A Thousand Cuts

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Across from the school gates, a pack of journalists lazed in the heat. They could have positioned themselves anywhere but, as hunters with a common prey, they had gravitated together. Lucia recognised some of the faces. Most of the journalists no doubt recognised hers. She approached on the opposite side of the road but still, as she drew near, those who had been sitting got to their feet. Pencils were drawn, lens covers snapped off. Cigarettes were sucked, dropped and ground with rubber soles into the pavement.

‘Inspector!’ someone called. ‘Hey, Inspector!’

‘What’s the occasion, Inspector? Come on, darling, give us something!’

She would have liked to. In spite of the ‘darling’, she would have liked to. Yet she strode on. She had almost reached the gates when another voice called out to her.

‘Inspector! What’s going on, Inspector? The Samson boy. The shooting. Some coincidence, don’t you think?’

This time Lucia stopped. She stopped before she could think.

‘Come on, Inspector.’ The same voice again. ‘You can tell us. We can keep a secret.’

There was laughter but a flutter of excitement too. The gap between Lucia and the journalists was closing. One man – the man who had spoken, Lucia assumed – was halfway across the road; his Dictaphone was even closer. He spoke again. ‘Off the record? We don’t need to use your name.’ Like a movie cop surrendering his weapon, he lifted the Dictaphone above his shoulder and made a show of switching it off.

Lucia said nothing. She turned away. She ignored the pleas that sounded behind her, the single profanity too, and continued towards the gates.

The playground was empty but there were eyes, Lucia knew, at every window. As she crossed the playground she felt the building narrow its gaze. The sun was straining through the film of cloud that had settled over the city but as Lucia approached the entrance the day seemed suddenly less bright. Hot still, oppressive still, but gloomier too, though the building today gave no discernible shadow. Lucia climbed the steps. The glass on the doors cast her back at her. No one’s home, the building seemed to say. No one’s home who wants to talk to you. Lucia pulled one of the doors wide and stepped inside.

Immediately the sensation was dispelled. A group of students trotted across the entrance hall. All girls, they were hunched together and laughing. Either they did not see Lucia or they ignored her. From distant classrooms she heard children’s voices and teachers’ voices raised over them. She heard the bangs and scrapes of a school in session: chairs sliding, books dropping, doors slamming.

From the corridor a teacher emerged: Matilda Moore, the young chemistry teacher who had started at the school at the same time as Samuel Szajkowski. A staccato of heel-steps escorted her across the parquet floor. She smiled as she drew near. ‘It’s Detective Inspector May, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Can I help you, are you waiting for someone?’

‘I’m here to see the headmaster.’

‘I’ll see if he’s available, shall I? Is he expecting you?’

‘No. He’s not expecting me. But don’t trouble yourself. I know where to find him.’

The teacher seemed unsure but Lucia simply nodded at her and turned away. She sensed Matilda watching her as she climbed the short flight of steps that led to the administrative area of the building, then heard her footsteps again as she drifted away. Lucia approached the door to the headmaster’s office. She reached it and she knocked.

‘Enter.’

Lucia did as the voice instructed.

‘Inspector. Well, well.’ The headmaster peered up from his desk. Janet, the school secretary, stood over him, clutching a stack of papers to her bust. She smiled and nodded at Lucia and seemed surprised when Lucia did not smile back. She made her excuses and scuttled past, heading for the door that linked her office to the headmaster’s. It closed noiselessly behind her.

‘Inspector,’ Travis said again. ‘I must say, I wasn’t expecting a visit from you.’

‘No,’ said Lucia. ‘I don’t suppose you were.’ She did not move from her position by the door.

The headmaster waited. He reclined in his chair, rattled the phlegm in his throat. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘It’s over,’ Lucia said. ‘The investigation.’

‘Yes. I know. I spoke to your superior.’

‘You needn’t worry,’ Lucia continued. ‘There’ll be nothing that comes out that will cause you any trouble.’

Travis had his elbows on the armrests of his chair. He held an expensive-looking pen in front of him, suspended between the fingertips of each hand. ‘If your intention is to discomfit me, Inspector, you will need to be a fraction less equivocal.’

Lucia felt adrenalin constrict her lungs. She willed her heart to slow its pace. ‘Discomfit you?’ she echoed. ‘No, that is not my intention, Mr Travis. I would have hoped, given recent events, that you were quite discomfited enough.’

