The Good Teacher: A gripping thriller from the Kindle top ten bestselling author of ‘The Perfect Neighbours’

“Yes, Agatha.” Steve points to three bulging plastic sacks at the back of the desk. “All the usual crap you find in an English country hedgerow these days. It’s all bagged and labelled. I’ve got to go through it, but I doubt that any of the fag ends, condoms and cola cans will lead to a major breakthrough.”

Squashed down to foolish, I remain quiet for the rest of the meeting.

“You can go home now, Agatha. Catch up on your bedtime reading,” Matthews says as we make our way downstairs.

“I don’t mind staying on.”

“You go home and psyche yourself up for what you’ve got to do tomorrow.”

I dread he’ll mention the post-mortem, but he has another task in store.

“First thing you’re taking the grieving widow to identify her husband and then bringing her back here to view some mugshots. The inspector thinks it requires the softly, softly approach of a woman constable. Best not stay up all night with Hercule Poirot. We want you looking fresher than the corpse.”

Chapter 8

Zelda’s eye goes straight to the towering figure exercising at the barre. Her heart skips. The prodigal has returned – for the second time. She takes in the shiny blonde hair scooped into a ponytail and the baggy blue T-shirt that matches the friendly eyes. And the woollen legwarmers, of course – so old-fashioned and yet so becoming on Pippa Adams.

“Just join the end of the line, Pippa. We’re starting with ‘Happy Feet’,” she says, offhand, doing her utmost to her hide her delight at seeing Pippa back in class. She hasn’t been in a lesson for over three months – ever since Zelda mentioned doing a veterans’ number at the summer show. She’d misread the look of horror on Pippa’s face, putting her reluctance down to false modesty. “You’ve still got it, you know. Three years pounding the beat hasn’t made you completely flat-footed.”

“I’ve retired from performing,” Pippa had replied, and now Zelda hates herself for frightening her away. She had thought that time had put a safe distance between Pippa and her unknown demon. But how wrong she’d been. Pippa stopped attending the class after Zelda mentioned the summer show. She still comes to the studio sometimes but after-hours and she dances alone. Zelda has never talked about the show again or Pippa’s absence from class, too nervous of opening the old wound. But tonight, for whatever reason, she’s back in a dance class.

Zelda sets the iPhone in the speaker and looks along the line of dancers, all poised with their backs to her. Her gaze lingers on Pippa. She knows her statuesque presence will dominate this line-up as it has every other one for almost twenty years. Tears prick her eyes as her thoughts turn for the thousandth time to what might have been. What should have been. Until three years ago.

Zelda has been Pippa’s dance teacher since she was five. She seemed an unlikely ballet dancer at first – big for her age even then, thighs chubby in white nylon tights, her round face as pink as her ill-fitting leotard. But Zelda spotted the child’s innate sense of rhythm and ability to interpret the music. She looked beyond Pippa’s sturdy build and saw that special sparkle. She coached Pippa to the position of lead junior, tutored her in the holidays during her boarding school years, encouraged her dance degree and finally recommended her for her first professional role on a national tour with Marcos Productions.

Never before or since has she used a friendship to further a student’s career. But she went all out for Pippa, calling in a favour from her old flame, Barry Marcos. He wasn’t at all keen to see Pippa because of her height, but Zelda badgered him until he finally agreed to go through the motions of an audition. Zelda knew he still didn’t intend to take her on, so she set to work on Pippa. Her coaching, always thorough, became intensive. Hour upon hour of time steps, line after line of Suzy Qs, shuffle to shuffle of Buffalos, Zelda hammered out her demands like an overzealous drill sergeant. Pippa, the eager recruit, responded with pinpoint precision.

They both made sacrifices. She knew Pippa missed her brother’s fifth birthday party and incurred the not inconsiderable wrath of her young stepmother. For her part, Zelda cancelled two summer workshops to concentrate on Pippa. The loss of earnings and dent in her reputation seemed worth it. There was no doubt of their ultimate synergy: the expert coach teasing out the best performance and the talented pupil always willing to give it.

And Barry Marcos was so impressed that he not only accepted Pippa but also rearranged his chorus line to give her a solo spot. All of Zelda’s efforts seemed to have paid off until Pippa walked out on the opening night of her first professional show and rushed headlong into the police force. After all Zelda had done to get her the job, the betrayal ripped at her insides and she didn’t even know the reason. She still can’t believe it was down to acute stage fright, as Pippa’s mother suggested whenever the two met to mourn the loss of their golden girl.

