Several miles beyond Lyndgarth they crested a rise and came out from the obscuring shade of roadside trees to see St Botolph’s spread out in a natural trough of land like some fairy-tale castle held in the palm of a giant’s hand. The school was a rambling Victorian construction, though on a relatively small scale, built in 1866 of local limestone, complete with turrets and gables. The grounds were extensive, scattered with numerous buildings, both original and more modern additions, including dormitories, stables, storage areas and a chapel with lancet stained-glass windows. There were also the inevitable green swathes of playing fields with rugby posts, and smaller pitches, clearly intended for cricket, along with tennis courts. All in all, it was quite a sight, and Banks stopped in a lay-by for a few moments to let Gerry take it all in.
‘Not seen it before?’ he asked.
‘No, guv. It’s like something out of Brideshead Revisited. You know, on the TV, when Charles Ryder first sees Brideshead.’
‘I didn’t know you were a fan.’
‘I’m working my way through great box sets. It was on the list.’
‘That was filmed at Castle Howard, you know.’
‘I know. I’ve always wanted to visit, but it’s prohibitively expensive.’
‘Well, St Botolph’s isn’t quite as magnificent, but it’s free. Unless you want to be a pupil there, of course.’
‘No, thanks. I’ve had my fill of posh schools.’
‘Of course. I remember. Merchant Taylors’, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you still a lowly DC.’
Gerry laughed. ‘That’s all right, guv. I’ve still got my sights on the chief constable’s job.’
Banks gave a mock shudder. ‘I couldn’t imagine anything worse.’ He drove out of the lay-by and wound his way down the road to the school, surrounded by open fields and moorland on both sides, all under a great blue dome of sky scattered with fluffy white clouds. As they floated over, the clouds cast shadows, which seemed to chase one another across the landscape.
Banks parked outside the main building. ‘The head said he’d meet us in his office,’ he said. ‘It’s on the second floor.’
It was exam time, so there weren’t the usual number of pupils dashing about the high-ceilinged corridors, or up and down the broad marble staircase. One or two young boys paused to stare at them and whisper as they passed. Probably, Banks thought, having highly erotic thoughts about Gerry, with her coltish figure and flowing red hair. Their footsteps echoed as they walked up to the second floor, where they found someone who looked like a teacher to direct them to the head’s office. Once there, they knocked and entered a reception area where a young woman with a stuffy formal manner asked them to be seated and wait, that Mr Bowen would be with them soon.
It didn’t take long before they were summoned to go in. Though it had happened before in the course of his investigations, Banks had never been quite able to separate these official visits to the headmaster’s office from those he had been required to make as a pupil at his local grammar school, after passing the 13+ examination and finding himself transferred from the secondary modern and all his friends. He still felt that same sense of trepidation, the quickening heartbeat, even an anticipatory tingling around the buttocks at the thought of the caning to come. Of course, schools didn’t do such barbaric things any more, but the memory remained — the music teacher with his slipper called ‘Johan Sebastian’; the divinity teacher who always said, ‘This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you’ before every thrashing; the art teacher who took a run like a fast bowler before letting rip. Bastards all. And no doubt dead bastards by now.
But Roger Bowen was hardly so frightening. He was young, for a start, and quite handsome, with a fine head of thick brown hair and not a trace of grey. Banks put him in his late thirties at most. He also had an affable manner and a sporty air about him — more cricketer, perhaps, than rugby player — and a strong handshake, neither too firm nor too limp and clammy. He wore a white shirt and what looked like an old school tie, but there were no gowns or mortarboards in sight. The mullioned sash window was open several inches, letting in a light breeze, a whiff of scented spring air, the thwack of leather on willow and the shouts from those pupils lucky enough to be practising out in the nets instead of writing A-levels. Bowen bade them sit and sent for tea, then leaned back in his chair with his hands linked behind his head.
‘So what can I do for you?’ he asked. ‘You were suitably non-committal on the telephone.’
‘Occupational habit,’ said Banks.
‘Well, I know I haven’t committed any crimes, so unless things are going to take a positively Kafkaesque turn, I will assume that you want to see me about some aspect of the school. A pupil, perhaps?’
‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Bowen. It’s about Christopher Myers. He is a pupil here, right?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course he is. But I’m puzzled. What could Chris possibly have done that merits police involvement?’
‘It would be best if I didn’t talk about that just for the moment.’
‘You’re fishing?’
‘We call it looking for evidence.’
‘Ah. Semantics.’
‘Mr Myers is helping us with our enquiries,’ said Gerry.
Bowen laughed, and even Banks managed a smile. ‘Got it in one, DC Masterson,’ he said.
‘Well, in that case,’ Bowen went on, ‘I’m still not sure how I can help you, but ask away.’
‘Has Myers ever been in trouble?’
‘No more than any other boy his age. The usual adolescent pranks.’
‘Smoking behind the cycle sheds?’
‘I’m afraid our cycle sheds don’t offer that much cover. Besides, you’d be surprised how many young people just don’t seem to smoke these days.’
‘Not cigarettes, at any rate.’
‘We don’t tolerate drugs here, Superintendent.’
‘According to our information, Myers was issued with a stern warning last year after being discovered at a party where drugs and alcohol were present. He was seventeen at the time.’
‘That did get back to me, and I certainly had words with him, as I’m certain his father did. I repeat, though, we don’t tolerate drugs here at St Botolph’s, and there have been no issues along those lines involving Chris Myers.’
‘Anybody else?’
‘That would be between myself and their parents.’
‘Me and his or her parents,’ said Banks.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t mind me. Semantics again. I’m just old-fashioned. I even use the subjunctive on occasion.’
Bowen smiled. ‘A regular Philip Marlowe.’
‘One of my heroes. OK, so Myers hasn’t been involved in drugs here. Is there anything else we should know? Does he get into fights, for example?’
Bowen frowned. ‘Not that I know of. I’m not saying we don’t have any fights here. Of course, it happens. Boys will be boys and all that. But not Myers.’
‘Any trouble with weapons? Knives, especially.’
‘With Myers?’
‘Anyone.’
‘No. Naturally, they’re not allowed on school premises, and I’m happy to report that we’ve had no incidents, and I have never had to confiscate one. None of the other masters have, either, as far as I know.’
‘Would they tell you?’
‘Anything like that would have to be reported.’
‘To the police, too?’
‘Definitely. If we thought crime was involved. Possessing a dangerous weapon would be very high on our list of reportable offences.’