Traynor found himself up against Deidre Palmer.
“How long have you been working here Mrs Palmer?”
“It’s Ms, not Mrs, Constable. And I am sure your Inspector does not want you wasting time your time with such pointless questions. Roger Davidson was a nice guy, got on well with most of the staff though I sensed he was out of his depth as Deputy. I felt sorry for him being married to Felicity, definitely not my favourite person. But it is Patricia Patel you need to talk to.”
“Why is that Mrs, Ms Palmer?”
“I’ll leave you to work that out when you get a look at her, Constable.”
“Hello Mrs Robertson, my name is WPC Grant.”
Dorothy Robertson was the epitome of the grandmotherly teacher: a buxom woman with permed grey hair and glasses, but behind her gentle exterior was the sharpest of minds. She understood quantum mechanics and could make some sense out of it to even to the most average A level Physics student.
“I teach Physics and Chemistry.”
“Oh, they were my best subjects at school. What can you tell me about Roger Davidson Mrs Robertson?”
“I hardly knew him dear. I doubt that I had spoken to him more than a few times before he became Deputy. I thought he was rather young to be Deputy, but he clearly worked very hard.”
Spence took a liking to Jack Deans as soon as he walked in. If Spence had stayed in teaching, he probably would have ended up like this Industrial Arts teacher.
“How did you find Roger Davidson Jack?”
“I liked him Inspector. Thought he was a bit young to be Deputy, but he seemed to be coping quite well. But I’ll tell you what, he was a great teacher. I never had to go in and help him out with discipline; he had the knack of getting the kids interested.”
“How did he get on with the other staff?”
“I’d say he was fairly well-liked. People like Charlie Page weren’t keen on him, but then Charlie Page isn’t keen on most people.”
They both laughed.
“Don’t know if I should say this Inspector, but I think he was having a fling with one of the language teachers, Patricia Patel. She’s waiting outside.”
“Thank you Jack. Sorry we could not have met under better circumstances. Could you ask Miss Patel to come in please?”
She walked in with the aim of making an immediate impact. Her black jeans were tucked inside her knee-length leather boots. “Is that a fur coat she is wearing?” Spence thought to himself. “Good job Joanne Grant isn’t interviewing this one.” Patricia Patel held out her hand.
“Patricia Patel.”
Spence shook her hand. Even he could not fail to notice the carefully applied red nail polish. .
“D I Hargreaves. Please take a seat Miss Patel.”
“As you know Roger Davidson was murdered on Tuesday evening. We are making some general enquiries, trying to develop a picture of the man, his work, his friends, that sort of thing.”
“I understand Inspector.”
“What sort of teacher was Roger Davidson?”
“I know the students really liked him. He even managed to get the tougher kids to work well. I would say he was a natural. I was not surprised when Robert Hamsby asked him to be Deputy.”
“Did you know him well?”
“No, not really. We would chat during morning tea. I did have to see him a few times this term, as I am in the process of organising an excursion to Paris in the new year. I teach Modern Languages.”
“How did he get on with the rest of the staff?”
“I would say he was very well-regarded. His appointment as Deputy was well-received. And of course his wife works here, as I presume you know. They are – were - a devoted couple.”
Spence could not decide whether he allowed this interview to stretch out because he knew that Patricia Patel was lying through her teeth, or because he was interviewing Patricia Patel.
Robert Hamsby made sure that each officer was supplied with frequent cups of tea and cakes, courtesy of the Year 10 Hospitality class. Miss Tims looked after Spence, and he could have sworn that she nearly smiled at him on one occasion. Nearly.
Fran Wilcox was annoyed at Davidson’s appointment but shocked at what happened to him. Tim Hawkins expressed incredulity. Trevor Manston seemed unconcerned at what had happened. “A real cold fish Spence,” was Joanne Grant’s opinion. Spence spoke to Shane Tott, and he felt Bob Hamsby was right, “I won’t be sharing a 3Bs in the Brewer’s with this guy. A bit of an odd bod,” he thought.
And so it went on…
By early afternoon they were finished. Robert Hamsby invited them to sample a Woodlands school dinner that had been put aside for them; they all politely but quickly declined. The drive back to the station was an exercise in concentration. The roads had become even more treacherous and nobody was in the mood for conversation. Once back at the station, Spence spoke to the three of them.
“Good work all of you. I think you’d agree that was a pretty tough session today.”
Traynor, with a broad smile on his face, said, “Next time Spence, you get “Ms” Palmer.”
“Bit of a man-eater eh? Okay, I want you all to go through your interview sheets and we’ll swap notes tomorrow morning. Good work on the finance checks Traynor. Ferguson, you head off to Marlborough. Take it easy. WPC Grant, you and I are going to pay a visit to Mrs Davidson, whom I suspect you would agree was not the most popular member of staff?”
Mumbles of agreement all round.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mid-June
There was a growing feeling of anticipation amongst the thousands of people who had gathered. The hum of conversation was getting louder. Young girls were calling out to each other while serious middle-aged men had their cameras set up to take their time-lapse pictures. Few had managed to get any sleep since the midnight ceremony, “the darkest hour”. As they awaited the dawn ceremony, the rising of the sun behind the Heel Stone, the excitement mounted. This year’s summer solstice at Stonehenge was blessed with perfect weather. As the dawn broke and the sun appeared, there was wild cheering.
Constable Christine Jones had never attended a summer solstice ceremony before. She had only recently arrived at the Amesbury station and she loved it. Amesbury was less than thirty five miles from her home in Swindon, but it seemed a world away. The open space of Salisbury Plain was a far cry from the cramped flat she had grown up in on the Walcot Estate off Queen’s Drive in Swindon. And now here she was with the Druids, the hippies, the new-agers and the just plain inquisitive watching the sun rise.
“Look at them Chris, a load of bloody loonies.” Christine Jones’ partner, Sean Masters, did not share her fascination with what was happening.
“Oh come on Sean, I thought your lot were into voodoo and all that stuff.”
“Just because my parents are Jamaican does not mean we believe in black magic.”
Christine Jones laughed, and gently pushed him; she had learned quickly how to get a reaction from her partner.
Sean Masters got the joke, smiled, and said, “Okay, well done again. Anyway, we are supposed to be mingling, come on.”
There were police present but the crowd was well-behaved, and no trouble was