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.

‘Time of death is believed to be some time last night, rather than early this morning. She was unmarried and lived alone, so nobody reported her missing when she didn’t come home yesterday. We’re checking that with her neighbours.

‘She was last seen at about 6.30 p.m. by other colleagues, after a Senior Leadership Team meeting. They said that after the meeting concluded she went back to her office. By all accounts, she was the type of person who’d rather stay late than take marking home with her. Her car was still in its usual place when the last of her colleagues left, and appears to have been there overnight. We’re putting together a timeline at the moment.’

‘Any motives yet?’ asked DS David Hutchinson.

‘So far, nobody has a bad word to say about her, but it’s early days.’

Warren moved to the whiteboard.

‘First priority is interviewing all staff. That includes teachers, governors and support staff, both office and non-office based. I want to know where they were and what they were doing the previous day. Until we get a firmer time of death, we are assuming she was killed late evening, sometime after she left her meeting. Tony, I want you to take a lead on that. Organise a team from Welwyn and start doing preliminary interviews; see if you can get voluntary DNA and fingerprint samples. Flag anyone you are unhappy about for a further look. Liaise with Rachel to run names through the computer, and start generating Actions.’

‘Will do,’ replied DI Tony Sutton.

DS Rachel Pymm, the team’s officer in the case – the person responsible for organising all of the information flowing into the investigation – nodded her agreement, already making notes on her tablet computer.

‘It sounds as though CCTV at the school is limited, but let’s collect what we can. Can you also source footage from the local area and traffic video, Mags? See which registration plates were picked up on the ANPR cameras in the area. Pass it on to Rachel for cross-referencing against what the interviewees tell Tony.’

DS Mags Richardson was also jotting notes on a tablet device, although she was using a stylus. Her handwriting was clearly a lot neater than Warren’s. He’d had a go at using one and given up in frustration after half an hour, finding it took longer to correct the computer’s mistakes than it would have taken to handwrite his notes with a pen and notepad and then type them up.

‘The school is in a residential area, can you arrange for some door-knocking, Hutch? It was dark, and most folks probably had their curtains closed, but you never know.’

‘No problem.’ Hutchinson was a pen and paper man, like Warren, although his two-fingered typing was so slow he only transcribed his notes when he absolutely had to.

‘What about the pupils?’ asked Ruskin.

‘Interviewing all of them isn’t really practical. However, there will be a team of counsellors coming in later today to comfort pupils and staff. We will also be setting up a hotline for people to call with any information they might have, in confidence if necessary.’ Warren’s mouth twisted slightly. ‘My wife is a teacher and she says that schools run on caffeine and gossip. Hopefully, any useful information won’t be buried too deeply.’

He paused, before addressing his team.

‘Unless we find something very early on, this is going to be a big investigation. Middlesbury CID will be taking the lead as usual, and Detective Superintendent Grayson has already delegated the role of Senior Investigation Officer to me, with DI Sutton second-in-charge. DSI Grayson is down at headquarters organising extra bodies and support. He’ll likely spend most of his time at Welwyn, liaising with the chief officer team and the press. I don’t need to tell you how high profile this case is likely to be.’

Warren didn’t envy his boss that role; even for someone as political as John Grayson, the media interest would mean that the force’s every move would be subject to intense, not always flattering, scrutiny. Warren remembered all too well the fallout from the summer’s tumultuous events. He hoped they could wrap up the case quickly enough to prevent the brewing media storm from gaining too much energy.

* * *

Sacred Heart Catholic Academy’s Senior Leadership Team reflected the school’s relatively small size. With only six hundred pupils, plus a small sixth form, the school was run by one head teacher, one deputy head and two assistant heads, all of whom had been in attendance at the monthly late-night SLT meeting where Jillian Gwinnett had last been seen alive. Warren had decided to prioritise interviews with the SLT, along with the chair of the school’s governing body. To minimise collaboration between potential co-conspirators, the interviews were taking place simultaneously.

‘The SLT meets for about two hours every Wednesday after school during term-time. In addition, the first Monday of each month is an extended meeting for about three hours. Sometimes members of the governing body are invited to attend, although none of us were present yesterday evening.’