“I’m so sorry I’ve let you down,” is all Pippa ever says if Zelda broaches the subject. Zelda has stopped asking. It’s like the most terrible bereavement. For Zelda, knowing that Pippa would never again perform on stage was like being left with only the photographs of a departed loved one. They drifted into a distant teacher/pupil relationship and things settled down until Zelda was stupid enough to mention the summer show. Now with her mouth firmly shut, she watches Pippa heel-toe smoothly over the dance floor, grateful for the third chance her reappearance offers.

I kick high. After the day I’ve had, staying in with a book, as Sergeant Sarcasm suggested, is the last thing I want. I needed to get out and do something I’m good at, but I didn’t want to practise alone tonight. I wanted to belong again, to be part of a dance troupe to get the companionship I used to love.

It’s great to be back, even in this improvers’ tap class. I owe it to Zelda to keep a low profile. By joining the advanced group I might force her to mention the summer show and neither of us wants that conversation again. I’ve caused Zelda enough hurt over the years. Besides, in this class, I don’t have to concentrate too hard on arms and legs. I can let my ears take the rhythm and my mind is free to wander.

As I grapevine my way across the studio, my thoughts turn to Gaby Brock. How must she be feeling – wrenched from her bed in the dead of night, beaten up and chained to a chair in her own home while her husband suffered an even worse fate? I miss a step as my insides drop. Gaby Brock has been through an ordeal. Ordeal, agony, trauma, nightmare – whatever they want to call it, I know how every single one of those words feels. Gaby Brock’s pain lasted several hours, which seemed like they’d never end, like time had stopped and there was no way out, no one else there except you and … My heart rate rockets and I miss another step.

I pull back from the precipice of my past and keep my thoughts on the case. What went through Gaby Brock’s mind as she sat bound and gagged in the darkness? She must have waited in complete dread of the brutal kidnappers returning. What kind of monsters abducted Carl Brock but let him bring his shoes with him? Matthews thinks it’s drugs. Was Carl Brock, schoolteacher, leading a double life: public servant by day, drug dealer by night? First rule of detection: know your victim. DI Bagley will get us digging into his past. Maybe we’ll find out he led a blameless existence. Then what will be the motive? A bungled kidnap, perhaps; the killers hoping to extort money from the Brocks. But what kind of money would a schoolteacher have?

DI Bagley seems battle hardened enough to find the men who did it, and so does DS Matthews – ready for a long fight, knowing the rules of engagement, but with a complete disregard for those on his own side. Is he as brusque with the other detective constables, or has he singled me out for special attention? I seem destined to be his whipping boy just as he appeared to be Bagley’s. Maybe, he doesn’t like women. I can see how spending time with DI Bagley might colour his view of the opposite sex.

The dance routine switches to a series of single time steps. With every shuffle, hop, step, I hear Matthews: Ag A Tha. A nickname on day one. It took three weeks for one to ferment at police college but that was worse: Lady Double-Barrel.

It was my fault then, too. I joined the police force as Philippa Woodford Adams. That was the name on my birth certificate and it had been unremarkable at boarding school. But the name and my private school accent nearly led to an early exit from the police course. The jokes and pranks from the other recruits became less funny and more merciless, but I dug in. No way would I give up. Never again would I cower or sob or beg. Police officers took control. They stood firm and stopped bad things, bad people. I needed that.

So I stuck it out and found a new use for my drama skills. By the end of the course I’d flattened my vowels and beaten my diphthongs into neutrality. I didn’t try for a regional accent. It wasn’t like the theatre where an actor learnt and repeated the same lines every night for the duration of the play. This had to be for my entire police career. Sounding more BBC than Berkeley Ball was enough to get me off the hit list by the time I joined my first police station. I also took the precaution of consigning “Woodford” to the “Middle Name(s)” box on my staff form. Thus I became Pippa Adams and fitted in.

Now I’m depressingly visible again. The only way to re-establish my anonymity will be to prove myself a good detective. That’ll mean sticking close to the disagreeable DS Matthews. He already seems to have worked out a motive. His suggestion of a drugs connection is no doubt based on experience. He’s probably met one or both of the murderers on a previous case.

“Line up everyone.” Zelda breaks into my thoughts. “Take your positions for the show number.” I sit down at the side and see the expectation in Zelda’s face change to resignation.

Chapter 9

It’s like walking through treacle, trying to shorten my stride to match Gaby’s. I tell myself to feel more compassion; the woman has been beaten to a pulp, walking must be painful. Linda Parry, who flanks Gaby’s other side, is struggling with her heels on the vinyl floor of the hospital. No doubt she’s grateful for the plodding pace.

