The teacher, p.1
The Teacher, page 1
The Teacher
ALSO BY TIM SULLIVAN
The Dentist
The Cyclist
The Patient
The Politician
The Monk
SHORT STORIES
The Lost Boys
The Ex-Wife
The Teacher
A DS CROSS THRILLER
TIM SULLIVAN
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2024 by Head of Zeus,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Tim Sullivan, 2024
The moral right of Tim Sullivan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781804545652
ISBN (E): 9781804545638
Cover design: Ben Prior
Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
For James Maw, my erstwhile partner in crime. One of the funniest and most talented people I know.
Contents
Also by Tim Sullivan
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
1
The victim’s head was at a grotesque and unnatural angle to his body, which lay crumpled like a pile of laundry that had been thrown down the narrow staircase. The victim was a white male, probably in his eighties and quite tall. There was a long smear of blood where his head had made contact with the wall as his body slid down it. His neck was, in all likelihood, broken. One thing was beyond question, however. Alistair Moreton was very much dead. His dog, a large German shepherd, lay nearby, watching protectively as the police team did their work.
‘Why call in the murder squad?’ DCI Ben Carson asked the young PC who had been first on the scene. Carson sounded like he was in an episode of a US crime show from the fifties. He was attending the scene with DS George Cross as Cross’s usual partner, DS Josie Ottey, was moving house. Carson’s referencing the ‘murder squad’ – tantamount to talking about himself in the third person, thought Cross – was par for the course. He was often prone to these moments of self-aggrandisement. They irritated the hell out of Ottey when she was within earshot, but Cross rarely noticed, as he was generally too engrossed in whatever they were working on.
‘He was alive when he fell,’ explained PC Trevor Bain nervously.
‘And how do you know that?’ asked Carson, looking to Cross for approval of his demand for precision. None was forthcoming.
‘You can tell from the amount of blood on the wall from the head wound. But I also noticed defence wounds on the deceased’s hands,’ replied Bain.
‘From the fall, presumably.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Bain who was then immediately alarmed that he had just contradicted a DCI so brazenly. He took a deep breath and awaited the deserved reprimand.
‘Why not?’ asked Carson.
‘Because they are puncture wounds, not consistent with a fall. More consistent with an attack.’
‘Good work,’ said Carson like the man manager and encourager he fancied himself to be. But in truth he was just trying to imply that he knew this full well himself and was testing the young officer. Training on the job, as it were.
‘Consistent with the puncture to the chest, as well as what appear to be bites to his legs,’ said Cross who was kneeling over the body.
‘Do we need to call animal control?’ asked Carson casting a nervous glance at the Alsatian who was still, seemingly, observing the scene.
‘What makes you so sure they are dog bites?’ asked Cross, standing up from examining the body. Something Carson hadn’t done. As a rule he never did. The truth was he had something of an aversion to dead bodies. Bit of a problem when it came to being a senior member of the Avon and Somerset Major Crime Unit (MCU). He’d managed to solve this by claiming he was more use in the office coordinating the investigation than at the scene. He said it gave him an objective overview of the case they were working on.
‘It would make more sense if it was a dog,’ he said as assertively as he could manage. ‘Was the stab the fatal wound? The cause of death?’ Carson was, as always, in need of quick answers, whether accurate or not.
‘I have no idea. The forensic pathologist will tell us,’ Cross replied.
‘Pretty obvious, I would’ve thought,’ continued Carson.
‘He has a massive injury to the back of his head. By the look of things a possible broken neck, either of which could have been fatal. Do you have any idea of the depth of the stab wound to the chest?’ asked Cross.
‘Of course not,’ spluttered Carson.
‘Yet you seem convinced it’s the cause of death,’ said Cross before leaving the room.
‘Can someone get that dog out of here?’ commanded Carson in an attempt to show everyone that he was really in charge.
But the animal had followed Cross out of the room. It was as if he was sure Cross was the one who’d have answers as to how his owner had died. Cross walked across the entrance hall into the living room.
