When I go in to teach my wives on Thursday afternoon, I find a major international incident going on. I thought we had got past this sort of thing and arrived at a modus vivendi. In my pious, liberal, deluded mind, we had reached an East–West, Christian–Muslim–humanist fusion in which we acknowledged and respected difference and celebrated diversity et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Apparently not. This afternoon, Athene is in full oratorical mode, thumping her fist on the table and looking rather magnificent. Juanita, sitting beside her, has her head down and her hands over her ears as Athene yells across her at Farah and Jamilleh, who are, I see, wrapped in their coats and headscarves once more. Our blundering intruder on Tuesday did his work thoroughly. Farah is scowling at what I see is today’s edition of the Marlbury Herald and Jamilleh is glaring at Athene with tears in her eyes. Ning Wu has retreated to a corner at the back of the room and is busying herself with her iPad. No-one seems to notice my entrance.
‘You are ridiculous!’ Athene is shouting. ‘Ri-di-cu-lous. Because it’s murder it’s a man’s job? Why? He is more intelligent? Women are more stupid? No. You are stupid, yes, but all women? No!’
‘Are you saying, Athene,’ I ask, banging my books down on my desk to attract their attention, ‘that it takes intelligence to be a murderer?’
She stares at me blankly. ‘No!’ she says. ‘When did I say that?’
‘For the policeman,’ Jamilleh says, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘For the police must be intelligent. But I never said … I never said …’ she gives a venomous look at Athene ‘… men more intelligent than women. And I am NOT stupid!’
I sit down. ‘Well,’ I say, in the bright, soothing tone I sometimes use to Freda, ‘I’m a bit behind the curve here, but I’m sure Athene doesn’t think you’re stupid, Jamilleh, and in a bit when we’ve all calmed down, I’m sure she’ll want to apologise.’ I shoot Athene a warning glance as she gives a great huff of fury. ‘Juanita,’ I continue, ‘I think it’s safe to put your head over the parapet. No-one’s going to shoot you. And Ning Wu, do please come and join us. I don’t think there’ll be any more fireworks.’
Why am I speaking in metaphors? Parapet? Fireworks? Normally I would write the words on the board and unpack the metaphors but I don’t think this is the moment so I let it go. I turn to Farah. ‘I take it,’ I say, ‘that you were talking about the murder case?’
Farah nods and passes the paper across to me. The deaths of Karen and Lara Brody are the front-page story. They have been reported in the national press, and from there I learned little more than I knew already, except that Karen Brody’s common-law husband is in prison for armed robbery, but the Herald has breaking news in a Stop Press box, in bold. ‘The Herald understands,’ I read out loud, ‘that in the light of forensic evidence the police are treating the case as a double murder inquiry. Detective Chief Inspector David Scott has taken over the inquiry, replacing DS Paula Powell, who was leading it initially.’
‘Well!’ I say, taking off my glasses and laying them on the desk. And then, ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ I ask, and get my head down to rummage in my bag. This allows me some recovery time but I am also looking for my phone. David Scott has taken over the inquiry. When did that happen? How long has he been in Marlbury? When was he planning to tell me he was back? Is it just possible that he has been phoning or texting and I have missed his calls?
The answer to this last is no, as in my heart I knew. I put my phone away and turn the full beam of my attention back to my class.
‘So,’ I say, ‘the subject of your heated debate was whether a man makes a better detective in a murder inquiry than a woman does. Is that right, Jamilleh?’
Colour rises in Jamilleh’s face. ‘I didn’t say better,’ she insists, with a glare at Athene, who, all passion spent, has reverted to looking bored. ‘I said is more suitable for a man. Murder is not so nice for a woman.’
‘Ah, nice! We talked about nice the other day. What did we say?’
Ning Wu comes to life. ‘English people use a lot. It is safe word.’ She executes an operation on her iPad. ‘All-purpose word,’ she reads.
‘Exactly. Brainstorm. What kinds of things can we describe as nice?’
They rouse themselves to their task.
‘Nice weather!’
‘Nice day!’
‘Nice meal!’
‘Nice holiday!’
‘Nice view!’
‘Nice person!’