Maybe there’s a chance that the formal identification process, the follow-up paperwork and then the trip to the station to view mugshots will make me miss the 11 a.m. post-mortem. I’m clutching at straws.

The atmosphere in the glazed corridor is stifling. Glad I ignored Mum’s advice and opted for bare legs. If it’s good enough for DI Bagley, I can get away with it too.

“Sorry it’s such a long walk,” I say. “This place is worse than the police station. Corridors everywhere and they all look alike. I forget where I am sometimes.”

Linda smiles, but Gaby seems not to hear.

When we reach the door to the viewing area, Linda cuts through my chatter. “You don’t have to do this, Gaby. I can go on my own.”

Gaby glances wearily at her sister-in-law. “I’m fine,” she says and pushes open the door.

A blue curtain is drawn across a large window. When I press a button on the wall, a hand appears around the curtain and pulls it back to expose another room. In the centre is a table draped by a cream sheet, with the contours of a body visible. The scene reminds me of the chapel of rest where I last saw my grandfather, except that this room lacks the yellow lilies and burning candles. Instead, several harsh fluorescent ceiling tubes light the space.

The attendant turns down the sheet to reveal Carl Brock’s head and shoulders. The morticians have taken great care to comb his hair and tidy his chin.

“Oh, my God.” Linda presses her hands against the window, sobbing.

Gaby Brock also steps nearer. Her eyes burn through the glass into the closed lids of the corpse. “Yes, this was my husband, Carl Brock.”

The vivid black and purple bruises around her eyes and across her forehead make it hard to gauge her reaction. Her eyes linger over his face, studying all his features. Despite the circumstances, she carries her battered body with poise, arms by her sides. Is she indifferent to her husband’s death? Or enveloped in a grim and silent grief?

Linda’s sobs become louder.

“Would you like to go to the hospital chapel for a few minutes, before we do the paperwork?” I ask, glancing at my watch, still lots of time until my date with post-mortem destiny.

Gaby shakes her head. “Better get it all over with.”

When we arrive at the police station, the sergeant handling the ID photos says that he can manage without me and I’m free to report to DI Bagley for the post-mortem. He suggests Linda get a coffee while Gaby goes through the photographs.

“I’ll show you where the canteen is, Mrs Parry,” I say, grasping the opportunity to delay my return to Bagley.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say, handing Linda a steaming polystyrene cup and sitting down opposite.

Linda peers into the coffee. “We weren’t that close, but it’s still a shock to see him lying there.”

She rests her open fingers against her throat. I note the gesture. If only I could remember what I’ve been taught about body language.

“It’s awful to think that Gaby was inside, all tied up when we called round,” Linda says, close to tears.

“You called round? What time was that?” I try to keep the eagerness out of my voice. And the smugness. This is news. DI Bagley was so intent on grilling Gaby Brock yesterday that she ignored Linda Parry.

“We dropped the kids at school and called on Gaby at about nine. We were supposed to be taking her to the Monday market. I thought she’d forgotten and gone out, although she doesn’t go out much.”

My excitement fades; the kidnappers would have been long gone by 9 a.m. Whether Bagley knows about it or not, it’s highly unlikely that Linda’s visit to the Brocks’ house will have a bearing on the case.

“Did you hear or see anything near the house?” I ask, but it’s hardly worth asking.

Linda shakes her head. “Only their milk on the doorstep. I moved it into the shade.”

“Will your sister-in-law be all right? I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet. She’s very quiet.”

“Gaby always is. That’s her way. She was the same when Pipkin died.”

“Who’s Pipkin?” I ask. Maybe getting some background information on the family will give a lead.

“Her pet cockatiel. He died a couple of months ago. Mangy old thing. First his tail feathers went black and then he started pulling them out of his chest. He was practically bald before he finally fell off his perch. Gaby adored that stupid bird. It became her world after she lost the baby.” She fishes a soggy tissue out of her handbag and blows her nose. I wait for her to continue and hope she will without prompting. I need to know, but am reluctant to probe into the obvious tragedy.

“She had a miscarriage last year. Didn’t say much then either. Didn’t even cry. Carl took a week off school to look after her. He wouldn’t even let me visit so she had complete rest. When I did see her, she was quiet. Didn’t want to talk about it.” She cups her drink and blows on the surface. “After another week she picked herself up and carried on as if nothing had happened. Threw herself into her yoga. Not classes though; she said it was more restful to use tapes at home. I expect she’ll return to it now.”

My eyes moisten. At least the books on yoga on the Brocks’ bookcase will be read again. I’m about to give Linda’s hand a sympathetic squeeze but pull back when I remember Bagley’s earlier rebuke about being overfamiliar.

