Simon Lelic: A Thousand Cuts

Again a hint of arrogance, like he is in a position to lecture me about the condition of education in this country. But I let the matter drop. He will, I tell myself, come to terms with his inexperience soon enough.

Before he leaves – just before he walks out of my office still clutching that infernal glass – I ask him one more thing. I ask him what he thinks of history. I ask him what he thinks history is.

He says, have I read Carr, is that what you’re asking me?

I admit I am taken aback. E. H. Carr, Inspector. There is a copy on the shelf beside you. A moronic work. Lucid enough but entirely misguided. A history teacher who has not read it, however, may as well be replaced by a book.

And what did you make of Mr Carr’s hypothesis?

I agreed with parts, he says. But in general I found his arguments overblown. A bit too self-important. History is what it is. It can’t predict the future but it can help us understand who we are, where we’re from. History is all about context, he says, and without context all meaning is lost.

That impressed me, I will admit. He had some intellectual backbone even if he lacked any in his demeanour. His qualifi – cations, indeed, were never in doubt. Good school, venerable university – not one of these self-aggrandising polytechnics – and solid grades. An A-level in mathematics, if you please. He was bright. Green but bright, and because he was green he was cheap.

We have targets now, Inspector. Targets to meet and books to balance. You raise an eyebrow at me but I cannot ignore the cost of the capital in which we invest, human or otherwise. Believe me, I would like to. The handling of currency sullies one’s soul as much as one’s fingertips. Book-keeping can be a sordid business. But it is a necessary one, and one I would rather deal with myself than leave to bureaucrats who have no facility with the workings of a school.

There were aspects to Szajkowski’s candidacy then that would have made it difficult not to employ him. His references were positively glowing; his CV proved accurate to a fault. There was no trace of delinquency in his past nor half a hint of what he would ultimately prove capable of doing. Any school in our position would have acted as we did, Inspector, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either a fool or an outright liar.

But you asked me what was different about him. You asked me why I had my doubts.

His handshake then, and his demeanour. His attempt at humour, though this he did not repeat. He did not seem nervous, which I am not used to, because I am aware that I make people nervous. He was aloof, rather, and somewhat arrogant. He was in many ways exactly as I hoped he would not be.

All very subjective, I realise. All very ambiguous. But as I say, Inspector, I am talking about instinct more than anything else. Nothing particularly tangible for you to go on and nothing that I could have used to justify a decision not to hire him. But that’s the problem with gut feelings, isn’t it? They can be powerful, overwhelming even, and yet without any foundation. They are illogical, unscientific and imprecise. And yet they are so often correct.

Such a waste. Such a waste of young lives. Sarah Kingsley, we had high hopes for her. Felix had his problems and Donovan was no end of trouble. Maddeningly bright but no end of trouble. But Sarah. Sarah might have gone to Oxford, Inspector. She was just the calibre of pupil we have been looking to bring to this school. She was precisely the calibre.

Now then. Another cup of tea? Shall I have Janet bring in some biscuits?

‘It’s dragging on, Lucia.’

‘It’s been a week.’

Cole nodded. He sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingertips pressed together, his knuckles slightly bent. ‘It’s been a week.’

‘I don’t know what you expect me to say, sir, but—’

‘You’re giving me cold sores, Inspector.’

‘Cold sores?’

‘Look here,’ said Cole. He leant forwards, pointing towards his chin. ‘And here. I get them when I’m stressed. My wife says they make me look like a teenager. A teenager with acne or a drug habit or something.’

‘I don’t think you look like a teenager, sir.’ The detective chief inspector was bald on top and where he was not bald his hair was grey. He wheezed when he walked and perspired even when it was cold. Just as Lucia’s grandfather had, he wore button-down short-sleeved shirts in the summer. He was wearing one now.

‘Have you ever had a cold sore, Lucia?’

She shook her head.

‘They hurt. They tingle for a while and then they burn and then they sting like Lord knows what. I don’t like them.’

‘I can appreciate that. I don’t think I’d like them either.’

‘What’s the hold-up, Inspector? Why is this taking so long?’

Lucia shuffled. She opened her notebook on her lap.

‘Don’t look in there. Look at me.’

‘Five people died, sir. That’s four murders and a suicide. What do you want me to say?’

The chief inspector rolled his eyes. He levered himself from his chair and creaked until he was standing. He plucked a cup from the stack beside the cooler and drew himself some water. He took a sip, winced as the cold bit his teeth and then settled himself on the edge of the desk.

‘Five people died. All right then. Where did they die?’ He looked at Lucia but did not wait for her to answer. ‘In the same room. And how? By the same gun, at the hands of the same gunman. You have a murder weapon, a motive, a room full of witnesses.’ DCI Cole looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got an hour before I’m due to go home. I could write your report and still knock off twenty minutes early.’

Lucia was looking up at him now. She tried to nudge her chair backwards an inch but the front legs just lifted from the floor. ‘I have a motive. What motive do you think I have?’

‘He was whacko. A nutcase. Depressed, schizophrenic, abused, I don’t care. Why else would he shoot up a school?’

‘He was depressed. That’s enough for you? He was depressed.’

‘Jesus Christ, Lucia, what does it matter? He’s dead. He’s not going to be doing it again.’

‘We’re talking about a shooting in a school, Guv. In a school.’

‘So we are. What’s your point?’

Lucia could smell coffee on the chief inspector’s breath. She could feel heat leaking through his pores. She tried moving her chair backwards once more but the legs snagged against the pile of the carpet. She got up. ‘I’m going to let in some air.’ She slid past her boss towards the window and reached through the blind to find the latch.

‘It doesn’t open. It’s never opened.’

Lucia tried twisting the latch anyway but it had long since gummed itself shut. She turned and leant back against the sill. Her fingertips were sticky with grime.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘No there isn’t.’

‘There is. There’s something you’re not telling me. Look, this guy, this Szajkowski—’ he pronounced it saj-cow-skee ‘—no one knew about him, right? He wasn’t on any lists.’

‘He wasn’t on any lists.’

‘So no one messed up. No one could have predicted it, which means no one could have stopped it.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘So why won’t you let this thing go?’

Lucia picked at the dirt on her fingers.

‘These things happen, Lucia. Sometimes these things happen. It’s shitty but it’s life. Our job is to catch the bad guys. In this case, the bad guy’s dead. All the rest – the accusations, the recriminations, the lessons fucking learnt – leave that to the politicians.’

‘I want more time.’

‘Why?’

‘I need more time.’