Death of a Teacher by Lis Howell Page B

calls.
    ‘Yes,’ Sheila Findley said. ‘You should invite someone from the Education Department to come here to discuss what to do. I can make a cold lunch.’
    If Ray Findley felt he was in control, that had to be good, Ro thought, and if Sheila was helping him that was even better. She felt she could leave them now.
     
    When she got back to Norbridge, Ro wondered what she should do now. Sergeant Liddle had gone home and the CID were in control. But there was no point her leaving before the end of what would have been her normal shift. Ben was safe with his grandparents and it was pointless disrupting his routine. Of course, there was always her plan to go and speak to the younger teacher from St Mungo’s about the broken window. The vandalism seemed trivial and irrelevant now.
    Ro’s mobile phone rang. Thinking of Ben as always, she fumbled for it in panic. She didn’t recognize the number on the display.
    ‘Ro, it’s Gerard Jackson.’
    ‘Oh. Hi, Jed.’
    ‘I’ve been home after working all night, and grabbed about two hours’ sleep, but I can’t relax. You wanted to talk to that other teacher about the vandalism at St Mungo’s. You’ve got her address, haven’t you? She might be able to tell us something relevant to the murder. We can take a car. I’ll be back at the station to pick you up in half an hour.’
    ‘Great.’ Ro felt a tingle of pleasure and then told herself to stop being an idiot.

Chapter Nine
    The wicked walk on every side.
    Psalm 12:8. Folio 61r. Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry
    A lison MacDonald had woken really late on Sunday and stayed under the duvet with Mark. When they eventually got out of bed, they didn’t watch the television or listen to the radio, and for once Mark didn’t log on to his laptop as soon as he got dressed.
    The night before they’d had a Chinese meal, and then gone to one of Mark’s favourite clubs, staying till about four in the morning. Alison hated these late night sessions, but she felt she owed him the time, as she had been such a misery the day before. At about midday on Sunday, they had dressed dopily before leaving the flat to wander in the summer sunshine to a bistro for brunch.
    Ali felt much better in the morning sunshine. St Mungo’s seemed manageable at a distance. And Mark was right: they did need the money. Leaving school wasn’t an option. She felt new enthusiasm talking about the future, discussing the house they wanted if they could possibly afford it in Timperley or Sale. There would always be a need for primary-school teachers, Mark said, and she had experience in two schools now.
    Mark was good with figures, and as they sat outside sipping cappuccinos and waiting for the food, he made calculations on the paper napkin with a biro. If Alison went on earning – and, he hinted, if she didn’t walk away in hysterics from a perfectly good job – a mortgage for a terraced house was definitely within their reach.
    He said, ‘So next year we should be able to afford to buy. It will be brilliant not to be in a flat. I’ll be the first one in the sales team to have my own house!’
    One of Mark’s five-a-side football pals had recently got married and bought a house in Urmston. He and his wife had a cream leather sofa and laminated wooden floors with a plain cream square rug. It all toned in mushroom and magnolia, like something out of a catalogue, and Mark had mentioned more than once how it was all do-able for him too.
    And meeting at weekends had its advantages, Mark thought. It was exciting. And it gave him a bit of space for doing his own thing in the week. Once he was married he’d give all that up, but you were only young once. And it meant he was always ready for a bit of real bedroom action by Friday. That was the most annoying thing – if Alison would only get her act together and arrive on Friday night, they could have much more nookie. He said as much over his Full English Breakfast.
    ‘Next Friday?’ Alison said.