Teacher's Dead (5 page)

‘Miss,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Mrs Joseph. Thanks.’

‘Have you got a pen?’ she asked.

I gave her a pen from my jacket pocket and she quickly wrote something on a scrap of paper.

‘There you go. That’s my home phone number, my mobile number and my email address. Get in touch one way or another. If we are going to work together we should start soon. I’d be really interested to hear what you’ve found out.’

I took it from her and stood up. ‘Thanks. I have to go. I’ll be in touch soon. I’ve got a mobile, would you like my number?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s 07945 –’ She was just looking at me so I stopped. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want to write it down?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Just tell me and I’ll remember it’.

‘You will?’

‘I will,’ she said, so I told her, and she continued to look at me as she logged it in her brain.

As I was leaving a group of girls were entering the classroom to start their lesson. They gave us strange looks as if we were up to something dodgy, but my conscience was clear. I was just doing my job.

Although my mother followed the story of Mr Joseph’s murder, what she really wanted was the tabloid version. This wasn’t tabloid, though, this one was happening in her neighbourhood, and her son had witnessed it. The case was beginning to take over my life. I had always had an enquiring mind. When I was younger I went through a stage when all questions were about clouds, then I moved on to lightning, then snow, then trains. As I grew up I began to ask questions about cities, who planned them, who policed them, and who policed the police that policed them? All this made it easy for my mother to think that ‘my investigation’ was just another of my passing interests, a small chapter in my intellectual development. But I needed to tell her this was more that that. I told her what I had heard about Lionel and Ramzi, and I filled her in on my conversations with Mrs Joseph.

‘I’m on a mission, Mum.’

‘We’re all on a mission, son. My mission is to get a winning lottery ticket, I’ve just got to walk into the
right newsagent at the right time and everything will fall into place. What’s your mission?’

‘I want to find the truth.’

‘Well,’ she replied, as if talking to a naughty boy, ‘if you do well in school and you go on to university you could study philosophy, and then you could find the truth.’

‘No, Mum,’ I huffed in frustration. ‘I want to find out the truth about Mr Joseph’s killing. I call it “the case”.’

‘Yes, Jackson, it’s a police case, and that’s it.’

‘It’s my case too. I was there when it happened; there were no police there then. I saw it with my own eyes, but I know there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

My mother gestured towards the television that was turned on with the sound muted.

‘I think you’ve been watching too many detective films.’

‘This is serious, Mum. I may be employing the techniques of a detective but I have to get to the bottom of this. I need to do it for myself and in the name of justice.’

Her laugh told me that she wasn’t sure if she should be taking me seriously or not.

‘Employing the techniques of a detective? In the name of justice? Why don’t you chase a football or chase girls like other boys? I’m the only mother I know who has a son that goes into his room to think. If you’re an Einstein or a Sherlock Holmes let me
know. Come out of the closet now, I’ll stick by you.’

‘No, Mum, I don’t have any genius to declare, I just have a bit of detective work to do.’

‘OK. You do your detective work but you be careful. This is murder, not a missing mobile phone. Don’t go upsetting people, and don’t start making enemies.’

Knowing that my mother was OK with what I was doing, if not over the moon was good, and knowing that Mrs Joseph was on my side was also a great boost, so I wasted no time getting in touch with her. The day after she gave me her numbers I called her and we arranged to meet after school in the café of the local sports centre. I turned up right on time; she was already there reading a newspaper and eating a sandwich. She looked bright, a little wet, but bright.

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

‘A couple of hours,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been swimming. I go when I can, and just lately I’ve been going a lot. Swimming is a kind of meditation. I find that when I swim I forget about everything else. I have to; if I start thinking about anything else my technique goes to pot. Can I get you a drink?

I saw that she was drinking something that was bright orange.

‘I’ll have some of that, whatever it is.’

She stood up, and just before she turned to go to the drinks counter she handed me the newspaper.

‘Have a read.’

