Morning Frost by Henry James Page A

man’s memory – it was his way, when searching for answers, to prompt as little as possible. He turned his attention back to the schoolboy who sat meekly to his left. They had been over the story once already, but Frost insisted on a re-run. Clarke studied the headmaster who in turn regarded the boy with scepticism, as if his story were the most unlikely chain of events imaginable. Neil Pearson concluded his account of escorting teacher Marie Roberts, in a state of extreme distress, out of the school lavatories, and how she clutched on to him desperately, refusing to let go in the safety of the headmaster’s office – her trauma rendering her helpless.
    ‘Go back a bit, to when you found Miss Roberts. Did you hear her cry out?’ Frost enquired. ‘Or did you find her upon entering the cubicle?’
    Pearson was a twelve-year-old second year with a shock of blond hair. He wore black-rimmed glasses, which he had the habit of touching with thumb and forefinger, like a nervous tic, every adjustment accompanied by an involuntary sniff.
    ‘Well,’ he said very quietly into a small, clenched fist, ‘she was just, sort of, lying there—’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Clarke interrupted, ‘do you mind speaking up. I know this isn’t easy …’
    ‘Excuse me, Detective,’ the head suddenly boomed. Clarke paused. He resumed in a softer tone. ‘Pardon me, if I may … but I would dearly like to know what exactly young Pearson here was doing in the staff lavatories.’
    Frost looked surprised. Both he and Clarke had overlooked this particular detail. Because the boy had found the woman, they had both assumed, wrongly it now seemed, that the attack had taken place in the children’s washroom.
    ‘Not only that, why did he visit the toilets at nine fifteen, when lessons had already started?’
    ‘I … I was in there all along.’ The boy adjusted his glasses again.
    ‘You what?’ Clarke leaned forward, amazed. ‘While Miss Roberts was being attacked?’
    The boy looked sheepish.
    ‘What the blazes …!’ the head stammered.
    ‘Sonny, what did you see?’ Frost urged. ‘Did you get a look at Miss Roberts’s attacker?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Nothing at all?’ Clarke said softly.
    ‘Come now, Pearson, stop buggering about and answer the lady! What were you doing in there?’
    The boy, aware that this commanding tone was ignored at his peril, shifted his attention from his feet and looked directly at the headmaster. ‘Making a spy-hole,’ he mumbled.
    ‘A what !’ The head raised a white eyebrow, and, with gown sleeve trailing across the desk, reached over and thwacked Pearson’s ear with the ruler. ‘Stupid boy!’
    Frost let out an inadvertent snort of laughter. The head settled back down, evidently calmer for having administered an act of violence. The boy’s ear pulsed red.
    ‘Listen, Neil,’ Clarke said to the boy, ignoring the two men, ‘did you hear someone enter the toilet?’
    ‘Err … no.’
    Frost was smirking. ‘So, how long had you been doing DIY in there?’ His levity rankled Clarke; a woman had been raped and there he was grinning at some schoolboy prank.
    ‘About fifteen minutes.’
    ‘Fifteen minutes!’ cried Bickerton. ‘What class were you supposed to be in, and why the hell did the teacher not wonder where you were?’ The idea of a pupil freely absconding and flouting the rules of the school seemed more troubling to him than the claim that a teacher had been raped on site.
    ‘PE. I got a sick note.’
    Bickerton rose and went to the door to address his secretary. ‘Miss Taylor, get me this halfwit’s form teacher, we’ll see about truancy at—’
    ‘Mr Bickerton,’ Frost interceded. ‘If we may keep a focus on why we’re here.’
    ‘Yes, of course, sorry.’ He returned to his seat.
    ‘Now, Neil,’ Frost said, slowly. Clarke could tell he was bored. ‘You were in the teachers’ toilets for fifteen minutes, from nine until nine fifteen, and in that time you were not aware