“I don’t want to upset the applecart by getting the boys out of their class again,” said May. “Actually, you can probably help me.”
“Fire away,” wheezed Mason, who looked like he might collapse at any moment.
“The Saladins, a gang that hangs around the Roland Plumbe Community Estate. I’ve never heard of them, and we’ve nothing on file under that name. Are they new? Some of the boys here suggested they knew something about the man we’re seeking. I wonder if the gang might even be harbouring him. Some of the kids on the estate reckon that the Highwayman’s identity is common knowledge.”
“Dear God, don’t start believing children.” Mason sighed. “Let’s go back outside so I can sneak a Rothman’s. There used to be a time when it was the kids who had to hang around the bike sheds smoking, not the teachers.” They returned to the school steps, and Mason guiltily lit up. “Remember Matilda, who told such dreadful lies?”
“‘It made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes.’’ May recalled the Hilaire Belloc poem. “You’re saying they all lie?”
“Not intentionally, perhaps, but even the simplest truths can become fabulously distorted. As far as I’m concerned, teenagers are incapable of recounting the simplest fact without embellishment. Their capacity for self-deception is astounding. They seek authorship, they want to be the one who creates the interest; it’s the oddest phenomenon. I don’t remember being like that.”
“So what is the truth, then?”
“There’s certainly a gang on the estate, if you can call it that. A loose group united in apathy would be a more accurate description. Two years ago, one of the seniors here was stabbed in the stomach after tangling with them. He made a remarkable recovery, but his parents withdrew him from the school. Big hoo-hah. I’m surprised you don’t remember it.”
“We’re no longer part of the Met,” May explained. “We don’t have access to the notes on cases that fall under their jurisdiction. Did they make an arrest?”
“Nothing was ever proven, but the enmity still runs deep. There’s a racial element, too. The boys here are mostly lapsed Church of England or Muslim. Some of the Saladins are committed hard-line Christian. They believe in the fiery sword of God’s vengeance, probably the result of playing too many computer games. The gang’s ringleaders are white skinheads, but they’re not like the ones I remember from my teenage years. The territorial boundaries between teens shift so fast these days, you never know where new allegiances lie.”
“How do you know so much about them?” asked May.
“The school’s athletics pitch falls inside their boundary. I see them hanging about all the time. Picking up on their conversation is a teacher’s habit, I’m afraid. Still, I wouldn’t take too much notice of your informants.”
“Oh, why not?”
“Kids join gangs because they crave a sense of belonging. They’re looking for respect outside of the parental unit. Your man is a loner, isn’t he? Why would he be hanging around with a bunch of kids?” Mason took a drag on his cigarette while he considered his own question. “Ah, I see, the grim spectre of paedophilia rears its head. You think he’s preying on them.”
“That would give us an entirely different profile,” said May.
“Then I’d suggest you dismiss your information as idle gossip. The estate kids have no money, no power, and nowhere to go. Talking is the cheapest thing they can do. I grew up on such an estate myself,” Mason explained. “I spent my entire childhood being mercilessly bullied by the grammar school kids up the road from our flat. Now I’m teaching them. It’s not an irony I care to dwell on.”
“I wonder if you’d like to add espionage to your skills, and report back to me if you hear this gang mentioned by any of your boys, particularly in connection with the Highwayman?”
“With pleasure,” Mason agreed. “Sometimes I fantasise about teaching in one of those new glass open-plan schools, being free to concentrate on the intricate beauty of sonnets or the heavenly grace of a Tiepolo in the safety of a controlled, airy environment. Instead, we’re wedged into these dark Victorian corridors, where every room seals its secrets behind a thick oak door. Children are phenomenally susceptible to their surroundings. The gloom breeds odd loyalties in them.”
“What do you mean?”
Mason paused for a moment, thinking. “If your man is somehow associated with the Saladins, it might be because he’s anxious to gain their approval.”
“Why would he need the approval of a bunch of disenfranchised children?” asked May.
“That’s rather the question, isn’t it?” Mason agreed. “Idolatry is a powerful weapon in the right hands.”
“You’re not suggesting he has a political agenda?”
“It must have occurred to you. Insurrection requires partisanship. You could ask yourself what this guy is trying to achieve rather than what he’s already done. Every crime requires a motive, doesn’t it? Perhaps the Highwayman is trying to inspire a grassroots revolution against capitalism.”
“I hardly think he’d pick off B-list celebrities to do so,” said May.
“The point is that to your average muzzy-headed schoolboy he’s rather an alluring figure.”
“But he’s a murderer.”
“There’s a period before teenagers fully develop when they can become very amoral. I look at their blank little eyes and often get a chill. We like to think we can instill them with a value system, but they develop it independently of us. Trust me, the Highwayman appeals to them. Teachers have first-hand experience of the power of charisma. We’re either reviled, tolerated, or worshipped unconditionally, like our illustrious Mr Kingsmere.”
Mason peered through the window, then suddenly dropped his cigarette and ground it out on the step. “Ah, speaking of whom, it appears you might meet him after all,” he told May. “Here he comes now.”
∨ Ten Second Staircase ∧
22
Resonant Ground
The damp autumn winds met around the weather vane on the roof of St Crispin’s School, twisting the protesting copperwork figure of the school’s most celebrated pupil back and forth. On the walkway below, a tall, strong-featured man in his mid-forties ambled towards the detective with a troop of noisy boys in tow.
“You must be the other one – Mr May, isn’t it?”
As Mason and May turned, they saw Mr Kingsmere approaching them. He appeared to be too well groomed for someone involved in scholarly pursuits, from his designer stubble to his fashionable shirt and casually expensive shoes. He stopped before them and smiled with practised charm.
“The school had experience of your partner some weeks ago, not an entirely successful event, I understand. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend. Parfitt, Jezzard, Billings – some of my top pupils. These wretches here tell me there was some misunderstanding between them and your poor old Mr Bryant. Perhaps we can set matters right between us all.” People always stressed Bryant’s maturity when mentioning him, even though there was a difference of only three years in the detectives’ ages.
“I imagine you’re busy, but perhaps we could talk when you have a moment,” May requested.
“If you’ve finished with Mr Mason, why not come to my study now? It’ll be quieter away from these gawkers. Jezzard and Parfitt, that means you, too: homeroom, the lot of you.”
He hovered an avuncular and slightly threatening hand above May’s shoulder. “The brightest two percent in one of the brightest schools in the country, and all it takes to stun them into silence is the presence of someone outside their immediate peer group. Too much time spent in their bedrooms chatting on the Internet to girls they’ll never touch. All that stuff one hears about schoolkids having rampant experimental sex doesn’t apply here. These are a timid lot, but they’re troublesome enough on the surface. That’s why I attempt to teach them how to behave in public, to little effect – you were going to ask about that, weren’t you?”