round her flushed face as she moved. ‘Is everything . . .? Where’s Mrs Gibson?’
‘Could I have a word?’ Steve’s stomach was churning. He slid to the floor. No. I can’t throw up here. Not in front of everyone.
Slow breaths.
‘Yes. Of course.’ The older woman’s eyes narrowed with concern. She stood over Steve. Waiting.
‘It’s Mrs Gibson . . . I think she’s dead.’
The sound wrenched me awake. Trilling. Vibrating. Sylhet dreamscape was still swirling, and I had no idea where the noise was coming from. Fumbling for the alarm clock on the bedside table, my clumsy fingers sent objects crashing to the floor.
It was my mobile, not the clock. Why the hell hadn’t I switched it off?
‘Rahman.’ I cleared my throat. My body clock was still adjusting after Sabbir’s funeral and a day spent travelling.
A woman’s voice came through. ‘This is Suzie James from the Stepney Gazette. There’s been a suspicious death at Mile End High School and —’
‘A what?’ Suzie’s name was all too familiar. ‘How did you get my number?’
‘A suspicious death. It’s your old secondary school so I was hoping for a quote for the paper.’
The groan was out before I could catch it. ‘Who’s dead?’ I was wide awake now, synapses firing. I groped for the light on the bedside table.
‘It’s the head, Linda Gibson. Would you like to comment?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘The thing is, I’ve got parents asking questions and —’
‘Okay, okay.’ I flung the duvet back and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. A whoosh of cold air hit my skin. Suzie James would always write something, regardless of how much she knew, so it was better to give her the facts. ‘Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you at the school and find out what’s going on.’
‘Ta.’ The line went down.
I threw the phone down on my bed and moved across the room to open the blinds. From the window of my flat, the canal was serene and green in the afternoon light and ducks weaved through the shimmering water. A jogger shuffled along the tow path from Johnson’s Lock. In the distance, the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf loomed against a thundery backdrop. I rested my forehead against the glass. What was I doing? I was on compassionate leave until tomorrow. Then I remembered the poem I’d read at Sabbir’s funeral; how much my brother had suffered. Wasn’t this why I did my job – to bring justice to people who should never have become victims? Nostalgia flooded through me as I recalled my first day at the school in year seven, and how the place quickly became my lifeline. Just as it would be now for other kids like me. There was no way I was going to let the school’s reputation nosedive. I had to find out what was going on.
On the main road, a few minutes later, the traffic was solid in both directions towards Bow. In front of me, a lorry, laden with scaffolding, clattered along behind a dirty red bus, while a shiny black cab sniffed its bumper. Ahead, at Mile End tube station, the carriageway snaked under the Green Bridge, from which school pupil Haniya Patel had hanged herself in the small hours four weeks earlier. Driving under it, I held my breath.
Soon I was off the main drag, and the grey fell away. Yellow brick houses lined the streets in elegant terraces, holly wreaths on their ornate door knockers. In the afternoon light, Christmas fairy lights twinkled in bay windows. They were so pretty. I’d left for Sabbir’s funeral in such a hurry I’d not put my own lights up, and it was pointless when I got back. Outside the Morgan Arms, the beautiful red brick pub, smokers and vapers huddled beside the window boxes of purple pansies, sharing the chilly air. Up ahead, flashing blue lights cut through the slate grey sky.
When I pulled up, uniformed officers were struggling to contain members of the public within the outer cordon. Family members scurried about, indiscriminately seeking information and reassurance from anyone who could give it; others stood in huddles, no less anguished, simply shell-shocked and immobilised. The outer cordon covered an enormous area, far bigger than I remembered the school being. Round me, engines droned and vehicle doors slammed.
I’d clocked Suzie as I was parking and told her to wait for me. I headed over to a uniformed officer who was standing at the main entrance to the school. I’d met PC Li several times.
‘Hi, Shen. Who’s the SIO?’
‘DCI Briscall, but he’s not here. DS Maguire’s over there.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s new. That’s him.’ She pointed at a man with ginger hair and urgent movements.
‘Okay, thanks.’ I surveyed the area outside the cordon. ‘Could you get me a list of everyone here, and their connection to the school?’
‘Sure.’ Shen took out her notepad.
I approached the man she’d gestured to. ‘DS Maguire?’
He whirled round and I was struck by his milky white skin, all the more pronounced by a crew cut.
‘I’m DI Rahman. I was expecting DCI Briscall…’
‘He’s at a meeting with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner. He’s sent me.’ His vowels had a twang, and his sentences rose at the end.
I was trying to think of a polite way of asking how he’d got on the team. ‘I don’t think we’ve met?’
‘I’m a fast-track officer.’
‘Ah.’
‘Don’t worry. I know we aren’t popular. I’m all up to speed.’ He waved his warrant. ‘Done a three-month intensive in West Yorkshire, a sergeant rotation, and passed my exams.’ He stopped there. ‘Aren’t you meant to be on leave?’
‘Until tomorrow, but never mind about that.’ This was a shock, but now wasn’t the time to debate the merits of the Met’s fast-track programme. ‘I’ve just had a call from a local reporter. She said the head’s dead.’ I used my eyes to indicate Suzie, who was holding court with a bunch of parents and locals. ‘If she doesn’t get some facts soon, she’ll make them up. If Briscall’s not coming, you’d better fill me in.’
*
Twenty minutes later, I’d dealt with Suzie James and was in the school canteen with the Murder Investigation Team. With its swimming pool acoustics and tortoise-slow broadband, it wasn’t ideal as a temporary incident room but it was a vast space with plenty of tables and chairs. Twenty-four hours ago I was on a long-haul flight home, and now I was perching at one of the tables by the serving hatch. The surface was sticky and I longed for a decent chair to sit on, rather than the plastic kiddie seats that were bolted
