Miss Tims looked as if she had just been asked to write out ‘War and Peace’.
“Very well, headmaster,” she replied in the most disapproving voice that she could muster.
The two men talked for almost an hour, drifting in and out of the case, old times and ‘whatever happened to so-and-so?’ Just as he was leaving, Spence asked one last question.
“What do you pay a deputy here?”
“About forty five thousand, plus a few perks. Why?”
“No reason, just interested.”
“7.00, Saturday night. I’ll text you the address. Bring someone if you like. Anyone on the scene?”
Susannah Pearson briefly flitted through Spence’s mind.
“No, pretty quiet in that area at the moment.”
As Spence walked along the main corridor, retracing his footsteps to the car park, he found himself behind a couple of the teachers.
“Did you hear about Roger Davidson? He was murdered last night.”
“What? Fuckin’ hell!”
“It will be all across the school by the time I’m half way along the A419,” thought Spence. And it was.
CHAPTER SIX
Early September
For a split second there was a stunned silence but very quickly there was loud applause and lots of “Good on you Rog,” and “Well done mate” and “Congratulations, Roger.”
Roger Davidson stood up, beaming like a Cheshire cat, nodding and raising his hand to thank the well-wishers. Gradually the noise died down. Patricia Patel stared at Roger Davidson as if she was examining his soul. She eventually gained his attention, smiled and ran her fingers slowly across her breasts. Without realising it, Robert Hamsby came to Roger Davidson’s rescue.
“Right, let’s get this show on the road. Enrolments this year are up, and our A level results were pretty good again. So looks like I can’t get rid of any of you for the time being. So much for the headmaster’s autonomy.”
Good hearted laughter followed.
“I’m going to hand over to our new Deputy Headmaster to set out the beginning of term organisation and the like. Mr Davidson, sir.”
As Roger Davidson stepped up to the front of the room, he dropped some papers, grabbed them quickly and nervously began his spiel about revised bell times, Year 7 orientation and all the other fascinating elements that go to make up the beginning of the school year.
“What a fucking joke! Roger Davidson of all people. What the hell is the boss thinking of?”
Charlie Page was not a happy man. He was venting his spleen to Toby Curtin who happened to be unlucky enough to be sitting next to him in the back row.
“Always trying to be ‘king of the kids’, playing stupid drama games in class and pretending to be everyone from Robin Hood to fucking John Kennedy.”
“Get over it Charlie, your turn’ll come.”
“It’s just not fair Toby. That should have been my job, mine. Bastard!”
Charlie Page was not the only person in the room who was unhappy and not everybody had called out their best wishes. Roger Davidson might be a great teacher, and might have impressed his headmaster, but there were those who were less impressed. Fran Wilcox was seething; she knew she was good, and obviously age was not something the headmaster was concerned about. Many, though not Deidre Palmer, were convinced the job was Tim Hawkins’. Tony Wilkes just shook his head in disbelief, and made no attempt to hide it when Robert Hamsby made his announcement. Shane Tott just stared, and snapped his pencil into smaller and smaller pieces. English teacher Christine Sumner’s folded arms said it all. Trevor Manston, head of Art, simply got up and walked out.
Roger Davidson continued.
“We’ll break into faculty groups now, same rooms as usual. Could department heads check through allocations, class lists etc. Let me know as soon as you can if there are any issues that need fixing up.”
Roger Davidson picked up his papers and watched the different staff groups head off to their meetings. He did not notice that Patricia Patel had walked over to him.
“Well done Roger, on the up and up.”
“Thank you Tricia.”
“So is that why you decided to jettison me? Was I going to make life too complicated for you? Where did the pressure come from, Hamsby or that bitch of a wife of yours?”
“Tricia, please, it’s over. It was good while it lasted but –“
“Good? I think your words were ‘I never knew sex could be this fucking amazing’. I do not get dropped Roger. And I know you still want me. I actually pity you having to get into bed with that wife of yours. Explains your ‘interesting’ extra-curricular activities I suppose.”
Patricia Patel let her last comment hang in the air. Anyone observing the two of them could not have failed to appreciate Roger Davidson’s discomfort as he shuffled from foot to foot and studiously avoided looking Patricia Patel in the eye.
“Make no mistake Roger, we are destined to be together and I always get what I want. I’ll give you a couple of days to get on top of things. Make some excuses to your dear Felicity. I expect you at my place after school on Thursday. I’ll leave the back door open. I will be waiting for you upstairs.”
She began to walk away but then turned back to him.
“And don’t disappoint me Roger, and don’t dare humiliate me. Who knows, maybe I’ll have a little extra for you? I’m always willing to try ‘something new’.”
Patricia Patel headed off to her meeting, not aware that Felicity Davidson had been watching the whole thing. Roger caught his wife’s gaze but was again saved by Robert Hamsby.
“Roger, let’s go to my office, couple of things we need to fix up.”
The two men sauntered to the headmaster’s office, deep in conversation.
Deirdre Palmer walked over to Felicity Davidson. She wasn’t keen on Felicity but felt it would be churlish not to make some congratulatory comment.
“One for the Davidson family Felicity. He’s done very well for himself.”
“Sure. While I do all the housework, look after Becca, cook, teach my classes, he swans around bullshit educational conferences. Still if he’s going to be boss by thirty five and head into Ofstead or similar, we’ve got to start shoving him up the ladder.”
“Ambitious Felicity. Woodlands not good enough for you?”
“Deidre, please. Do you think daddy would allow my husband to rot in a place like this?”
As Felicity Davidson walked away, Deidre said to herself, “Poor Roger.”
Mid November
Spence decided that a beverage at his favourite pub, The Brewers Arms at Wanborough, was needed before he could face the barrage of information that he knew Nigel Ferguson would have for him. As he slowly sipped his pint of Arkells 3Bs, he was thinking about Roger Davidson.
“Now Rog, mate, what have you done that would make someone want to slit your throat? Jealous school colleague? Possible, and we’ll certainly be checking out the staff but I think Bob Hamsby is probably right there. So what can it be? Jealous wife? Jilted lover? Homosexual imbroglio? Unpaid gambling debts? Wandering psychopath passing through town? Maybe Roger you started supporting Oxford United instead of the Town? Now there’s a possibility.”
Spence finished his beer and with great reluctance headed to his car. It was a brief