Rachel Sargeant - The Good Teacher - A gripping thriller from the Kindle top ten bestselling author of ‘The Perfect Neighbours’

It’s great to be back, even in this improvers’ tap class. I owe it to Zelda to keep a low profile. By joining the advanced group I might force her to mention the summer show and neither of us wants that conversation again. I’ve caused Zelda enough hurt over the years. Besides, in this class, I don’t have to concentrate too hard on arms and legs. I can let my ears take the rhythm and my mind is free to wander.

As I grapevine my way across the studio, my thoughts turn to Gaby Brock. How must she be feeling – wrenched from her bed in the dead of night, beaten up and chained to a chair in her own home while her husband suffered an even worse fate? I miss a step as my insides drop. Gaby Brock has been through an ordeal. Ordeal, agony, trauma, nightmare – whatever they want to call it, I know how every single one of those words feels. Gaby Brock’s pain lasted several hours, which seemed like they’d never end, like time had stopped and there was no way out, no one else there except you and … My heart rate rockets and I miss another step.

I pull back from the precipice of my past and keep my thoughts on the case. What went through Gaby Brock’s mind as she sat bound and gagged in the darkness? She must have waited in complete dread of the brutal kidnappers returning. What kind of monsters abducted Carl Brock but let him bring his shoes with him? Matthews thinks it’s drugs. Was Carl Brock, schoolteacher, leading a double life: public servant by day, drug dealer by night? First rule of detection: know your victim. DI Bagley will get us digging into his past. Maybe we’ll find out he led a blameless existence. Then what will be the motive? A bungled kidnap, perhaps; the killers hoping to extort money from the Brocks. But what kind of money would a schoolteacher have?

DI Bagley seems battle hardened enough to find the men who did it, and so does DS Matthews – ready for a long fight, knowing the rules of engagement, but with a complete disregard for those on his own side. Is he as brusque with the other detective constables, or has he singled me out for special attention? I seem destined to be his whipping boy just as he appeared to be Bagley’s. Maybe, he doesn’t like women. I can see how spending time with DI Bagley might colour his view of the opposite sex.

The dance routine switches to a series of single time steps. With every shuffle , hop, step , I hear Matthews: Ag A Tha . A nickname on day one. It took three weeks for one to ferment at police college but that was worse: Lady Double-Barrel.

It was my fault then, too. I joined the police force as Philippa Woodford Adams. That was the name on my birth certificate and it had been unremarkable at boarding school. But the name and my private school accent nearly led to an early exit from the police course. The jokes and pranks from the other recruits became less funny and more merciless, but I dug in. No way would I give up. Never again would I cower or sob or beg. Police officers took control. They stood firm and stopped bad things, bad people. I needed that.

So I stuck it out and found a new use for my drama skills. By the end of the course I’d flattened my vowels and beaten my diphthongs into neutrality. I didn’t try for a regional accent. It wasn’t like the theatre where an actor learnt and repeated the same lines every night for the duration of the play. This had to be for my entire police career. Sounding more BBC than Berkeley Ball was enough to get me off the hit list by the time I joined my first police station. I also took the precaution of consigning “Woodford” to the “Middle Name(s)” box on my staff form. Thus I became Pippa Adams and fitted in.

Now I’m depressingly visible again. The only way to re-establish my anonymity will be to prove myself a good detective. That’ll mean sticking close to the disagreeable DS Matthews. He already seems to have worked out a motive. His suggestion of a drugs connection is no doubt based on experience. He’s probably met one or both of the murderers on a previous case.

“Line up everyone.” Zelda breaks into my thoughts. “Take your positions for the show number.” I sit down at the side and see the expectation in Zelda’s face change to resignation.

It’s like walking through treacle, trying to shorten my stride to match Gaby’s. I tell myself to feel more compassion; the woman has been beaten to a pulp, walking must be painful. Linda Parry, who flanks Gaby’s other side, is struggling with her heels on the vinyl floor of the hospital. No doubt she’s grateful for the plodding pace.

Maybe there’s a chance that the formal identification process, the follow-up paperwork and then the trip to the station to view mugshots will make me miss the 11 a.m. post-mortem. I’m clutching at straws.

The atmosphere in the glazed corridor is stifling. Glad I ignored Mum’s advice and opted for bare legs. If it’s good enough for DI Bagley, I can get away with it too.

“Sorry it’s such a long walk,” I say. “This place is worse than the police station. Corridors everywhere and they all look alike. I forget where I am sometimes.”

Linda smiles, but Gaby seems not to hear.

When we reach the door to the viewing area, Linda cuts through my chatter. “You don’t have to do this, Gaby. I can go on my own.”

Gaby glances wearily at her sister-in-law. “I’m fine,” she says and pushes open the door.

A blue curtain is drawn across a large window. When I press a button on the wall, a hand appears around the curtain and pulls it back to expose another room. In the centre is a table draped by a cream sheet, with the contours of a body visible. The scene reminds me of the chapel of rest where I last saw my grandfather, except that this room lacks the yellow lilies and burning candles. Instead, several harsh fluorescent ceiling tubes light the space.

The attendant turns down the sheet to reveal Carl Brock’s head and shoulders. The morticians have taken great care to comb his hair and tidy his chin.

“Oh, my God.” Linda presses her hands against the window, sobbing.

Gaby Brock also steps nearer. Her eyes burn through the glass into the closed lids of the corpse. “Yes, this was my husband, Carl Brock.”

The vivid black and purple bruises around her eyes and across her forehead make it hard to gauge her reaction. Her eyes linger over his face, studying all his features. Despite the circumstances, she carries her battered body with poise, arms by her sides. Is she indifferent to her husband’s death? Or enveloped in a grim and silent grief?

Linda’s sobs become louder.

“Would you like to go to the hospital chapel for a few minutes, before we do the paperwork?” I ask, glancing at my watch, still lots of time until my date with post-mortem destiny.

Gaby shakes her head. “Better get it all over with.”

When we arrive at the police station, the sergeant handling the ID photos says that he can manage without me and I’m free to report to DI Bagley for the post-mortem. He suggests Linda get a coffee while Gaby goes through the photographs.

“I’ll show you where the canteen is, Mrs Parry,” I say, grasping the opportunity to delay my return to Bagley.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say, handing Linda a steaming polystyrene cup and sitting down opposite.

Linda peers into the coffee. “We weren’t that close, but it’s still a shock to see him lying there.”

She rests her open fingers against her throat. I note the gesture. If only I could remember what I’ve been taught about body language.

“It’s awful to think that Gaby was inside, all tied up when we called round,” Linda says, close to tears.

“You called round? What time was that?” I try to keep the eagerness out of my voice. And the smugness. This is news. DI Bagley was so intent on grilling Gaby Brock yesterday that she ignored Linda Parry.