Travis put down his pen. ‘I assume you will not be wanting tea, Inspector May. Would there be any point in asking you to be seated?’

Lucia shook her head.

‘No,’ Travis said. ‘Of course not. Well then. Let’s get down to it, shall we? I assume you are referring to the Samson boy. I assume you have some grievance that you wish to express.’

‘I am. I do. But I had also hoped that it would not be necessary to spell out what should be as plain to you as it is to me.’

‘What?’ said Travis. ‘Tell me. Spell it out, why don’t you.’

Lucia inhaled. ‘You are responsible, Mr Travis. You are culpable. You are to blame for that boy’s death, just as you were to blame for the blood that was spilled in your assembly hall.’

For a moment the headmaster was still. No emotion was discernible on his face. Until he laughed: a single, contemptuous bark.

‘You find it amusing, Mr Travis. Another boy is dead. Another family has lost a child. You find it amusing.’

The headmaster’s expression grew stern. ‘How dare you?’ he said. He stood up. ‘I say again: how dare you? If I find anything about this situation comical, Inspector, it is the absurdity – it is the impertinence – of your allegations.’

‘I am not one of your pupils, Mr Travis.’

‘Meaning what, Inspector?’

‘Meaning, do not talk to me as though I were.’

The headmaster laughed again. ‘I will talk to you any way I wish, young lady. What right have you to demand otherwise? What right have you to walk so brazenly into my office and make accusations you know perfectly well you cannot substantiate? ’

‘From a legal standpoint it seems you are right. I cannot substantiate them, not to the satisfaction of those who have the power to decide whether to act on them. But I have seen and heard enough to convince me that they are true.’

The headmaster scoffed. ‘Do not put too much faith in what schoolchildren and—’ he jerked his head towards the adjoining door ‘—secretaries tell you, Inspector. Both have notoriously hyperactive imaginations.’

There came a noise from behind the door, something fallen or knocked over, as though Janet had recoiled at what she had overheard and toppled one of the many trinkets Lucia knew she kept on her desk.

‘I have drawn my own conclusions, Mr Travis.’

‘Have you indeed? Such a shame then that your superiors do not seem to agree with them. What was their reaction when you outlined to them your theory?’

‘The Szajkowski case is closed, as you well know. The Samson case will barely be opened. It is a shame, as you say. More than that: it is a disgrace.’

The headmaster smiled. He smirked. ‘You call it a disgrace. I call it common sense, a regrettably rare condition among the public servants of this country.’ He sat back down and reclined in his chair. ‘You single me out, Inspector. Why? Why not the children who tormented the Samson boy? Why not their parents? And Szajkowski. You really hold me more accountable than the man who ended those poor children’s lives?’

‘There is plenty of blame to go around, Mr Travis. The simple fact is that you could have acted to prevent what happened but you did not. More than that, you were obliged to act. You knew – you know – about the bullying that goes on in this school. You know who the victims are and which children, which teachers, are responsible.’ Lucia took a step towards the headmaster’s desk. ‘You once told Samuel Szajkowski that you were omniscient. Isn’t that the word you used? You claimed to know everything that happened within the walls of this building. Even if that were an empty boast, Mr Travis, you are still the head of this institution and therefore accountable.’

The headmaster yawned.

‘Am I boring you, Mr Travis?’

‘Frankly my dear, yes. You are. I find your arguments moralistic and naive. I find your manner obnoxious and disrespectful. I find your very presence a distraction from matters that are far more worthy of my attention.’

This time Lucia laughed. She could not stop herself. ‘You old fool,’ she said. ‘You pompous old fool.’

‘Name calling. Really, Inspector. There was a time when I would have expected so much more from you.’

‘Then I suppose we are both failures in our way,’ Lucia said. ‘We have both fallen short of expectation.’

Travis rose. He moved from behind his desk towards the door through which Lucia had entered. He opened it and held it wide. ‘Thank you for your time, Inspector. I am sorry if it appears to have been wasted. I don’t suppose you have considered what you will do now that you have allowed your bitterness to be aired.’

Lucia passed through the doorway. ‘As much as it pains me, Mr Travis, I will do the only thing I can do. I will do the same thing you did. I will do nothing. I might sleep a little better, that’s all.’

The headmaster smiled. ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘I would not count on that. I would not count on that at all.’