It was a small cottage – probably eighteenth-century, Cross calculated. The ceilings were low with the occasional forehead-cracking beam, stretching wall to wall. The windows were leaded in a diamond formation which made the interior fairly dark, even when it was a bright day outside. There was a worn, plum-coloured velvet sofa opposite an open fire which was situated in an exposed brick wall. Also a leather armchair which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Pall Mall gentlemen’s club. It had a brass reading lamp on a stand at its side. The previous day’s copy of The Times was lying folded up on the floor, revealing a completed crossword in beautiful, meticulous, tiny handwriting. There were copies of The Spectator magazine, the Times Literary Supplement, the London Review of Books, the New York Review of Books and the Times Educational Supplement strewn on the floor surrounding the chair. A copy of Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady was open on a small table next to it. On the book a pair of half-moon reading glasses, and next to them a glass of whisky, with about a finger of Scotch left in it. There was a pipe in an ashtray, together with a soft leather pouch filled with tobacco and a silver tamping tool. The end of the pipe had been bitten down. Cross was pretty sure if he examined Alistair Moreton’s teeth, he would find them to be worn down and brown from holding the pipe in this mouth. There was a box of Swan Vesta safety matches. It spoke of a different era. The room itself had the sweet aroma of a thousand smoked pipes, also evidenced by the brown patina on the walls. The nicotine had given it a stain like a paint finish that many a fashionable interior designer might have been proud of.
The d
2
Cross saw Dr Michael Swift’s SUV pull up and join the numerous other vehicles outside the cottage. He knew he’d be livid about the vehicles already parked outside, thus making any examination of the tracks leading up to the building pointless. He got out of the car, looked at them and shook his head, before making a point to Dr Clare Hawkins as she got out of the passenger side. They would now claim the scene and insist that everyone either left or donned white forensic suits. Cross would have normally been wearing one immediately upon his arrival, together with DS Ottey. But they were in the boot of her car and Carson, unsurprisingly, didn’t have any in his. Cross thought the low-ceilinged location would pose a personally logistical challenge for the six-foot-eight Swift. He went out to greet them. It was a grey, wet day in the third week of September. An early morning downpour had filled the potholes in the lane. They reflected the clouds moving above like a hopscotch of animated mirrors.
‘Hello, matey,’ said Swift. Cross looked at him in horrified astonishment that he should address him in such a wholly unprofessional way, and at a crime scene no less. ‘No need to look like that. I was talking to your friend,’ Swift explained. Cross turned to see Moreton’s dog standing behind him. Hawkins and Swift laughed.
‘I see,’ replied Cross, failing to see any humour in it.
Swift handed him a white forensic suit which he put on, as he and Hawkins both donned theirs. They performed this ritual in silence. This was because Swift and Hawkins knew Cross was averse to small talk, as well as being completely inept at it. Indeed, there were times when he was not entirely sure it was even taking place. They had also learned from experience that any attempts on their part to fill in the silence had two inevitable consequences. The first was that it made them appear stupid. The second that it annoyed the detective in a way that he found difficult to get back from. So the best tactic was silence. Carson, who hadn’t learned this lesson despite having far more interaction with Cross than them, now appeared at the door.
‘DCI Carson, this is an honour,’ proclaimed Swift cheerfully.
‘What do you mean?’ Carson asked.
‘Seeing you at a crime scene,’ Swift replied.
Carson didn’t know whether this was an implied slight, but the constant insecurity about his status meant he took it as such.
‘I don’t know what you mean by that. I frequently attend crime scenes. Otherwise, how would I be able to perform my job properly? Wouldn’t you agree, DS Cross?’ he asked.
‘About the frequency of your presence at crime scenes or your ability to perform your job properly?’ asked Cross.
Swift stepped in to save the situation from getting any worse. ‘No disrespect was intended,’ he said and offered Carson a paper suit as a peace offering.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ came the reply. ‘I’m returning to the office.’ He looked at Cross who was now in his suit. ‘Are you not coming, George?’
‘I am not. I would’ve thought my attire would have suggested as much.’
‘Very well, any questions before I leave?’
