a simple accident. âThe row was eighteen months ago, and sheâd have got over it by now. And sheâd always been a happy girl. I donât know that she was ever close to her motherâMrs Gedge was always very strict with her, very unbending. But Mary and her Dad got along well. If youâd seen them working and laughing together in the shop, like I saw them only a couple of days ago, youâd know she was happy enough at home.â
Quantrill felt relieved. He loved his own two daughters very much, and had felt bereft when they left Breckham Market to live in London. The fact that Alison, the younger, sent him a personal weekly letter was a heartwarming source of pride. He tried to imagine Mary Gedgeâs fatherâs desolation, and was ashamed to feel instead a sense of thankfulness that his own daughters were alive.
Tait asked the constable for Derek Gedgeâs address, and wrote it in his notebook. âDid Mary have any other relatives in the village? Well then, can you tell us who her friends were?â
Godbold brushed a grey caterpillar of cigarette ash from the front of his tunic. âTo be honest, I canât tell you about her friends. Iâm not in the village enough to know who Mary went about with. But I reckon most of her friends would be the ones sheâd made at school, in Breckham.â
âA boy-friend?â
âNot an Ashthorpe one, not to my knowledge.â
âHow did she travel to school?â Tait asked.
âThereâs a special bus that goes round the villages. My own boy travels on it.â
Quantrill forced a genial smile. âAh, Trevor. Howâs he doing?â
Trevor Godbold, having passed the eleven plus, had gone to Breckham Market boysâgrammar school, to his parentsâmanifest pride. Quantrill had congratulated them wholeheartedly. Both his daughters had gone to the girlsâ grammar school, and he was confident that his son, three years younger than Trevor, would take the examination in his stride. It had been difficult to conceal his chagrin when Peter was, in the humiliating official phraseology, selected for education at the Alderman Thirkettle secondary modern school.
Since thenâin pursuit of an equality that, however much he might approve of it in theory, Quantrill would not have welcomed in practice when his daughters were at the grammar schoolâthe Breckham Market secondary schools had been put under one head and re-labelled comprehensive. Peter had settled into the new system cheerfully enough, and Quantrillâs pride was soothed. But he had never been able to rid himself, whenever he met Pc Godbold, of the feeling that he had to take an exaggerated interest in the progress of Godbold junior in order not to be thought resentful of his ability.
The constable beamed modestly. âHeâs doing well, thank you, sir. Taking O levels this summer. Would you like to see him, by the way? Heâs at home now, just had his dinner. He could very likely tell you who Maryâs friends were.â
âGood idea,â said Quantrill heartily. âIâd like a chance to meet the boy.â
Godbold left the room. Quantrill got up and peered at a large-scale map of the district, trying to ignore an altercation that was taking place elsewhere in the house; it sounded as though young Godbold was as reluctant to meet the chief inspector as Quantrill was to meet him.
When the boy entered the room it was fast, as though he had been propelled. His father stood close, blocking the door, breathing hard.
Trevor was an awkward sixteen: legs too long for his body, hands and feet clumsy, nose and ears too big for his face, voice creaky, eyes sullen.
âHallo Trevor, nice to meet you again.â Quantrill thrust out a genial hand but the boy shied away from the overdone greeting and Quantrill found himself flapping his hand, instead, towards his sergeant. âThis is Detective Sergeant
Learning to Kill: Stories