“How long were Gaby and Carl married?”

“Two years. A whirlwind romance. She was a classroom assistant at the school where he works. They got married soon after they met.”

“Does she still work there?”

“She gave up work after they married.” She takes a sip of coffee and wraps her arms around herself. “They hoped to start a family.”

“Did Carl like being a teacher?”

“He loved it. He thought he could make a difference. Especially to the ones everyone else had written off as the no-hopers.” Her fingers touch her throat again, and she breaks into loud sobs.

Grief. I remember: an open hand to the chest means the woman is grieving despite saying she wasn’t close to her brother. Ditching Bagley’s instructions, I pull my chair around, lean a consoling arm around Linda’s shoulder and let her cry. I catch sight of my watch and sigh; acres of time to spare.

Chapter 10

“You can skip the post-mortem,” DS Matthews says when I return to the general office.

“Has it been postponed?” It’s bound to be his idea of a joke and next he’ll tell me I have to go to it after all.

“The DI is doing it on her own. She wants you to see some real CID work.” He slips his jacket over his shoulders. “The desk sergeant says Gaby Brock picked out one of the mugshots. It’s Samuel McKenzie.”

I recognize the name. “Isn’t he a suspected drug dealer?”

“He’s a known dealer, Agatha. Dealing, running a brothel, illegal gambling, blackmail. A regular pillar of the community. We’re off to the Dynamite Club to rattle his cage.”

“The night club?” I’ve made a fair few drunk and disorderly arrests outside. “Will it be open at this time of day?”

“Calling it a night club is like saying the Danescott Kebab House is a gourmet restaurant. The Dynamite is little more than a strip joint. The sort of facilities McKenzie offers have a steady supply of punters twenty-four seven. It’s supposed to be members only before six, but McKenzie wouldn’t let a little thing like the licensing laws get in his way.”

As expected, Matthews drives in silence along the endless rows of industrial units and warehouses. This time I make no attempt at conversation. Don’t want to give him more ammunition. I intend to limit his weaponry to the Agatha tag.

The silence gives me a chance to mull over the events of the morning. The chat with Linda Parry answered a few questions. Poor Gaby, how could so much tragedy attach itself to one person? The Brocks’ circus-themed room was intended for the baby they lost, and the cage in the study was for the recently departed pet cockatiel. Pipkin is the kind of daft name I might have given one of my teddy bears, if they weren’t named after Christie characters.

And Linda Parry displays her sorrow whereas Gaby Brock conceals hers. I remember how Mum and I clung to each other, wailing long and loud, when my grandfather died. I can’t imagine keeping grief to myself. Other emotions – terror, rage, despair – I can hold those, but not grief.

We turn right into Minster Meadow, the dual carriageway that forms the eastern approach to Penbury town centre. It’s bordered by elegant town houses, many displaying discreet Bed and Breakfast notices. Two pubs stand on either side of the road like a pair of bookends. Hanging baskets with patriotic displays of salvia, alyssum and lobelia front them both, while banners proclaim their respective commitments to family menus and Sky Sports.

Matthews slows down as Minster Meadow narrows to two lanes and becomes dwarfed by the minster itself. The 800-year-old walls stand solid and clean on velvety green lawns. No errant daisies or incipient clover here, thanks to the Briggham diocese grounds maintenance team. Although I see the minster as an ancient monument rather than a place of worship, I rarely visit. Crossing its slavishly swept threshold is like trying to penetrate a precious jewel. I’ve no business defiling its stone-carved floor with my size eight deck shoes. I content myself with frequent trips to the adjoining refectory for spaghetti bolognaise followed by apple crumble and custard.

Beyond the minster is a parade of shops. I make out a hardware store, a bank and a sandwich bar. Across a side road is a high-wire fence around a school playground. Swan Academy. No unauthorized entry.

We drive over the East Bridge, built fifty years earlier to span the River Penn. At this time of year its vast stone arches seem ostentatious for the grubby stream of water trickling below. However, by October, heavy rains in the Welsh mountains will swell the river and hide its banks. They currently stand naked and filthy. Another week of drought and they’ll reveal the river’s insides: rusted pushchairs, buckled bicycle frames, fleshless mattresses.

The town centre proper begins after the bridge. There’s a multi-storey car park, an antique shop, two estate agents, a health food shop, three pubs – without hanging baskets – and any number of shoe shops. And then, on the right-hand side, is the Dynamite Club.

Matthews pulls into the deliveries bay in front of the club. “We ought to be able to arrest him just for that.” He shakes his head at a neon sign that promises Live Music

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