Father Jim Beresford was a vigorous looking man in his mid-sixties, with a shock of white hair. Chair of governors for the past nine years, he had been on the interview panel that had promoted Jillian Gwinnett to deputy head.

‘Just a formality, of course, but would you be able to tell me your whereabouts on Monday night, Father?’

‘I was in all night. I did some shopping that afternoon, then went home. I like to be prepared ahead of time, so I wrote the outline for next Sunday’s sermon. Then I read for a bit, watched the news and went to bed early.’

‘Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?’

Beresford looked uncomfortable.

‘I’m very sorry, DCI Jones, but I’m afraid there isn’t anyone. I live alone, and I didn’t have any visitors that evening.’

Warren looked at the man appraisingly, before smiling politely.

‘Not to worry, Father, I’m sure we’ll be able to eliminate you from our inquiries easily enough. Now tell me about Ms Gwinnett.’

‘Jill was an exceptional teacher of Religious Studies. I had the pleasure of observing one of her A level lessons recently and it was inspiring. Before she took on her current role, she was a very successful year head, taking a cohort all the way through from joining in year seven to the best GCSE exam results we’ve ever had. However, I think it was in her role as a member of the Senior Leadership Team that she really excelled.’

‘I believe that she was appointed as deputy head at the same time as Noah Ball was brought in as head?’ said Warren.

Father Beresford’s mouth twisted slightly. ‘They were difficult days, DCI Jones. We had just been judged as “Requires Improvement” by OFSTED. A diocesan inspection the same year was also rather damning. It was decided that the school needed fresh leadership. The former head teacher Russell Leigh agreed to take early retirement along with the then deputy head, and most of the governing body stepped down.’

‘Except for you.’

Beresford smiled tightly. ‘I had only been in post for six months and had been moved in from a successful school in Stevenage; the verdicts from OFSTED and the diocese were disappointing but not a complete surprise. It was decided that I would oversee the transition to a new leadership team.’

‘I see.’

Warren decided to change tack slightly.

‘Tell me more about Ms Gwinnett. Help me understand her as a person.’

The priest was silent for a few seconds, before pushing air through his lips.

‘Jill was a very good leader. Very good. And she knew it. She and Noah Ball turned this school around in spectacular fashion and much of that was Jill’s doing.’

‘I imagine that such a major change of direction for a school was not without its… challenges.’

Beresford gave a sigh.

‘There were some who felt that the pace of change was too rapid, and not everyone agreed with the school’s new direction. Some staff chose to move on, whilst others eventually accepted that was how it needed to be.’

‘And what about Ms Gwinnett’s appointment as deputy head?’

‘Jill had already been a well-respected year head for several years at the school. She wasn’t a member of the SLT at the time of the inspections and so wasn’t held accountable for the school’s shortcomings. It was decided that her appointment as deputy head would provide much needed continuity, whilst the school adjusted to Noah Ball’s leadership. Largely speaking, I would say her appointment was met with approval by the school community.’

‘And what about more recently?’

Beresford paused. ‘This is not for public consumption, you understand?’

‘I can’t make any promises, but I will be as discreet as possible.’

‘In answer to your question, Noah Ball is nearing retirement. He’ll be sixty in nine months’ time. When that happens, Jill would have had a very good chance of being appointed his successor.’

‘I would have thought that such a position has to be opened up to a public interview?’

‘Of course. But the opinion of the governing body holds a lot of sway in these matters.’

Warren wasn’t sure what the relevance of the information was, but something told him it was important.

* * *

Matthew Waring was ambitious, that much was obvious. Barely seven years into his teaching career and he’d already had a stint as head of Geography, and eighteen months previously had been made an assistant head; all before his thirtieth birthday. He too had been present at Monday night’s SLT meeting, and was in interview suite two opposite DI Tony Sutton.

‘I last saw Jill a little after six-thirty. I went back to her office with her for a quick chat before leaving for the day.’

‘What time was that?’ asked Sutton.

‘About quarter to seven, I suppose, perhaps a little later.’

‘Did you leave immediately?’

‘No, I stopped by my office to pick up some marking and finish up some paperwork.’

‘How long would you say that took.’

‘Um, fifteen minutes maybe?’

‘Do you know who else was still in the building?’

‘Not really, I guess some of the site team were probably still around. I didn’t see if anyone else from SLT went back to their office or if they all left immediately.’

