Turn a Blind Eye: A gripping and tense crime thriller with a brand new detective for 2018

Steve felt disorientated. He surveyed the room and saw similar feelings mirrored in his colleagues’ faces. Some were pale and wide-eyed, staring into the distance in a daze. Others were flushed and agitated. On the soft chairs round the coffee tables a group of people surrounded a young woman wearing a silver and black headscarf. Steve recognised Rozina, the head’s PA, who was dabbing at her eyes and adjusting the pin on her scarf. When Steve had come for his interview, Rozina had been kind when he’d forgotten to bring his training folder and needed to print out the details from his e-mail. Poor girl. She had black panda rings round her eyes from crying through make-up. Steve could hear snatches of what Rozina was saying. She could have got help for Mrs Gibson if she’d been at her desk. She felt responsible. If Mrs Gibson died it would be all her fault.

‘Stop being such a drama queen, Rozina,’ said a fierce-looking woman with long white hair, which was parted in the middle so that it hung like two curtains on either side of her face. She was flicking through the latest Times Educational Supplement, licking her finger before each page turn.

‘Moira, that’s not necessary,’ said a girl who was sitting next to Rozina. ‘We’re all extremely concerned and upset.’ The gaggle of people surrounding Rozina stared at the woman.

‘I was just saying.’ Moira spat out the words as though she had bitten on a lemon.

‘Well, perhaps it would be helpful if you didn’t “just say”.’

‘Suit yourself.’ The woman shrugged and flounced away from the group.

Feeling self-conscious with the ambulance rug wrapped round him, Steve pulled it off and got up. He was still shivering so he headed over to the kitchen area and flicked the kettle on to make himself a hot drink. The usual first day of term activities had been eclipsed. The whole day felt unreal, and he wanted to go home. He shuddered, though, at the grilling he was going to get from his sister.

Especially when she found out that, on top of blowing his engagement, he was now a potential suspect in a murder investigation.

Wednesday – Maya (#ulink_c6b296e2-e82f-5666-a218-e370adfb6e77)

‘Let us know when he is,’ I said to the family liaison officer. She’d rung to inform us that Peter Gibson had been discharged from hospital but still wasn’t fit to be interviewed. ‘Thank goodness his GP was on the ball.’ On top of a serious heart condition, the news of his wife’s death could’ve been fatal.

I crossed the incident room, leaving Dan with a telephone receiver clamped to his ear, and Alexej in front of a large monitor with a laptop screen either side. Uniformed officers were helping with house-to-house enquiries and staff interviews. Minutes later, I was in reception and had begun compiling the victim profile part of the investigation. With a crime like this, I wanted to get a sense of the school.

Photographs hung proudly on the walls, not a speck of dust on any of their frames. The very first one, dated 1949, showed the celebrations that had taken place the day the school opened. In the autumn sunshine, to a background of bunting and post-war jollity, grinning boys stood in long shorts and knee-length socks, while girls folded their hands over calf-length skirts. As I took in the expressions, I wondered, had life been more innocent then? Or was it just different?

There was a gradual progression in the photographs from monochrome to colour. There were changes in the ethnicities of both the children and the staff as increasing numbers of immigrants and asylum seekers arrived. I could see my compatriots in the images, others from Somalia, China, Pakistan, and from a number of African-Caribbean countries. I knew the reasons off by heart. The need to flee war, famine and oppressive regimes. Could quote the statistics from memory. After all, I was part of them, and I’d seen the demographics of Tower Hamlets printed in dozens of reports and booklets over the years. Like so many Bangladeshis in the seventies and eighties, my own family had fled Sylhet in 1982. As we all crammed into unheated one-room lets in Brick Lane, Whitechapel and Stepney, with outside toilets and no baths, it was no wonder the population of Tower Hamlets had burgeoned in the space of forty years.

As the decades progressed, the photographs showed how Mile End High School had acquired buildings to accommodate the increasing numbers of students. Annexes were constructed, including what was now the sports hall. I realised my eyes were searching the walls for a photograph of my year group in 1989. And there I was, in year seven, eyes bulging with fear, swamped in Jasmina’s over-sized blazer and the skirt that Sabbir had helped me pin. My sister stood, tall and elegant, with her year nine form.

From the school’s reception area, I continued along the main hall, past the science labs and the music rooms, along the corridor past the walls of metal lockers that had seemed like monsters on my first day of school here. I made notes in my pad as I walked; recorded and analysed impressions; took snaps on my phone. The display boards didn’t fool me. I knew they were designed to portray a positive image to whoever saw them, but they somehow seemed too perfect. Who were all the smiling faces, and messages of progress and harmony, aimed at? And where was the information for the people who passed the boards the most often? The information for pupils on internet security, bullying and drugs? It all prompted two conflicting impressions: the place had clearly benefitted from the stewardship of Linda Gibson, but underneath the cheery faces and camaraderie, something wasn’t right . . . I could feel Linda’s murder reeling me in. Her legacy and achievements were all around me, vying for my attention, but very much at odds with the fact that she was now dead, with parents outside the school, desperate for information about what’s happened to the head teacher.

When I returned to the incident room, I hurried over to where I had been working earlier. A few seats along, Dan was hunched over the table, checking off numbers on a printout with a ruler and yellow highlighter. He was facing me but had his head down, engrossed in what he was reading. Through his number one shave, his white scalp was visible.

At that moment, Alexej arrived, a bunch of papers in his hand. ‘Shen dropped these off for you.’ He handed them to me. ‘Still no trace of Roger Allen. And Linda’s post-mortem is scheduled for nine a.m. tomorrow.’

