Good Girl, Bad Girl(77)

“Married. Three kids. Wife pregnant with a fourth. No priors, not even a speeding ticket. According to the school trustees he’s a rising star. Popular with his students and his colleagues.”

A school bus pulls out in front of us and chugs gently forward until the next stop. Schoolkids jostle to get on board, some staring at mobile phones or plugged into earbuds.

Lenny is still talking.

“Hendricks graduated from University of Leeds in 2011 and transitioned to teaching two years later. He’s been at Forsyth Academy since 2014 working in the English department and taking religious education classes.”

“The righteous ones are the biggest hypocrites.”

“What about the liars?”

“Them too.”

The two-story bungalow looks like a cookie-cutter version of every other dwelling in the cul-de-sac. Signs urge motorists to slow down because children are ahead. This is also evident from the turning circle, which has become a playground full of ramps, hopscotch grids, and an obstacle course made from orange traffic cones and garbage bins.

At least a dozen youngsters are playing outside, some waiting to be taken to school and others too young to be institutionalized. They’re riding an assortment of bicycles and tricycles and scooters beneath a large laminated “Neighborhood Watch” sign.

Lenny presses the door buzzer and glances at her feet, where the doormat reads: “This house runs on coffee and Jesus.”

A woman answers. She’s holding a toddler on her right hip and has a familiar bulge beneath her sweater. Her curly hair is cut too short for hair clips so that stray locks have fallen across her eyes. She puffs her cheeks and blows them away.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Parvel; this is Dr. Cyrus Haven. Is your husband at home?”

Her forehead creases just above the bridge of her nose. Two young boys sprint up the front path, pushing past us and grabbing at her thighs, afraid of missing out. Both are dressed in school uniforms and have their hair neatly combed, parted on the left.

“Ian is about to leave for work,” she says, glancing above her. “Can this wait?”

“No, I’m sorry,” says Lenny apologetically.

The sound of an electric keyboard reverberates from upstairs, thumping out chords to a rock beat.

“I’m Cathy, by the way,” she says, showing us to a front room while her oldest boy is sent to fetch his father. He sprints up the stairs. Moments later, the music stops.

“Ian plays in a band at our church,” she explains.

“What church is that?” I ask.

“Trent Vineyard.”

I know the place. It’s one of those newer churches where Christianity comes with a light show and pumping rock music in a cavernous warehouse on an industrial estate in Lenton. Thousands of people show up every Sunday, praising the Lord and opening their wallets because salvation is available on a weekly payment plan—all credit cards accepted.

Ian Hendricks appears behind her, looking concerned yet greeting us warmly.

“I’ll take the boys to school,” Cathy says, shooing them into the hallway, where she wrestles them into coats and scarves. We can hear her talking. “Daddy is busy. Yes, the police . . . No, nothing is wrong.”

Hendricks smiles tiredly.

“Do you remember us?” asks Lenny.

“Yes, of course,” says Hendricks. “You’re DCI Parvel and . . . ?” He clicks his fingers, trying to remember me.

“Cyrus Haven,” I say.

“Yes, that’s right. The psychologist.”

Lenny unbuttons her overcoat, letting it flare out as she settles into an armchair.

“What car do you drive, Mr. Hendricks?”

“We have a Honda Odyssey—a seven-seater.”

“Do you also own a Peugeot 207?”

“That’s my wife’s car.”

“Were you driving a Peugeot 207 on the night of the fireworks?”

Hendricks hesitates. “To be honest I can’t remember.”

“You went to the fireworks.”

“Yes, but we left early. Tristan had a temperature. We brought him home.”

“But you went out again.”

Hendricks’s tongue pokes out, looking to moisten his top lip, but can’t find the spit. I can see him trying to work out how much Lenny knows.

“I went to get fish and chips for dinner.”

“In Southchurch Drive?”

“Yes.”

Lenny waits.

Hendricks breaks. “I bumped into Jodie Sheehan. She was outside on the footpath. I offered her a lift home. There were lots of young lads roaming about. Some of them were drunk. Rowdy. I thought it wasn’t safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” asks Lenny.

Hendricks seems to gaze past us helplessly. “I didn’t think it was important. I mean, you’d already arrested someone, so I knew . . . I didn’t want to . . .”

“Get involved.”

He nods, searching for understanding.

“We hadn’t arrested Craig Farley when we spoke to you,” says Lenny.

“I knew it wouldn’t look good. Teachers aren’t supposed to fraternize with students outside of school.”

“By ‘fraternize’ you mean . . . ?”