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?â He waited for more hands, and when there were none, he said, âIn that case, I suggest you spend as normal a lunchtime as is possible under the circumstances.â
While heâd 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 Bealeâs death sat alone, his head in his hands.
Woodend made his way across to the gaunt man. âIâm sorry to intrude, Mr . . .?â he said.
âBarnes,â the man replied, looking up. âSimon Barnes. Do you want to talk to me?â
âIf you wouldnât mind.â
âWhere should we . . . I mean, there must be somewhere quiet where we can . . .â
âIâm sure Mr Hargreaves would have no objection to us using his office,â Woodend said gently.
There were already half a dozen vehicles on the Spinnerâs 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.
âHow many of these have arrived since you got here?â she asked, indicating the other cars with a backward-pointing thumb.
One of the constables shrugged. âTwo?â he said. âOr it may have been three.â
Paniatowski sighed. âNo more,â she said.
âPardon, Sarge?â
âI donât want any more cars parking here until either weâve established that this is a wild goose, or the lab boys have been over the entire area.â
âThat wonât be popular,â the constable said.
âI donât really give a bugger whether itâs popular or not,â 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 wasnât the place where Verity Beale had been murdered, it was certainly where she had been knocked unconscious.
She turned back to the constables. âAnother thing,â she said. âTo minimise contamination of the scene, I want a clear path â about a yard wide â 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
âHow do we mark it out?â one of the constables asked.
âYou could use chalk,â Paniatowski suggested.
âBut we havenât got any chalk, Sarge. Itâs not somethinâ we normally carry with us.â
Paniatowski sighed again. âThis is a pub. Right?â
âRight.â
âAnd 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
âI never thought of that,â the constable admitted.
âYou amaze me,â Paniatowski said. âIf anybody comes looking for me, Iâll be in the bar, talking to the landlord.â
She turned and headed for the pub door. The two constables followed her progress with their eyes.
âNice arse,â the first one said.
âNice legs, too,â the second agreed. âBut what a ball-buster that woman really is.â
âAye,