Somehow the newspaper had found out about the classroom talk that Mrs Joseph had given the day before. The article was full of exaggerations, it talked about a classroom packed full of eager pupils. I wasn’t sure how eagerness was measured, because they failed to mention the pupils that walked out. It said she talked passionately about how she was coping with losing her husband, but I was there all the time and as far as I recall she didn’t mention him once. It described her as glamorous, well, that’s cool, that’s how I describe my mum, but, it also described her as a wise widow, now that was strange. The term ‘a wise widow’ made me think of witches, and fortune-tellers, and spiders.

Mrs Joseph came back, handed me the bright orange drink and said, ‘Great, isn’t it? Last week I was a wilting housewife in mourning, this week I’m a glamorous wise widow. Maybe I should call them and ask them who I’m going to be next week.’ She was smiling, I wasn’t.

‘How do they get stories like this, how can they get away with printing that stuff?’ I moaned.

‘It has to be what they called “leaked”, by a so-called mole. In other words a spy.’

Now I was smiling.

‘Come off it. You really think that there was a spy in there yesterday?’

‘A spy is maybe too sophisticated a word, but there was definitely someone in there who went and talked to the press.’

I sipped the bright orange drink. It burnt my stomach.

‘Do you think they got paid for it?’

‘No, I doubt it,’ she replied. ‘I’m not that important. Can you swim?’

We talked for while about keeping fit, keeping sane, and keeping pets, then I got on to my subject.

‘Thanks for seeing me. Where shall we start?’

‘I’ll start,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about Lionel, but Ramzi Sanchin doesn’t live that far from me and I’ve been doing my own little investigation. Ramzi doesn’t have a birth certificate.’

I was confused. ‘So, what’s that mean? what’s that got to do with anything?’

‘He was found in a telephone box. He doesn’t know who his parents are, he doesn’t know where he was born, he doesn’t know if his parents ever gave him a name, and he doesn’t even know his real birthday. He was front-page news when he was found and people from all over the country were offering to give him a home. In the end he was given one by a wealthy well-connected family. As he started to grow up and his new family realised that he wasn’t going to be the dream baby they had in mind they washed their hands of him. Basically they gave him back to the social
services. He was then put into a care home for a couple of years and then fostered out. He has gone from foster home to foster home; from what I’ve worked out he’s never stayed in one home for more than two years. He was named after the first doctor to examine him after he was found.’

‘Not a good start,’ I said.

‘Not at all. He hasn’t been abused as far as I know, but I hear he’s always acted like there was a part of him missing, he’s always been a bit withdrawn. Most of the foster parents meant well, but he didn’t really connect with them. Lionel was the first friend he had.’

‘Interesting,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been checking out Lionel Ferrier.’

‘Did you know him before?’

‘I knew him,’ I said cautiously, ‘but I didn’t know much about him, except that if you lent him something he would probably break it and not care. What I know now is that he’s a bit dark. He used to make his friends play strange games with him and if you lost to someone you’d have to bite their nails. He liked torture treatments; he used to try to imagine the worse torture treatments he could. He used to pretend to shoot people with toy guns, anybody, you know, just people passing by, and you won’t believe this, he used to cut cats’ tails off.’

Up until then Mrs Joseph was looking interested, now she was looking shocked.

‘He cut cats’ tails off? What for? What did he do with them?’

‘Nothing as far as I know, he just did it for a laugh. I know where he lives, it’s crazy around there. The kids patrol the street as if they own it, and everyone knows everyone’s business. But Lionel didn’t really get on with the other kids at school, he was a loner, and his mum had a bit of a reputation.’

‘A reputation for what?’

‘I’m not sure, really. I’m just told she had a reputation. She was a bit of a loner too.’

‘There are all kinds of reputations. Maybe she’s a wise widow and her wisdom is highly sought,’ said Mrs Joseph sarcastically.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I’m only going by what people tell me.’

Mrs Joseph leaned forwards and put her elbows on the table.

‘You have done quite a bit of work, haven’t you?

‘I have my sources.’

‘And you’re so enthusiastic.’

‘I’m fired up at the moment because I hate the way it’s being reported in the newspapers.’

