Turn a Blind Eye. Vicky Newham

      ‘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 to the floor. Round me, the investigation team was gearing up. Colleagues were installing our technology, setting up the HOLMES connection and erecting partition boards. DC Alexej Hayek stood, muscled arms folded and legs apart, bellowing instructions and gesturing, as though he was directing traffic. His clipped Czech accent lent authority to what he thought should go where. With DS Barnes suspended, and Briscall more interested in hob-nobbing with his seniors than covering my post, I wasn’t surprised when he accepted my offer to curtail my leave and appointed me SIO. If any of my colleagues wondered why I was back early from compassionate leave, they knew better than to ask.

      I’d been mapping out our main lines of enquiry in my notepad. We were in the golden hour of the investigation, so these were organised round evidence gathering, witness interviews and suspect identification. Our quickest evidence source was going to be social media ring-fencing: once we found out from Facebook and Instagram who was in the school area between 12 noon and 1 p.m., we could target-interview those individuals.

      As I surveyed the room, I remembered standing in line at that exact serving hatch, as a nervous eleven-year-old. The room seemed so much bigger then. Now, I imagined the cohorts of hopeful kids who, like I had, came here to learn, their lives ahead of them, their dreams in their hands. They’d be anticipating the first day of school now. For many, that would mean end-of-holiday blues. But not for everyone. I remembered how desperately I’d longed for the gates to open again after the lonely stretch of the holidays. Had any of today’s students come from the same part of Bangladesh as us?

      On my laptop, I was watching Linda on the school video. I’d met her at a number of community events, and found her warm and engaging.

      ‘At Mile End High School we’ve achieved something unique.’ Linda’s eyes shone with pride, and passion radiated in the muscles of her face. ‘Since the school opened in 1949, we’ve made it our mission to welcome all pupils from our continually changing community. We value all ethnicities and creeds equally, so you can be confident that your sons and daughters will learn and thrive in an atmosphere of wellbeing and safety.’

      ‘I suspect that’s going to come back to haunt her.’ The Australian accent yanked me back into the present.

      I jumped. ‘Jeez . . . Do you always creep up on people?’ I paused the video.

      Dan Maguire stood in front of me, holding out a packet of chewing gum. ‘Are you always this jumpy?’

      Touché.

      His pale skin and ginger hair were unusual. When he’d joked earlier about not fitting the bronzed Australian stereotype, he wasn’t wrong. Irish heritage, he’d said. Hated water and had a sunlight allergy.

      I waved the gum away. Recalibrated. ‘Sorry. It’s this place. Weird being back here after all this time.’

      ‘I’ve been reading up on Haniya Patel. Doesn’t seem she felt safe either.’

      I heaved in a breath. ‘No. Her death was a tragedy but nothing suspicious.’ I shivered and pulled my woolly scarf round my neck. ‘I don’t remember this place being so draughty. Don’t they have the heating on?’

      Dan’s face was blank. ‘You think you’re cold? I went from summer in Australia to winter in the North of England. Back home my kids are swimming at Coogee Beach every day.’ He zipped up the neck of his jumper as if to support his point. ‘Dr Clark is downstairs at the crime scene with the CSIs if you’re ready to conduct a walk-through. And I’ve put the teacher, who found the body, in an office.’

      ‘Yup.’ I got up. Bundled my notebook and pen into my bag. Questions shot through my mind about Dan’s appointment but they’d have to wait. ‘I’m officially back off leave. I’ve told Briscall, who was delighted to hand over the SIO baton so, hopefully, we can get cracking.’

      ‘Good.’

      I followed Dan across the canteen to the door, pushing down the awkwardness that was circling between us. A few minutes later, we were walking along the main corridor on the ground floor towards Linda Gibson’s office. My mobile rang. It was Alexej from the incident room.

      ‘Until we have a media liaison officer, put all press calls through to me,’ I replied. ‘The last thing we need is a sensational headline splashed on the front page. I’ll compile a holding statement.’ I rang off. ‘So much for sorting Suzie James out,’ I said to Dan. ‘She’s interviewing parents and the national news teams are on their way.’

      ‘It’s inevitable.’ He shrugged.

      It was strange having a new team member. DS Barnes had been careering towards Professional Standards for years, but I’d got used to the way he and Alexej worked.

      ‘Right.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Let’s make a start on this crime scene.’

      Outside Linda’s office, Dan and I reported to the guard, pulled on forensic clothing and followed the common approach path. It was a large room with floor to ceiling windows, and thick brown curtains pushed to the side. The first thing that hit me was the smell of vomit. Dotted round the room, crime scene investigators were quietly dusting for fingerprints, bagging up evidence, taking measurements, drawing plans and taking photographs. Objects had been knocked over. So, there’d been a struggle.

      I headed over to Dougie McLean, the crime scene manager.

      A grin darted across his features when he saw me. ‘I thought your flight only arrived back last night? You look shattered.’ He reached towards me, but he must’ve caught my frown as he retracted his arm quickly.