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

“We dropped the kids at school and called on Gaby at about nine. We were supposed to be taking her to the Monday market. I thought she’d forgotten and gone out, although she doesn’t go out much.”

My excitement fades; the kidnappers would have been long gone by 9 a.m. Whether Bagley knows about it or not, it’s highly unlikely that Linda’s visit to the Brocks’ house will have a bearing on the case.

“Did you hear or see anything near the house?” I ask, but it’s hardly worth asking.

Linda shakes her head. “Only their milk on the doorstep. I moved it into the shade.”

“Will your sister-in-law be all right? I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet. She’s very quiet.”

“Gaby always is. That’s her way. She was the same when Pipkin died.”

“Who’s Pipkin?” I ask. Maybe getting some background information on the family will give a lead.

“Her pet cockatiel. He died a couple of months ago. Mangy old thing. First his tail feathers went black and then he started pulling them out of his chest. He was practically bald before he finally fell off his perch. Gaby adored that stupid bird. It became her world after she lost the baby.” She fishes a soggy tissue out of her handbag and blows her nose. I wait for her to continue and hope she will without prompting. I need to know, but am reluctant to probe into the obvious tragedy.

“She had a miscarriage last year. Didn’t say much then either. Didn’t even cry. Carl took a week off school to look after her. He wouldn’t even let me visit so she had complete rest. When I did see her, she was quiet. Didn’t want to talk about it.” She cups her drink and blows on the surface. “After another week she picked herself up and carried on as if nothing had happened. Threw herself into her yoga. Not classes though; she said it was more restful to use tapes at home. I expect she’ll return to it now.”

My eyes moisten. At least the books on yoga on the Brocks’ bookcase will be read again. I’m about to give Linda’s hand a sympathetic squeeze but pull back when I remember Bagley’s earlier rebuke about being overfamiliar.

“How long were Gaby and Carl married?”

“Two years. A whirlwind romance. She was a classroom assistant at the school where he works. They got married soon after they met.”

“Does she still work there?”

“She gave up work after they married.” She takes a sip of coffee and wraps her arms around herself. “They hoped to start a family.”

“Did Carl like being a teacher?”

“He loved it. He thought he could make a difference. Especially to the ones everyone else had written off as the no-hopers.” Her fingers touch her throat again, and she breaks into loud sobs.

Grief. I remember: an open hand to the chest means the woman is grieving despite saying she wasn’t close to her brother. Ditching Bagley’s instructions, I pull my chair around, lean a consoling arm around Linda’s shoulder and let her cry. I catch sight of my watch and sigh; acres of time to spare.

“You can skip the post-mortem,” DS Matthews says when I return to the general office.

“Has it been postponed?” It’s bound to be his idea of a joke and next he’ll tell me I have to go to it after all.

“The DI is doing it on her own. She wants you to see some real CID work.” He slips his jacket over his shoulders. “The desk sergeant says Gaby Brock picked out one of the mugshots. It’s Samuel McKenzie.”

I recognize the name. “Isn’t he a suspected drug dealer?”

“He’s a known dealer, Agatha . Dealing, running a brothel, illegal gambling, blackmail. A regular pillar of the community. We’re off to the Dynamite Club to rattle his cage.”

“The night club?” I’ve made a fair few drunk and disorderly arrests outside. “Will it be open at this time of day?”

“Calling it a night club is like saying the Danescott Kebab House is a gourmet restaurant. The Dynamite is little more than a strip joint. The sort of facilities McKenzie offers have a steady supply of punters twenty-four seven. It’s supposed to be members only before six, but McKenzie wouldn’t let a little thing like the licensing laws get in his way.”

As expected, Matthews drives in silence along the endless rows of industrial units and warehouses. This time I make no attempt at conversation. Don’t want to give him more ammunition. I intend to limit his weaponry to the Agatha tag.

The silence gives me a chance to mull over the events of the morning. The chat with Linda Parry answered a few questions. Poor Gaby, how could so much tragedy attach itself to one person? The Brocks’ circus-themed room was intended for the baby they lost, and the cage in the study was for the recently departed pet cockatiel. Pipkin is the kind of daft name I might have given one of my teddy bears, if they weren’t named after Christie characters.

And Linda Parry displays her sorrow whereas Gaby Brock conceals hers. I remember how Mum and I clung to each other, wailing long and loud, when my grandfather died. I can’t imagine keeping grief to myself. Other emotions – terror, rage, despair – I can hold those, but not grief.

We turn right into Minster Meadow, the dual carriageway that forms the eastern approach to Penbury town centre. It’s bordered by elegant town houses, many displaying discreet Bed and Breakfast notices. Two pubs stand on either side of the road like a pair of bookends. Hanging baskets with patriotic displays of salvia, alyssum and lobelia front them both, while banners proclaim their respective commitments to family menus and Sky Sports.

Matthews slows down as Minster Meadow narrows to two lanes and becomes dwarfed by the minster itself. The 800-year-old walls stand solid and clean on velvety green lawns. No errant daisies or incipient clover here, thanks to the Briggham diocese grounds maintenance team. Although I see the minster as an ancient monument rather than a place of worship, I rarely visit. Crossing its slavishly swept threshold is like trying to penetrate a precious jewel. I’ve no business defiling its stone-carved floor with my size eight deck shoes. I content myself with frequent trips to the adjoining refectory for spaghetti bolognaise followed by apple crumble and custard.

Beyond the minster is a parade of shops. I make out a hardware store, a bank and a sandwich bar. Across a side road is a high-wire fence around a school playground. Swan Academy. No unauthorized entry .

We drive over the East Bridge, built fifty years earlier to span the River Penn. At this time of year its vast stone arches seem ostentatious for the grubby stream of water trickling below. However, by October, heavy rains in the Welsh mountains will swell the river and hide its banks. They currently stand naked and filthy. Another week of drought and they’ll reveal the river’s insides: rusted pushchairs, buckled bicycle frames, fleshless mattresses.

The town centre proper begins after the bridge. There’s a multi-storey car park, an antique shop, two estate agents, a health food shop, three pubs – without hanging baskets – and any number of shoe shops. And then, on the right-hand side, is the Dynamite Club.

Matthews pulls into the deliveries bay in front of the club. “We ought to be able to arrest him just for that.” He shakes his head at a neon sign that promises Live Music

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