Three Hours(50)
‘Because shooting him in Old School would cause more terror to the children and staff?’ Thandie says.
‘Yes.’
‘The tech teams have got mobile phone numbers that are on in the theatre and Old School,’ Amaal says. ‘The numbers have all been matched to kids and staff, as well as PC Beard’s personal number that’s on in the gatehouse. They’ve got one number in Old School which doesn’t match students or staff, so must be the gunman’s. They’re trying to trace an ID.’
If they find out who he is, Rose has a chance of predicting what he’s going to do. But the gunman in Old School will be using a burner. He won’t use his own mobile; not going to make their life easy like that. Bastard.
She watches the feed from the police surveillance UAV above the pottery room and can just make out the teacher pushing her clay tiles against the window; protection against flying glass but useless against bullets. The teacher’s name is Camille Giraud, Rose has found out. Camille’s colleagues say that she’s sensitive and artistic; their surveillance footage shows that she is also brave and indefatigable.
It’s snowing harder, making it more difficult to spot a hostile surveillance drone. Rose had hoped if one was watching from the sky snow would get into its motor or blades and bring it down, as happened with the amateur drones, but apparently not; not if they’ve got one of near-military grade.
It’s been an hour and two minutes since the head teacher was shot, and there have still been no more shots, no further threats, no demands. What are they going to do next, Rose? What do they want?
Rose didn’t choose to study investigative forensic psychology because she was fascinated by criminal minds (unlike her fellow students, though Rose graduated top of her year); the minds she finds fascinating belong to composers, artists, playwrights, poets, engineers and architects and to people who have done extraordinary, but uncriminal, things – flown to the moon, landed a plane on a river, filmed a turtle for two years. She isn’t even interested in the criminal mind, she’s interested in people who work a nine-hour day and then volunteer in the evening, by the serious way children play, by teenagers’ restless newness and inventiveness. But understanding criminals’ minds, their cruelty, selfishness, viciousness, is necessary to help the people who do interest her, who matter to her.
‘We’ve got a mobile phone number match and a match to a number plate,’ Amaal says. ‘Same person.’
And Rose’s first thought is, why not use a burner? Why use a car that can be traced to you? It feels off to her; again this feeling that one of the gunmen is playing them.
*
In the theatre, Daphne wants to believe it’s not true, that there’s been a ghastly, ridiculous mix-up. But it is true. Victor Deakin’s mobile is being used in Old School; his mother’s car is parked in Junior School’s car park where it has no business to be. Daphne knows this because she argued with Detective Sergeant Amaal Ayari, the gentle-voiced policeman who told her – no, she’d said to him, you must’ve made a mistake! A terrible, terrible mistake! You don’t know him. I do. He’d never do this!
The mobile. The car.
Detective Sergeant Amaal Ayari and his colleagues haven’t made a mistake.
The gunman who shot Matthew, who’s terrorizing everyone in Old School, is someone Daphne has taught, who she’s hugged – Well done, Victor! Fantastic performance! Whose hair she’s tousled, as she does to all of them, just can’t resist when she’s walking past and they’re sitting down – Daphne, please, took me ages this morning; Gerroff; OMG, you’re like my mum! My granny! – but Victor just stood up and gave Daphne’s hair a quick ruffle back and made her laugh; a young man who charmed her totally.
Who is he when he isn’t acting? This man in Old School with a gun?
There’d been a phone call from him in April, out of the blue one evening, saying he’d had to leave because his parents couldn’t pay the fees. He’d asked her not to intervene and get herself in trouble over him; and she’d thought it was just like him to be thoughtful towards her. She’d petitioned Matthew anyway to give him a bursary – he was midway through his A-level course and she’d just cast him as the lead in the school play – but Matthew had been intransigent, had told her the subject was off-limits, and she’d had the weirdest feeling, right before she was outraged, that Matthew was sparing her feelings. What had Matthew known?
She’d thought her seeing the best in people, particularly young people, was a good thing, something to be proud of, in a teacher especially. But it’s nothing to be proud of. Children and colleagues are in danger and she’s afraid she’s a part of it.
Detective Sergeant Ayari had gently but firmly insisted that she told the kids about Victor and asked them for any information. They are sitting on the stage, shocked that it’s a former student, one of them. Two girls are whispering about fancying him, feeling guilty for that now, dirtied by it. She hears Josh talking about ‘that Rohypnol thing’. Tim says, ‘Fuck’s sake, that was a joke.’
‘The police want to know who his friends were,’ Daphne says.
‘Loads of us were his friends,’ Tim says. ‘Thought we were. Fuck.’
‘But nobody close,’ Tracey says. ‘When you think about it, he went to parties and gatherings but he DJ’d, not really part of it, just making sure we all listened to his music, and he wasn’t anyone’s real friend, was he?’