Shred of Evidence

Book 7: Lloyd and Hill Mysteries

by Jill McGown

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries; Suspense

Synopsis

"McGown's style is uniquely hers, engrossing, poignant, with effectual characterization."
--Mystery News

When the body of fifteen-year-old Natalie Ouspensky is found strangled near a public park in Stansfield, England, Detective Inspector Judy Hill and Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd have their work cut out for them. For Natalie wasn't quite the innocent her mother believes, and her classmates at Oakland School guard Natalie's secrets--and their own--like life itself. Then a shred of evidence points Hill and Lloyd in the right--and decidedly deadly--direction. . . .

"[A ] compelling story . . . The characters are devious, cunning, charming--and truly, truly wicked. This small English town, overrun with malice, is well served by its finely delineated constabulary, with Lloyd and Hill at the top of their form."
--Publishers Weekly

Release date: December 24, 2008

Publisher: Fawcett

Print pages: 304

Sample

CHAPTER ONE
 
The buzz of excitement and anticipation in the classroom turned to hushed expectancy as the new teacher walked in. Teachers, however new and interesting, didn’t always merit instant attention on the first day of term, but today there was a particular reason for this unusual reaction.
 
Someone, for some reason, had written on the board every rude word they could think of, in or out of the dictionary. Whoever it was, if he or she was in Mr. Murray’s class, was keeping very quiet about it, and Kim Walters was waiting, like everyone else, to see how the new teacher would handle this pre-planned challenge to his authority.
 
He was quite young; late twenties, at a guess, Kim thought. Nice looking, in a way. The same pleasing build and colouring as Colin Cochrane, but not as handsome, of course. He had a friendly face, though; Kim liked the look of him. Short, dark, wavy hair, beginning to recede at the temples already, but it suited him, somehow.
 
She could see, even from the back of the classroom, the little beads of perspiration on these exposed temples, and she wondered if he was nervous. She supposed he would be; he was starting a new job, after all. Kim worked in a supermarket at weekends, and she knew how she had felt on her first day. It was hot, though—too hot for the school uniform they were obliged to wear now that the school had opted out of local authority control, and had given itself a new image. A grey skirt or slacks—after much discussion, they had decided that girls could wear slacks as well as boys—navy blue sweatshirt, and grey blazer. Those wearing skirts, the guidelines had said—presumably that included any boys who felt so inclined—should wear knee-length navy blue socks if they were in first, second or third year, and flesh-toned tights in fourth, fifth and sixth year.
 
Kim, now a fifth-year student, had opted for the skirt and tights, and her legs felt slippery already. Mr. Murray’s equally formal grey suit wouldn’t be helping him to keep cool either; he hadn’t, unlike his pupils, removed his jacket. Perhaps it was that rather than apprehension that was making him sweat, but Kim wished whoever it was hadn’t done that, all the same. It didn’t seem fair, not on his first day.
 
He smiled, told them that his name was Patrick Murray, and that he would be their form teacher. “That means,” he said, “amongst other things, that if you have any problems with the school, or fellow pupils, or even at home, you’re welcome to come to me and I’ll see what I can do to help. But I’m sure you all organize your lives a lot better than I do,” he added. “So if I’ve got any problems, can I come to you?”
 
He had an Irish accent; it was nice. He was nice—funny. Kim almost wished that she had some problems to take to him.
 
“And I see from this—” Mr. Murray held up his timetable, pulling a face. “If I’m reading it right, that is, that I also have the honour of taking this class for English.” Latecomers were straggling in as he spoke. “Find a seat,” he said. “I haven’t taken the register yet—I always give people time to get here and sit down and get the Maltesers out before I raise the curtain. Speaking of which,” he said, turning back to the class, “there isn’t a theatre in Stansfield, is there?”
 
A couple of negatives were murmured in reply.
 
“Well, maybe I can wangle a trip to Stratford or something,” he said, to groans. He laughed, and began to call out their names, asking each of them to stand. “Not every time, you understand,” he said. “Just for today, so that I can pretend to fix your faces in my mind. It takes me all term to sort out who’s who really, but I like to show willing.”
 
The usual people were absent, and he had the predicted and laughed-at trouble over the Polish and Ukrainian and Russian names which were commonplace in Stansfield. He stumbled over Natalie’s.
 
Kim smiled at his attempt and glanced at Natalie, who sat across from her at the next table, but she wasn’t laughing and hadn’t even stood up as he’d asked. Kim frowned a little. Natalie wasn’t usually touchy about her name, and poor Mr. Murray was really embarrassed about it.
 
Kim had known Natalie since primary school. Her first name was Natalia really, but she called herself Natalie; Natalia was nicer, Kim thought. But if that was too difficult for most people, then they didn’t stand a chance with her surname, which was Ouspensky. She was looking a bit pale, almost hiding behind the curtain of long blond hair which Kim had always envied. By her eighth birthday, Kim had reluctantly come to the conclusion that she was not going to turn into a blonde until she was old enough to choose to be one, but she had thought that she could grow her hair long like Natalie’s. She had tried, but as soon as it started getting in her eyes or having to be untangled, she would get her mum to cut it again.
 
Kim’s mum was a hairdresser, and she wished that Kim had Natalie’s hair too. Natalie’s hair always looked wonderful; Kim’s would never have looked like that even if she had managed to grow it. But in this warm weather Kim was glad of her urchin cut, as her mother called it.
 
Mr. Murray carried on with the register, closing it with a smile. “Now then,” he said. “What’s all this groaning at the mention of Stratford-upon-Avon?”
 
He spoke a bit about how much better it was to see Shakespeare on the stage than to read him, but the class wasn’t listening to a word as they whispered to one another and willed him to turn round to the board. At last came the moment of truth, when he finally stood up and turned to the board, and the room went silent.
 
He turned back to the class. “I expect you’re all taking bets about who wrote this stuff,” he said. “And I’ll bet that all bets are off. Because I wrote it.”
 
He must have been very satisfied with the gasp of surprise, but he didn’t show it.
 
“Why?” someone asked.
 
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “Two reasons. One is—if you really feel obliged to write all or any of these words on walls, that is how they are spelled. If I’m going to be responsible for your command of English when you leave here, then at least do me the favour of proving you can spell when you deface public property.”
 
They laughed.
 
“And the other reason,” he said, “is to indicate to you that I know all these words. I’ve used them all, in my time. There isn’t an Irishman born that hasn’t, I shouldn’t think—well, give or take the odd priest, but I wouldn’t be too sure about that, either. So I’m not going to be all that impressed if you use them. Now, I don’t know why some words are taboo—I think if we sent explorers to another planet and found a tribe of people with a language some of whose words they weren’t allowed to use, we would think that very quaint. But we are that tribe, so here’s the deal. I won’t use any of these words in class if you don’t. That way we can all keep out of trouble.”
 
“Would you get into trouble if we told the head that you’d written them on the board?” someone asked.
 
“Of course I would,” he said, wiping them off the board as he spoke. “But you’re not going to tell, are you? If you do, I’ll deny everything—and I’m a powerful liar.”
 
Kim laughed. She liked Mr. Murray.