Turn a Blind Eye. Vicky Newham

pride had got in the way. When she’d told him she wanted to go back home to America, he’d reacted childishly. And now he had to suck up the consequences.

      Someone coughed and cleared their throat. Neil Sanderson, the school bursar, was standing at the counter by the kitchen area. He wiped his forehead with his palm. ‘Could you gather round, folks, please?’ His cheeks were mottled, and patches of sweat stained the armpits of his mauve shirt.

      Mutterings flew round the room, some of complaint, others of curiosity and dread.

      Neil adjusted the rimless glasses on his nose. ‘As you all know, there’s been a serious incident involving Mrs Gibson. At the moment the police aren’t giving out much information. They have a number of teams here carrying out forensic work. We don’t know yet whether the school site will be closed tomorrow, but there will be no lessons or students in school.’ He reached over to the counter and took a swig of water from a plastic cup.

      A few people put their hands up and he gestured them down. He checked his notes. ‘Mrs Ahmed and I have been liaising with the police, the LEA and our governors, and we’ve produced a . . . a . . .’ He looked round for Shari.

      ‘Media and community strategy,’ she prompted.

      ‘Yes. With a close community such as ours, word travels quickly. We have contacted all parents to inform them there will be no school tomorrow. The police request that you do not tell anyone what has happened. Not even close friends and family.’ He mopped his forehead again, and faced Shari. ‘Is there anything else we need to cover?’

      Shari came to his aid. ‘It’s a bit tricky as parents are already gathering outside the police cordon to find out what’s happened. One of our parent governors is here trying to smooth things over.’ She scanned the room, as though trying to gauge the mood. ‘Everyone needs to stay on site until we dismiss you. Before you leave, we will inform you of the plans for tomorrow. The police are trying to speak to everyone as quickly as possible. Any urgent questions, please ask either Mr Sanderson or myself.’

      Voices flared up again as soon as she stopped talking and people darted across the room to join groups of colleagues.

      Steve felt disorientated. He surveyed the room and saw similar feelings mirrored in his colleagues’ faces. Some were pale and wide-eyed, staring into the distance in a daze. Others were flushed and agitated. On the soft chairs round the coffee tables a group of people surrounded a young woman wearing a silver and black headscarf. Steve recognised Rozina, the head’s PA, who was dabbing at her eyes and adjusting the pin on her scarf. When Steve had come for his interview, Rozina had been kind when he’d forgotten to bring his training folder and needed to print out the details from his e-mail. Poor girl. She had black panda rings round her eyes from crying through make-up. Steve could hear snatches of what Rozina was saying. She could have got help for Mrs Gibson if she’d been at her desk. She felt responsible. If Mrs Gibson died it would be all her fault.

      ‘Stop being such a drama queen, Rozina,’ said a fierce-looking woman with long white hair, which was parted in the middle so that it hung like two curtains on either side of her face. She was flicking through the latest Times Educational Supplement, licking her finger before each page turn.

      ‘Moira, that’s not necessary,’ said a girl who was sitting next to Rozina. ‘We’re all extremely concerned and upset.’ The gaggle of people surrounding Rozina stared at the woman.

      ‘I was just saying.’ Moira spat out the words as though she had bitten on a lemon.

      ‘Well, perhaps it would be helpful if you didn’t “just say”.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’ The woman shrugged and flounced away from the group.

      Feeling self-conscious with the ambulance rug wrapped round him, Steve pulled it off and got up. He was still shivering so he headed over to the kitchen area and flicked the kettle on to make himself a hot drink. The usual first day of term activities had been eclipsed. The whole day felt unreal, and he wanted to go home. He shuddered, though, at the grilling he was going to get from his sister.

      Especially when she found out that, on top of blowing his engagement, he was now a potential suspect in a murder investigation.

Wednesday – Maya

      ‘Let us know when he is,’ I said to the family liaison officer. She’d rung to inform us that Peter Gibson had been discharged from hospital but still wasn’t fit to be interviewed. ‘Thank goodness his GP was on the ball.’ On top of a serious heart condition, the news of his wife’s death could’ve been fatal.

      I crossed the incident room, leaving Dan with a telephone receiver clamped to his ear, and Alexej in front of a large monitor with a laptop screen either side. Uniformed officers were helping with house-to-house enquiries and staff interviews. Minutes later, I was in reception and had begun compiling the victim profile part of the investigation. With a crime like this, I wanted to get a sense of the school.

      Photographs hung proudly on the walls, not a speck of dust on any of their frames. The very first one, dated 1949, showed the celebrations that had taken place the day the school opened. In the autumn sunshine, to a background of bunting and post-war jollity, grinning boys stood in long shorts and knee-length socks, while girls folded their hands over calf-length skirts. As I took in the expressions, I wondered, had life been more innocent then? Or was it just different?

      There was a gradual progression in the photographs from monochrome to colour. There were changes in the ethnicities of both the children and the staff as increasing numbers of immigrants and asylum seekers arrived. I could see my compatriots in the images, others from Somalia, China, Pakistan, and from a number of African-Caribbean countries. I knew the reasons off by heart. The need to flee war, famine and oppressive regimes. Could quote the statistics from memory. After all, I was part of them, and I’d seen the demographics of Tower Hamlets printed in dozens of reports and booklets over the years. Like so many Bangladeshis in the seventies and eighties, my own family had fled Sylhet in 1982. As we all crammed into unheated one-room lets in Brick Lane, Whitechapel and Stepney, with outside toilets and no baths, it was no wonder the population of Tower Hamlets had burgeoned in the space of forty years.

      As the decades progressed, the photographs showed how Mile End High School had acquired buildings to accommodate the increasing numbers of students. Annexes were constructed, including what was now the sports hall. I realised my eyes were searching the walls for a photograph of my year group in 1989. And there I was, in year seven, eyes bulging with fear, swamped in Jasmina’s over-sized blazer and the skirt that Sabbir had helped me pin. My sister stood, tall and elegant, with her year nine form.

      From the school’s reception area, I continued along the main hall, past the science labs and the music rooms, along the corridor past the walls of metal lockers that had seemed like monsters on my first day of school here. I made notes in my pad as I walked; recorded and analysed impressions; took snaps on my phone. The display boards didn’t fool me. I knew they were designed to portray a positive image to whoever saw them, but they somehow seemed too perfect. Who were all the smiling faces, and messages of progress and harmony, aimed at? And where was the information for the people who passed the boards the most often? The information for pupils on internet security, bullying and drugs? It all prompted two conflicting impressions: the place had clearly benefitted from the stewardship of Linda Gibson, but underneath the cheery faces and camaraderie, something wasn’t right . . . I could feel Linda’s murder reeling me in. Her legacy and achievements were all around me, vying for my attention, but very much at odds with the fact that she was now dead, with parents outside the school, desperate for information about what’s happened to the head teacher.

      When I returned to the incident room, I hurried over to where I had been working earlier. A few seats along, Dan was hunched over the table, checking off numbers on a printout with a ruler and yellow highlighter. He was facing me but had his head down, engrossed in what he was reading. Through his number one shave, his white scalp was visible.

      At