‘Yes, the evil press. But if you really want to know more you have to also realise that even the stuff that people tell you can be wrong. People have their prejudices. Especially when it comes to women. Just because a woman has no friends it doesn’t mean that
her son is a born killer. Look at this.’ She pointed to the newspaper. ‘Just because I sat in front of a group of kids it doesn’t make me a wise woman.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m trying to separate the facts from the hearsay, that’s why I’m going to step up my investigations. I’m going to go round and talk to Lionel’s mum. I’m going to tell her I’m on her side and speak to her face to face.’

Mrs Joseph sat back on the chair. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Why not? Do you mind?

‘No, it’s your move, but it has its risks.’

‘Yes I know, but why not get it straight from the horse’s mouth? It makes sense to me. Hey, why don’t you come?’

‘No, I couldn’t, and what would I say to her? “I’d like to know more about your son, it would help me and my friend Jackson.” I don’t think so. Anyway, don’t forget there’s a court case and I can’t be seen to be interfering with what a judge may see as the other side. But you, you’re a free agent.’

We spent an hour together in all and I came away refreshed and full of energy. Mrs Joseph stayed on at the sports centre to go to a Bums, Tums and Thighs class, whatever that was. As I was leaving we shook hands, which made me feel as if I had sealed some kind of deal, or was going on a dangerous mission.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘And don’t start investigating me, not without my permission, anyway.’

I wasn’t sure how to go about doing it but I was determined to go and see Lionel’s mother that evening. I didn’t have a phone number, so I thought the only thing I could do was walk up to the door and knock on it, but I didn’t even know the number of her house. I could have walked down Fentham Road and tried to judge where Norma’s house was and from there work out where Lionel’s house was, but that was leaving too much to chance, especially in hostile territory. I decided to go back and see Norma. She greeted me as if we were old friends, and so did Trinidad. Apparently when he really likes you he leaves large amounts of his fur on your trouser legs. He did that to me. Norma gave me a handful of sweets and Lionel’s house number. I stroked Trinidad, took a handful of his fur, and left.

My immediate concern was the possibility of walking into that gang. As I walked around the block I noticed that I was chewing my lips, and as I got closer to the road I chewed more hungrily. When I reached Fentham Road I was ready to eat myself, but I was
surprised to find the road relatively quiet. A bit of music could be heard, the dogs were barking quietly, and overall the street was quite welcoming. Walking down it I was half expecting the gang to jump out at me, but no, it was all so easy.

Thirty-five Fentham Road looked like any other house on the street. I rang the bell; it was so loud it made me jump. I heard someone coming. The person stopped behind the door, listening or peeping, I thought. A woman’s voice came from behind the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Hello. My name’s Jackson, Jackson Jones. Could I have a word with you?

‘You’re a bit young for a salesman. What are you trying to sell me?’

I couldn’t see her but somehow she could see me. ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything, I’m not a salesman, I’m a pupil from Marston Hall school.’

‘Oh no, not another one. Listen, I’m not in the mood for any of your pranks. I’ve had enough of you kids.’

I thought that distancing myself from whoever had been bothering her would help.

‘I promise you, Mrs Ferrier, I am not another one of those kids. I’ve never done any silly pranks, I have more important things to do. I’m just fed up of all the crazy rumours that I’m hearing and I just wanted to talk with you.’

‘Why? Are you a little detective, a baby cop? Is
your daddy a cop? What do you want to talk about?’

I didn’t want to be too specific. ‘I used to be a friend of Lionel’s. Do you remember he came home with an MP3 music player thing? I lent him that, we were mates. I just wanted to talk to you about a few things.’

‘Go away,’ she said.

‘Honestly, Mrs Ferrier, I won’t be long.’

‘It’s Miss Ferrier, and I said go away.’

‘Please,’ I pleaded.

‘I said go away now before the weather changes.’

A strange thing to say, I thought. ‘I’m not worried about the weather,’ I said. ‘I promise you I won’t be –’

‘Go,’ she interrupted. ‘Go now or else.’