Head Shot

18

Looking at it from the street, Mario McGuire could see that Hargreen Primary School had grown over the years, and had changed rapidly in the process. Back in the days when Colinton village really was a village, it had probably boasted three or four classrooms in a smal stone building, and would have been perfectly adequate for its purpose, given the standards and methods of the day.

Happily not for decades had its pupils been crammed into classes of fifty, cowed, and frequently thrashed, into obedience and attention. The original school was still there, but a brass plate on its door indicated that it was now the administration block. A big modern structure seemed to burst out from it, enveloping it in grey concrete, and a second block, of roughly similar design, had been added at some later point. The architecture was definitely not Frank Lloyd Wright, but neither was the surrounding area.

The detective checked his watch. It was twenty-five past one, and the playground was empty; the Hargreen Primary pupils were back at work after lunch. He opened the green wooden door of the administration block, and stepped into a small vestibule, its only furniture an umbrella stand, well used on that showery day. It opened out into a slightly larger hall, its walls lined with the work of children.

Straight ahead, facing him, there was a door with the word 'Janitor' printed on a burnished metal plate. As he walked up to it McGuire took a deep breath, then turned the handle and pushed it open. The room was empty.

He looked around. It was famished with a steel-framed desk and chair, a small fridge, a grey filing cabinet, a coat-stand and a small table on which were a kettle, a jar of coffee, a box of tea bags and a jar of sugar.

A big white mug sat beside them, with the word 'Jannie' emblazoned in big blue capital letters. A Day-Glo yellow tunic and a crossing warden's hat were hanging on the stand and a tall traffic lollipop stood in the far corner. He noticed a grey metal wastebin beside the desk. He was about to look in it when an insistent female voice sounded behind him.

'Excuse me. Didn't you see the sign?' it asked, as he turned. 'Al visitors to the school must first report to the office.'

'No,' he answered, untruthful y. 'I didn't see it.' He looked at the woman; grey well-cut hair, plump, peach-coloured woollen sweater, mock-tartan, mock-tweed skirt, brown tights, sensible shoes, inky fingers. He guessed at once who she was, but he asked his question out of politeness. 'Are you the head teacher?'

As she smiled and gave a self-deprecating shake of her head, he knew that he had been right, and that he had made a friend. 'Oh no,' she said,

'I'm only the school secretary. Mrs Dewberry's the head teacher; she's in her room. Would you like to see her? I take it you're a parent.'

McGuire shook his head. 'No, I'm not a parent; I'm a policeman.

Detective Superintendent McGuire.'

The woman gave a smal gasp. 'Ohhh. You'd better see Mrs Dewberry, then. Just hold on a minute.' As she bustled across the hal, and down a corridor leading off to the right, McGuire glanced into the wastebasket; it was empty. Quickly, he tried the desk's only drawer, but it was locked.