‘What about the car park? Were there any other cars still parked there?’ asked Moray Ruskin. The murder of Jillian Gwinnett was the first homicide case to be handled by Middlesbury CID since the probationer had been assigned to the unit full-time. Tony Sutton had been appointed as Ruskin’s mentor and so far he was pleased with the young DC’s instincts.

Waring thought for a moment. ‘None that I saw, but the Geography department is at the other end of the school, so I park in the PE car park; everyone else is up on the main site.’

Ruskin jotted down his reply. Sutton said nothing, letting the silence stretch out. Waring stared back.

‘OK, thank you for your help, Mr Waring, we’ll call you if there is anything else we need.’ Sutton clicked off the recorder.

The door snicked closed behind the departing teacher.

Ruskin looked over at Sutton.

‘He’s lying.’

* * *

‘Cause of death was strangulation.’ Professor Ryan Jordan showed Warren a series of glossy photographs. ‘You can see the petechial haemorrhaging on the eyeballs, and the hyoid bone in the throat is broken.’ He swiped to the next photograph. ‘She was strangled with hemp rope approximately one and a half centimetres in diameter; you can see superficial scratching from the fibres.’

The photographs were far from the goriest images that Warren had seen, nevertheless he was glad that he’d already eaten his lunch. He found his appetite tended to disappear otherwise. At least Jordan hadn’t insisted on inviting him down to watch the procedure.

‘You can tell from the way in which the bruising extends around most of the circumference of her throat that the rope was looped and dropped over her head. There are burst blood vessels on the top of both shoulders, suggesting that the killer pushed down on them to increase leverage. I identified some loose textile fibres that might have been transferred by her killer.’

‘Any sign of sexual assault?’

‘None. Her clothing was apparently undisturbed and I’ve done a full internal examination.’

‘Any ideas about time of death?’

‘It’s a pretty poor measure, as you know, but the drop in her core temperature is consistent with her dying late yesterday evening, rather than early this morning. Stomach contents revealed the remains of pasta and tomato sauce, which she is reported to have had for lunch, and what appears to be some sort of fruit cake and some grapes, which matches the catering order for the meeting she attended after school. Again, the degree of digestion supports the idea that she died late evening.

‘I’m awaiting blood toxicology tests, but so far I see no evidence that she was drugged or had consumed alcohol recently.’

* * *

The first twenty-four hours in a homicide investigation are known as the ‘golden hours’. Based on her apparent time of death, the inquiry into Jillian Gwinnett’s murder would soon be entering its second day. The victim had lain undiscovered for anything up to twelve hours, giving her killer valuable time to hide evidence, and so Warren and his team were already playing catch-up. Therefore, Warren decided to call a late-evening briefing. Most of his team had already been on shift for twelve hours, but they were still bright-eyed and full of energy, coffee and adrenaline keeping fatigue at bay. It couldn’t last in the long-term, of course. After the initial flurry of activity, if the killer wasn’t apprehended, by necessity the investigation would soon settle down into a more sustainable routine.

‘Tony, why don’t you kick off?’

Sutton smoothed his rumpled shirt and ran a hand through his greying hair. He’d already been on shift for some hours when the initial call had come in and even coffee was starting to lose its effect.

‘First of all, technology is not on our side. Many of the school’s CCTV cameras are broken, awaiting the start of the new financial year before they can be repaired. The school has a swipe card system, but it’s a very basic one. Staff members’ cards are divided into groups depending on which doors they have permission to open and at what time, but the cards themselves don’t have any identifying information. The SLT group for example have full access, including out of hours, but normal teaching staff and admin can’t come on site before 7 a.m. and can’t re-enter after 5 p.m.

‘Individual internal door locks remember the last time they were opened, but not by whom. For fire safety, most doors can be opened manually by pressing a release button or using a mechanical handle on the inside, so there’s no log of when people exit. The main external doors do log entries but only record basic information, such as what group of card was used. And staff routinely come in and out in groups.’

‘Well, we wouldn’t want to make it too easy for an experienced detective such as yourself, Tony. What have we got so far?’ asked Warren.

