had turned vitriolic, full of demands and accusations.
When Bill walked in the atmosphere changed. Rhona was so aware of the change, she thought Bill must sense it as well, but he was too focused on the body.
‘Is it Stephen?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
His glance ran the length of the torso, taking in the gaping wounds and the cross cut into the chest. ‘The same symbol.’
‘Looks like it.’
Rhona explained about the blood letting.
Bill looked haggard, dark shadows circling his eyes.
‘Are you okay?’
He didn’t seem to hear.
‘Bill?’
‘What?’
‘You look terrible.’
He made a face at McNab. ‘Always the kind word from Dr MacLeod, eh?’
The twisted smile was meant to reassure Rhona. It didn’t.
He changed the subject. ‘So, how soon before we know if it’s Stephen?’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘In the meantime we keep on looking.’
The school playground was empty. DC Janice Clark glanced at her watch. School was already out. No hum of chat from closed classrooms, no teacher’s voice giving instructions.
Schools were peaceful places without kids. The main door was lying open, but reception was manned by awoman in her fifties with a no-nonsense air. ‘Can I help you?’
Janice flashed her badge.
The lady took time to study it. No one was going to get past without her okay. ‘You’re here to see Miss Stuart?’
When Janice nodded, the woman indicated an open visitors’ book. ‘Please sign in. Your name and the time. You are also expected to sign out.’
Once Janice had signed, she was buzzed through the electronically controlled door. Schools weren’t the open places of her day. Since Thomas Hamilton had blazed his way through Dunblane Primary in 1996, killing sixteen children and their teacher, the local authorities were pretty stringent about security. Janice’s own memories of doors staying open summer and winter no longer rang true. Then, the kids just thought of getting out of the place at the end of the day. There was no thought of someone wanting to get in.
Miss Stuart’s classroom was three along on the ground level. The door was shut and Janice glanced in the small rectangular window to see the teacher sitting at her desk, a pile of jotters beside her. Marking, the bane of most teachers’ lives. Janice knew all about it. Her big sister was a teacher. Marking, and stroppy kids. The worst in secondary schools, when the hormones started rioting. As far as Janice knew, the rioting had moved steadily downwards and now took place in many primary classrooms.
She knocked on the door and a clear steady voice called, ‘Come in.’
The classroom had been painted bright yellow. One wall held a long mural of an historic battle, ‘Bannock-burn 1314’ blazoned along the top. The combatants were a motley crew. It looked as though the scene had been divided into rectangles and different kids got to draw their own stick-like men. The result was a lot of missing arms and legs, big swords and blood.
Miss Stuart studied Janice’s badge of office and pointed to a seat across the desk from her.
‘I heard on the news. It’s terrible.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a paper hanky. Janice gave her time to blow her nose.
‘How well do you know Stephen?’
‘Not well at all. He only arrived in school a month ago.’
‘Does he ever speak of his father?’
‘No, but . . .’ Miss Stuart rifled through the jotters on her desk. ‘This is Stephen’s news jotter. The children write a bit each day. He’s only six so there’s more drawings than words. And he often uses Nigerian words when he isn’t sure of the English. I don’t know if he spells them correctly.’ She looked apologetic, as though teachers were supposed to know everything.
Janice pulled the open jotter towards her and flipped through the pages. Most were headed with the day of the week and a date in big circular letters. There were coloured drawings of