenny interrupts: ‘We’re here to look inside Jodie Sheehan’s locker.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Mr Graham, picking up his phone and asking his secretary to get ‘Mr Hendricks’.
‘Ian is Jodie’s form tutor,’ he explains. ‘Every child at Forsyth Academy is assigned a tutor who becomes their main adult contact at the school; someone they see every day, who calls the roll and checks their uniforms. Students are encouraged to talk to their tutor about any problems at home or at school. Issues around bullying, or homework, or participation.’
‘Did Jodie have any problems?’ I ask.
‘Ian will certainly know.’
‘How long was Jodie a student here?’
‘Since Year Seven. She was quite special because of her skating. Her parents approached me and asked if we could offer her extra tutoring and waive some of the normal rules regarding attendance. We accommodated Jodie’s absences as best we could.’
Someone knocks. The door opens. Ian Hendricks is wearing casual trousers and an open-necked shirt. He’s in his mid-thirties, slim and athletic, with flecks of grey in a ponytail that he has twirled into a Samurai knot at the back of his head. Straight away, I clock him as the ‘cool teacher’; a John Keating figure, who wins over his students by reading poetry, or standing on his desk, or listening to the popular music. I bet he has an Instagram account and uses Snapchat.
‘DCI Parvel and Dr Haven wish to look inside Jodie Sheehan’s locker,’ explains Mr Graham. ‘They also have some questions about Jodie. I thought you were the best person to ask.’
Hendricks looks less than keen. ‘I don’t have a key to her locker.’
‘Well, call maintenance and get bolt cutters.’
Moments later we’re escorted along a covered walkway to a two-storey brick building with stairs at either end. Children call out to Hendricks who waves back, using their first names.