Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

The trick is to train your mind to pick up the cues. Trust your first response. My gut tells me that Sienna Hegarty didn’t kill her father. My gut tells me that she’s protecting someone. My gut tells me that Gordon Ellis knows more than he’s letting on. My gut tells me that there was something between them - teacher and student - a friendship that crossed a boundary.

For the past four days I have wrestled with this problem, going back over the details of Sienna’s interview and Ellis’s reaction. Another image keeps coming back to me: Gordon Ellis on stage during the rehearsal, looking into the eyes of a teenage girl, putting his finger beneath her chin, tilting her face towards his. She wanted to be kissed . . . wanted to surrender . . . he wanted control.

I can see Ellis’s eyes travelling from the girl’s dilated pupils over her flushed cheeks, down her exposed neck, across her under-defended body. Was it the look of a practised manipulator or a committed teacher? Was it a predator’s leer or a harmless piece of theatre?

It’s Saturday morning in Bath. I’m sitting in Café Medoc, overlooking Pulteney Bridge and the riverside path running north past the Bath Library arcade. The weir is downstream, turning brown water into foam. Ducks paddle above the falls as if waiting for a ramp to be delivered.

Annie Robinson takes a seat and puts her brightly coloured hippy shoulder bag at her feet. She’s wearing a quilted jacket over a shirt and thin woollen tights.

‘I didn’t think you’d call me, Joseph O’Loughlin.’

‘Why?’

‘You looked so embarrassed when you last saw me.’

‘I wasn’t embarrassed.’

She laughs. ‘I seem to remember you didn’t know where to look.’

Coffees are ordered. Delivered. Spooning foam from a cappuccino, she holds the spoon in her mouth.

‘You don’t give a girl much notice. Normally, I wouldn’t agree to a date when someone rings me on the same morning. Did someone else stand you up?’

‘It’s not really a date,’ I say, and then backtrack. ‘I mean, I wanted to see you socially, but I didn’t think of this as one - a date, I mean . . .’

Again she laughs, her eyes dancing.

‘Don’t worry, Joseph O’Loughlin, I won’t be offended if we don’t call it a date.’

Annie seems to find my full name amusing. ‘So tell me,’ she says, ‘since we’re two friends meeting socially - what do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a clinical psychologist and please call me Joe.’

‘Is that what your wife calls you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I shall call you Joseph. Do you have a practice?’

‘Not any more. I lecture at the university. Part-time.’

She nods as though satisfied. ‘Do you find the weekends are the hardest?’

‘Hardest?’

‘Being alone. When I’m at work it doesn’t matter because I’m busy, but the weekends are lonelier.’

‘How long has it been?’ I ask.

‘Three years since we separated. Ten months since the divorce. I held out hope until the very end. How about you?’

‘No divorce yet.’

‘Oh, I thought, you know . . . I didn’t realise.’ There is a squeak in her voice.

‘Were you always a school counsellor?’ I ask, trying to rescue her.

‘I used to teach history. My father said it was the perfect subject because there was always more to teach.’

‘Even if it repeats itself?’

‘Because we never learn.’

She smiles and a dimple appears on her left cheek, but not the right.

The sun has come out. Reaching into her bag, she takes out a pair of sunglasses.

‘That’s a very colourful bag.’

‘My ex-husband gave it to me when we were still married. It was stuffed full of lingerie, most of which was totally obscene and not sexy at all. Don’t even try to get me out of my good old Marks and Spencers striped pyjamas.’

‘I wouldn’t try.’

She feigns surprise. ‘Am I that undesirable?’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. I just . . . I mean . . . I wouldn’t force you out of them . . .’

She laughs prettily and then convinces me to share a slice of ‘death by chocolate’ cake because a ‘true gentleman would share some of the guilt’.

‘So why did you call me, Joseph?’

‘How well do you know Gordon Ellis?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m interested.’

She licks her spoon. ‘We were at college together during teacher training - back in the days when we were young and committed to the cause.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Too handsome for his own good.’

She says it in such a matter-of-fact way that I feel a twinge of jealousy.

‘Is he popular?’

‘Very. Particularly with the senior girls - he sets their little hearts aflutter. Some of the really presumptuous ones pass him notes or make excuses to rub up against him. Gordon has to be very careful.’

‘Has he had problems?’

She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Why are you so interested?’

‘I think Sienna Hegarty has a crush on him.’

‘She wouldn’t be the first or the last.’

‘What if it went further than that?’

Annie’s head tilts to one side. ‘Sexual misconduct - are you making an accusation?’

‘It’s a hypothetical question.’

‘A dangerous one. Rumours spread very quickly. Careers can be ruined.’

‘This is just between us.’

She toys with her earring, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger.

‘The school has procedures to deal with sexual misconduct.’

‘Internal procedures?’

‘Usually. Most incidents rarely get beyond a harmless crush and misplaced affection.’

‘And when it does?’

‘The school accepts responsibility. The teacher is quietly suspended, sacked or transferred without any fuss.’

‘Or damaging publicity.’

Annie doesn’t disagree.

‘Maybe you don’t remember being at school, Joe, but classrooms are like sexual petri dishes, full of hormones and sexual tension. I’ve had my share of admirers. When I was at school I fancied Mr Deitch, who taught English and PE. We used to go and watch whenever he was on the track because he wore Lycra running shorts just like Linford Christie. He had an impressive lunchbox.’

‘I get the picture.’

She laughs. ‘Did a teacher break your heart too?’

‘Miss Powell - she taught French and had done some modelling in Paris. I saw her shopping one day and made up a story about how she’d been buying sexy underwear. My mates were so jealous. Anyway, the story got back to her and she sent me to see the headmaster. I had to write an essay on why women shouldn’t be treated as sex objects.’

‘You poor boy.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened to a girl.’

Mock surprise. ‘You’re blaming me now.’

‘No. Never. But tell me, how do you guard against it - teenage crushes?’

‘I avoid meeting students outside of school or having them in my car. I don’t play favourites. I avoid situations where I’d be alone with a particular student. I don’t accept gifts or give them. I avoid physical contact. I leave the classroom door open. I don’t write notes or emails that could be misinterpreted.’

‘It’s a minefield.’

‘Yes and no.’

She runs a finger around the top of her coffee cup. ‘I can usually tell when a student has a crush on me - the lovesick looks and excuses to stay late or arrive early.’

‘And then what?’

‘I find a way of distancing myself. I let them down gently. I maintain the boundaries.’

Annie raises her eyes and holds her gaze on mine. I can feel myself blink and colour come to my throat.

‘Is that why you asked me here - to talk about Gordon?’

‘Yes and no.’