The Twist of a Knife

But as we climbed the hill towards the church, the twenty-first century began to impose itself. Suddenly there were yellow lines and – paradoxically – more parked cars. A modern house and a bungalow stuck out like teeth added by a blindly inept dentist. I was glad to see that the village had its own library, but it was a 1960s monstrosity. We came to the church – St Swithin’s – and seeing the name, I wondered if we were going to visit the grave where Major Alden was buried. I should have known better. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who was less of a sentimentalist than Hawthorne and he didn’t even glance that way.

His destination was on the other side of the road: another old building, this one Victorian red brick, just one storey, with an ill-fitting glass extension on one side. A sign told us that this was Moxham Heath Primary School. The classroom windows would have a view of the graves; a vivid illustration of the transience of life, though one probably lost on the children. There were a few parents milling around on the pavement and, looking at my watch, I saw that it was five to three. Presumably the school day finished on the hour. We had timed it well. We lingered until we heard the class bells ring. The doors opened and the children streamed out, the girls in blue-and-white checked dresses, the boys in shorts and blue polo shirts. I watched them rush into their parents’ arms, delivering the usual bundles of exercise books, curling watercolours and disparate objects made from cardboard. Suddenly the building was empty. We went in.

The school didn’t have a lot of space for the forty or fifty children who went there, but there was still a generous reception area with a glass-partitioned office on one side, a visitors’ book and security passes. Swing doors would have to be buzzed open to allow us access into the school itself. The arrangement reminded me of the stage-door entrance of the Vaudeville. Here, Keith’s role was taken by a businesslike young woman in a blue suit. Hawthorne told her who we were and asked if we could speak to the head teacher. The receptionist looked doubtful but rang through anyway.

A primary school is about the only place where my name opens doors and less than a minute later, a large, energetic woman came bursting into the reception area to greet us. I could see at once that she was exactly the sort of head teacher I’d have liked to have when I was ten years old. There was just enough of the Miss Trunchbull about her to make her eccentric, but she was all warmth and smiles, middle-aged, her corded glasses tangling up with the beaded necklace around her neck. She introduced herself as Helen Winters.

‘The children would have been so excited to see you here,’ she announced, ignoring Hawthorne. ‘Your books are very popular in the library.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not here for a school visit,’ I said.

‘We’re wondering if there’s anyone here who was around when Philip Alden was killed,’ Hawthorne said, getting straight to the point.

‘Oh …’ The head teacher faltered. This wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. ‘I’m afraid not. To be honest with you, we’ve tried to forget what happened all those years ago. It’s not a nice memory to have in the school.’

‘There are no teachers? Nobody who might remember Stephen Longhurst?’

‘Absolutely not. We have quite a young staff here. I’ve only been at Moxham four years myself.’

‘Do you work in the study that Alden used?’

‘No. That’s our quiet room now.’

‘I wonder if we could see it?’

‘I can’t imagine why you would want to, Mr Hawthorne. Nothing is the same any more. All the furniture was taken away … even the bookshelves. It’s been repainted.’

‘It still has the door.’

I could see that Helen Winters was regretting she had ever met us. ‘Well, all right,’ she said. ‘But I really can’t see how it will help you.’

She led us through the double doors and along a corridor decorated with the children’s paintings. As we went, I tried to cheer her up by admiring the artwork and talking about books. We passed the library, a bright space with miniature desks and beanbags. A plaque showed that it had been opened by Michael Morpurgo.

‘Such a lovely man,’ Helen said, a little caustically. The inference was clear. Unlike me, the former children’s laureate hadn’t come here investigating the half-forgotten death of the deputy head. ‘Have you met him?’

‘Many times. I’m a big fan.’