‘Good, yes.’ I hold up a stalling hand. ‘Nice person. So Jamilleh thinks Detective Sergeant Powell might be too nice to investigate a murder, but Chief Inspector Scott is maybe not so nice, because he’s a man.’ If they have spotted my shameless piece of sophistry here no-one raises an objection. ‘As a matter of fact,’ I continue, ‘I know Chief Inspector Scott and he is quite nice. If you met him you would think he was very nice, but maybe he’s not as nice as he seems.’
I turn to Athene. ‘Athene thinks he needs to be intelligent, and he certainly is that. But there are different kinds of intelligence, aren’t there, Juanita?’ Juanita gives a start as I intended that she should. She is unimpressed by my peroration and is sending a surreptitious text message. ‘Emotional intelligence, Juanita. What do you think that means?’
‘Maybe understanding how people feel?’ she asks.
‘Exactly. And at the risk of starting another row, I’d say that women are often better at that. Better at relationships altogether. Better at understanding, at trust and commitment. Men can be disappointing in that way.’ I’m keeping my voice light and level, swallowing the curdle of venom in my throat, but I see a flicker of alarm in some eyes at the slightly startling turn this class is taking. ‘And now,’ I say, ‘we’ll do the grammar test I promised.’ I distribute photocopied sheets. ‘Question forms. Fill in the gaps with the right question. Mostly in class you answer questions. Now it’s your chance to ask them.’
*
I have a meeting to finalise September resit papers immediately after the class, so I don’t get back to my office till five thirty and only then do I have the opportunity to ring David. I decide not to call his mobile because on that he can pretend to be anywhere. Instead I call his direct line at the police station and he picks up.
‘David Scott.’ He sounds preoccupied and unwary.
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Can that really be David Scott? That same David Scott who is at present in London, working with the Metropolitan Police, and cannot possibly have been teleported to Marlbury without bothering to inform the woman who has, possibly mistakenly, come to regard herself as his nearest and dearest.’
‘Gina.’
‘Yes, Gina. Remember me?’
‘Gina—’
‘When were you going to let me know you were back?’
‘I—’
‘When?’
There is a pause. I think I hear him sit down. I wait.
‘How about,’ he says eventually, ‘Hello David. You must have had a hard day, taking over a double murder inquiry at a moment’s notice, especially one involving a child, with all the distress that brings, not to mention the extra press interest. And then Paula must be pissed off having the case taken away from her so she can’t be easy to work with, and you won’t have enough officers on your team because of all the cuts, so I guess all in all you’re having a pretty shitty time and I wonder what I can do to make you feel better?’
Just for a moment I think my righteous anger might ooze away but I’m made of more obdurate stuff.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I don’t think I will say that because you are, in fact, just doing your job and it’s what you get paid for – handsomely. The deaths of a young woman and a child – that’s horrible, but much worse for Paula, who actually saw the bodies, so don’t forget that. However, I am prepared to concede that it’s been a busy time and it is understandable that ringing me slipped down your list of priorities, but you could have rung me last night.’
‘I didn’t know last night.’
‘But it said in the Herald—’
‘The assistant commissioner rang me this morning.’
‘So the press knew before you did. What a brilliant organisation the police force is.’
‘I drove down from London first thing, and then drove to Wormwood Scrubs and back this afternoon to interview a prisoner, so I’m—’
‘Yes, yes. Poor you. I would offer you a quiet supper at my house but there is no quiet there. The house is full of youf.’
‘Full of what?’
‘Youf. The young. Annie’s friends. Staying in my house for an unspecified period, stripping my fridge and pantry with the effrontery of biblical locusts. If you want to see me, you’re going to have to take me out to eat.’
‘I was just going to pick up some fish and chips tonight. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’
‘I could come for fish and chips too. We could eat them in the car and then snog.’
‘Fine.’
‘I wasn’t serious.’
‘Shame.’
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Did Paula tell you about the dog?’
‘This dog keeps cropping up but I haven’t had the full story.’
‘I can tell you. I saw it. I was an eye witness.’
There is a lengthy pause.
‘Of course you were,’ he says, and he sounds very, very tired.