‘We’ve accounted for most staff’s whereabouts. Aside from the site team and the SLT, most staff were long gone by the time the meeting was finished. The school is typically locked up by six or six-thirty, but pretty much everyone had left by five-thirty. The school is on an energy-saving drive and they turn the heating off at three-thirty after the kids go home. Apparently, the building is old and draughty, and this time of year it gets decidedly chilly within an hour or so. Most staff take their marking home or log on to the school network remotely.’

‘What about the SLT? I can’t imagine them sitting around in coats and scarves in their after-school meeting,’ asked Warren.

‘The school has bought a number of portable oil-filled electric radiators that can be used to heat individual rooms and offices. It works out cheaper than keeping the heating on.’

‘Did Gwinnett have one?’ asked Hutchinson.

‘Yes, but it wasn’t switched on,’ said Sutton.

‘Which suggests that she wasn’t expecting to stay too late that evening,’ noted Warren.

‘Or her killer was worried about the school’s electricity bill,’ said Rachel Pymm, only half joking.

‘So all of the teaching staff, except for the SLT, were gone by five-thirty?’

‘Almost all. The majority of staff drive or lift-share, so we’re cross-referencing the times they claim to have left with ANPR cameras. Three members of staff said they used public transport, we’re also checking them out. The only person unaccounted for so far is Giles Sanders, the head of Science. He says he walked home. He also claims not to have left until 6 p.m. I guess he must have kept his coat on.’

‘Any CCTV?’

Mags Richardson shook her head.

‘Nothing. The camera above the main entrance has been broken for weeks. Depending on his route home, he might pass by a local newsagent whose camera covers a few metres of the pavement outside her shop, but it’s unlikely.’

‘OK, let’s put him on the list for a follow-up interview. If we’re still struggling to rule him out, we’ll raise a warrant to track down his phone’s movements. Anything from the door-to-door, Hutch?’

‘Nothing,’ said Hutchinson. ‘As you said it was dark by 5 p.m. so even those who were home yesterday evening had their curtains closed.’

‘What about non-teaching staff?’

Sutton flicked over his notepad.

‘There were four cleaners on duty Monday. To keep costs down, they start cleaning at 2 p.m. in unused classrooms and the canteen and then knock-off at 5 p.m. They have all undergone criminal record checks, obviously, and they wear ID badges, but don’t have swipe card access. They sign in and out of the visitors’ log, and the receptionist remembers seeing them leave.’

‘How do they clean locked offices then?’ asked Ruskin.

‘They don’t really. Waste bins are left outside the door for emptying and sensitive paperwork is taken directly to the communal shredder. About once a month, the cleaners do a quick dust and hoover, but have to be let in to the office to do so. The occupant is expected to either stay in there or ensure that sensitive material is not on display and computers are password locked.’

‘Who else is on the list?’ asked Warren.

‘The canteen staff were all gone by three-thirty – again, they signed out at reception. The last to leave was the canteen head, who delivered a tray of refreshments to the conference room where the SLT had their meeting. She left it, planning to pick it up the following morning.’

‘What time did the reception and admin staff leave?’

‘Everyone was out by a few minutes past five. They all either drive or lift-share, so we’re checking them out.’

‘What about the rest of the governors? Father Beresford said that none of them attended yesterday’s SLT meeting, however he has no alibi.’

Sutton consulted his notebook again.

‘In addition to Father Beresford, the governing body consists of seven members, including two members of staff who have already been checked out. Of the remaining governors, two have alibis, the rest don’t.’

‘Start with those who don’t have an alibi,’ instructed Warren.

‘Mick Shorting is a parent governor. He separated from his wife last year. His kids stay three nights a week at their mum’s, and he doesn’t have a new partner. Guess where they were Monday? He works for the post office and does the early shift, so he reckons he was at home from mid-afternoon and in bed by about nine. We’re canvassing his neighbours, to see if anyone saw him.’

Sutton flicked over to the next page.

‘Samantha Maitland is a businesswoman, forty-two years old and married, no kids. No prior ties to the school before joining the board, but she has known Noah Ball for years because she is heavily involved in Catholic education charities. Apparently, she’s training for a marathon and says she was doing circuits of Middlesbury Common yesterday. She reckons it’s safer than running on the roads in the dark. We’ll pull the CCTV from the area to see if we can locate her. Unfortunately, she doesn’t wear one of those GPS fitness trackers.’

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