I scanned the list of names Shen had brought. I cross-checked these with the information on HOLMES. Rich, the school caretaker, had arrived late this morning after a delayed return flight from Spain. With all the commotion about the power cut and lack of heating, he’d got distracted and forgotten to switch the school’s CCTV back on after the electricity was restored. Wait. His name was on the list of people outside the school earlier. If he wasn’t in the staffroom with his colleagues, he might’ve had the opportunity to kill Linda. I scanned the records. Uniform had interviewed Rich after Linda’s death but it needed following up.

‘Any luck locating CCTV?’ I asked Alexej. Without any, we were reliant on eye witnesses and forensics.

‘Still trying to establish what’s in the school vicinity. I’m heading over there in a minute to have a chat with one of the parent governors, a man named Talcott Lawrence, and re-interview the caretaker, Rich Griffiths. Rich swears no doors were left open this morning and all of them are entry-code protected, but given he forgot to switch on the school’s CCTV, I don’t know how reliable he is.’

‘I was just reading about the caretaker. Can you grill him on where he was when Linda was killed and how he managed to get outside the school? Check his alibis. Also, find out who the heating engineers were and where they went?’

‘Will do.’ He put his pen in his jacket.

‘And ask him why the power went off, can you? Was someone helping the killer, or did the killer switch it off so there would be no lights and no CCTV?’ Crime scene photos were scattered over my desk. ‘This wasn’t a frenzied, spontaneous attack. A strangulation of this sort suggests a quiet rage, don’t you think? It was meticulously organised. The killer would’ve had to print the precept onto card, bring it with them – and the cloth for Linda’s hands – strangle her, position the body, tie her wrists, then leave.’

‘Exactly. That takes planning.’ Alexej was shaking his head. ‘I’ve checked the staff register. Only Roger Allen was absent today. Theoretically, Allen and Steve Rowe had the opportunity to kill Linda. And Rich, depending on where he was.’

‘Yes, they’re our obvious suspects. But we also need to consider the possible involvement of Linda’s husband – however unlikely – and a student with a grievance. Unfortunately, we don’t have any motives at the moment.’ I added these to the list of suspects on the board. ‘I’ve been reading the interview summaries. No-one has uttered a bad word about Linda. Good at her job. A competent leader. Nice person. Cared about the kids and staff. Passionate about education.’ It made me think about the display boards and the school video. ‘It always arouses my suspicions when no-one has anything negative to say about a person who’s been murdered. No-one is so nice there’s nothing negative to say. It’s the British thing of not wanting to speak badly about someone who’s died. And I respect that. But it only takes one person with a grudge.’

After Alexej left, I laid out several images of Linda on the table in front of me, alongside the staff photographs from the school data management system. I was keen to add pictures of Linda’s family and friends to get a grasp on the people in her life. I was struggling to get a sense of what Linda’s death might be about. In Tower Hamlets, in East London as a whole, it was mainly stabbings, shootings and beatings, and invariably to do with gangs, grudges or honour.

Seconds later Dan was back in front of my desk, clearing his throat. ‘The parent delegation is growing and they’ve assembled next to the reporters.’ He was holding out a paper cup of steaming liquid.

I took it. ‘Thanks.’

‘And your pal, Dougie, has just called. The technicians have given their initial reports. Linda Gibson has been wiping stuff off her computers on a regular basis.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘I wish I was. The techs are trying to recover the files but they wanted to warn you: she’s used a professional programme to overwrite them.’

‘What’s the programme?’

‘PermErase.’

‘Argh. That’s a pig of a piece of software.’ The news sent my thoughts reeling. ‘Why’s she been doing that? You don’t use PermErase to delete a few photographs and draft emails.’ I still wasn’t sure about Dan – I wasn’t used to sharing my investigations with someone so pro-active. But the hot drink was a friendly gesture. I took a swig.

Dan’s expression was thoughtful. ‘Course, it could just mean that she’s extremely organised or security conscious?’

‘Until we know what she’s deleted, there’s no point speculating. But I definitely don’t know anyone who uses professional software to overwrite blurry photographs.’

Dan tilted his head but didn’t comment. Presumably it was his way of agreeing. ‘Is there any chance it could be a school policy? Or a – what d’you call it here? – local government thing?’

‘Local education authority. Can you find out? Shari and Neil should know if it’s a Tower Hamlets policy.’

He tapped into his phone.

‘Has Dougie’s team got Linda’s mobile phone? I want to know what’s on it. Her contacts, texts, photographs. We need her call records, and details of her social media accounts, so we can assess the passive data for gaps and patterns. I want to know who she’s been in touch with recently.’

‘Already requested these. Her mobile was part of her handbag contents. I’ve been going through her call records.’ He pointed at the printouts on his desk. ‘The technicians are running checks on her handset, then we can have it. Once we have her passwords, Alexej can check any Facebook and Twitter accounts she uses.’

‘Well done.’

‘A few other things. Neil Sanderson has asked if the staff can go home now.’

‘Has everyone been interviewed? Got contact details and prints for them all?’

‘Almost. Shen is double-checking against the staff lists.’

‘In that case, the staff can go. Except the bursar and the other senior manager. I’d like to interview them myself. If there was something going on with Linda, one of them should know, surely?’

He shook his head. ‘People can be extremely good at keeping secrets when they need to.’

‘True.’ I shifted topic. ‘When the staff leave, they need to go straight off site. I don’t want anyone wandering round the school.’

‘Got it. The CSIs have almost finished. The filming’s done and the virtual tour, and the inventories are almost complete. They haven’t taken her out yet. D’you want them to wait for all the staff to leave first?’

‘Yes. We’ve got no chance of keeping this out of the news with hawk-eyed Suzie James on the case but I’d prefer it if we didn’t have an image of Linda Gibson in a body bag on the front page of the Stepney Gazette, or on the national news.’