Free The Red Herring by Sally Spencer

next few days, and I would like you to co-operate fully with the police, while, at the same time, sticking as closely to your normal classroom routine as possible. Any more questions?’ He waited for more hands, and when there were none, he said, ‘In that case, I suggest you spend as normal a lunchtime as is possible under the circumstances.’
    While he’d been addressing it, the staff had been a single entity, with its whole attention focused on the deputy headmaster. Now that entity was shattered, as the teachers broke up into their familiar cliques.
    But not all of them followed a herd instinct, Woodend noted. The teacher with the heavy glasses who had been consulting his watch made straight for the door. And the gaunt man who had seemed consumed with grief at the news of Verity Beale’s death sat alone, his head in his hands.
    Woodend made his way across to the gaunt man. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, Mr . . .?’ he said.
    â€˜Barnes,’ the man replied, looking up. ‘Simon Barnes. Do you want to talk to me?’
    â€˜If you wouldn’t mind.’
    â€˜Where should we . . . I mean, there must be somewhere quiet where we can . . .’
    â€˜I’m sure Mr Hargreaves would have no objection to us using his office,’ Woodend said gently.
    There were already half a dozen vehicles on the Spinner’s car park when Monika Paniatowski arrived, but seeing two uniformed constables standing there, the owners had all, perhaps wisely, decided to leave their cars as far away from the black Mini as possible.
    Paniatowski herself parked her MGA on the road, and walked over to the two uniformed officers.
    â€˜How many of these have arrived since you got here?’ she asked, indicating the other cars with a backward-pointing thumb.
    One of the constables shrugged. ‘Two?’ he said. ‘Or it may have been three.’
    Paniatowski sighed. ‘No more,’ she said.
    â€˜Pardon, Sarge?’
    â€˜I don’t want any more cars parking here until either we’ve established that this is a wild goose, or the lab boys have been over the entire area.’
    â€˜That won’t be popular,’ the constable said.
    â€˜I don’t really give a bugger whether it’s popular or not,’ Paniatowski told him.
    She walked around the front of the Mini. Between the end of the car park and the road was a flower border, which was edged with red bricks partly buried in the soil. She was not the least surprised to see that one of the bricks was missing. This was where it happened, she told herself. If it wasn’t the place where Verity Beale had been murdered, it was certainly where she had been knocked unconscious.
    She turned back to the constables. ‘Another thing,’ she said. ‘To minimise contamination of the scene, I want a clear path – about a yard wide – marked out from the road to the pub door. And I want you to make sure that anybody who comes to the pub sticks to it.’
    â€˜How do we mark it out?’ one of the constables asked.
    â€˜You could use chalk,’ Paniatowski suggested.
    â€˜But we haven’t got any chalk, Sarge. It’s not somethin’ we normally carry with us.’
    Paniatowski sighed again. ‘This is a pub. Right?’
    â€˜Right.’
    â€˜And pubs have dartboards. And when you play darts, you need to mark the score up. And what you mark it up with is chalk. So the chances are, the barman will have all the chalk you need.’
    â€˜I never thought of that,’ the constable admitted.
    â€˜You amaze me,’ Paniatowski said. ‘If anybody comes looking for me, I’ll be in the bar, talking to the landlord.’
    She turned and headed for the pub door. The two constables followed her progress with their eyes.
    â€˜Nice arse,’ the first one said.
    â€˜Nice legs, too,’ the second agreed. ‘But what a ball-buster that woman really is.’
    â€˜Aye,