‘You were my transport back to the unit—’ Cross began.
‘Constable, do you have a car?’ Carson addressed PC Bain.
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.
‘Then please drive DS Cross back to the MCU when he’s finished,’ Carson instructed him.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And another thing, call animal control and get them to pick up the dog,’ Carson continued.
‘No, don’t do that,’ countermanded Cross.
‘Why not?’ asked Carson.
‘I believe the dog may be evidence,’ continued Cross.
‘What?’
‘I believe the dog may be evidence,’ Cross repeated.
‘Of course,’ replied Carson, as if he knew very well this to be the case. ‘Call animal control anyway. It’ll need picking up at some point.’
He got into his car and drove off.
The constable got his mobile phone out.
‘Don’t make the call, Constable,’ said Cross.
‘But the DCI—’
‘Won’t know anything about it. If you call animal control, there will only be one outcome. The dog will be destroyed,’ said Cross.
‘But if he bit the victim?’ Bain protested.
‘Don’t make the same mistake as the DCI and jump to conclusions, Constable,’ replied Cross. He turned to Swift. ‘Dr Swift, we’ll need a swab of the dog’s teeth and mouth.’
‘Really?’ said Swift obviously apprehensive at the idea.
‘Yes, there are traces of blood.’
This didn’t make the prospect of swabbing the dog any more alluring. But Swift’s fear was overtaken by his constant need to ingratiate himself with Cross. He was still, after a couple of years at the Avon and Somerset force, desperate to learn from someone he considered to be uniquely gifted when it came to solving crime. He put his large aluminium equipment case down and got out a swab kit. He walked over and knelt by the dog who immediately retreated.
‘His name’s Ricky,’ said Cross.
‘Ricky?’
‘Short for Richard,’ said Cross.
‘Is that right?’ answered Swift.
‘As in Richard Wagner, according to Tom Holmes, the pub landlord who discovered the body. Ricky, sit.’ The dog did so and Cross took hold of his collar gently.
‘Perhaps I should speak to him in German,’ Swift joked.
‘I didn’t know you spoke German,’ replied Cross, impressed.
‘I don’t,’ answered Swift, immediately regretting his lame joke.
‘Then I’m not sure why you suggested it,’ said Cross.
Swift decided the best policy was just to move on. ‘Right, so now I’m just going to take a swab from your teeth, is that okay, Ricky?’ he asked nervously as if explaining this to a small child. The dog was completely compliant.
‘Could you also take a sample of his coat hairs?’ asked Cross.
‘Of course.’
Cross walked back into the house and saw Hawkins going about her work. Over the years of working with her he’d noticed how she was almost protective of the dead bodies she worked with, which he thought was generally indicative of her fastidious approach. It was as if she had a reverential respect for death. She worked away quietly, saying nothing to him as he came into view. She never felt the need to volunteer an immediate opinion at a scene, as many of her colleagues did, to prove to everyone that she knew what she was doing. She had also discovered that the quieter she was at a crime scene, the fewer questions she’d be asked. Questions she invariably wouldn’t have the answers to as yet. She wouldn’t have them until she’d got her client, as she referred to the bodies she worked with, back to the sanctuary of her mortuary table. There they would patiently reveal their secrets to her. Cross was unlike any other detectives she knew, as he generally never asked her a question at a crime scene. In the mortuary when her investigations were complete it was another matter. He was persistent, obdurate and detailed. As infuriating as he could be, he was still her favourite detective.
Cross stayed for a while because he liked to watch this team at work. He was intrigued by the way Dr Hawkins went about examining a body initially. Her process and routine were both considered and very systematic. He’d learnt a lot from just observing her. It had informed and reconfigured his initial approach to bodies at crime scenes. He was also fascinated by the way Swift walked into a room where a crime had been committed and just stood at the entrance for a good few minutes, taking it all in before he started processing it. He had noted how and where Swift started his search for the minuscule forensic clues that, so often unseen, ended up solving a case. He’d told Cross once that every location had its own language. You simply had to work out what that was before being able to interpret it.
