Wycliffe and the School Bullies

by W.J. Burley

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Bullying and persecution among a group of schoolgirls leads to violent retribution and a race against time for Wycliffe. Two very different young women have been murdered within the same week. One was a singer in a nightclub, the other a nurse - but both were strangled in their own homes in very similar attacks. The press are quick to assume there is a psychopath on the loose, but Wycliffe suspects the truth may be somewhat more complex than that . . . As Wycliffe searches for a link between the victims his investigations take him back in time; to a school trip, an isolated hostel and a cruel joke on a lonely student. Wycliffe is forced into a race against time to track down the murderer before they strike again. Why readers love W.J. Burley: 'First-class, old-time, hyper-ingenious whodunit.' Observer 'You can always count on Wycliffe ... he inevitably guarantees a good story, convincing characters and appealing landscape ' Financial Times 'Wycliffe teases out the truth with delicate skill that leaves the reader intrigued and convinced.' Mail on Sunday 'Gripping.' The Times Fans of Ruth Rendell, Val McDermid and Peter Robinson will love W.J. Burley: 1. Wycliffe and the Three-Toed Pussy 2. Wycliffe and How to Kill a Cat 3. Wycliffe and the Guilt Edged Alibi 4. Wycliffe and Death in a Salubrious Place 5. Wycliffe and Death in Stanley Street 6. Wycliffe and the Pea-Green Boat 7. Wycliffe and the School Bullies 8. Wycliffe and the Scapegoat 9. Wycliffe in Paul's Court 10. Wycliffe's Wild Goose Chase 11. Wycliffe and the Beales 12. Wycliffe and the Four Jacks 13. Wycliffe and the Quiet Virgin 14. Wycliffe and the Winsor Blue 15. Wycliffe and the Tangled Web 16. Wycliffe and the Cycle of Death 17. Wycliffe and the Dead Flautist 18. Wycliffe and the Last Rites 19. Wycliffe and the Dunes Mystery 20. Wycliffe and the House of Fear 21. Wycliffe and the Redhead 22. Wycliffe and the Guild of Nine * Each Inspector Wycliffe novel can be read as part of a series or as a standalone*

Release date: December 16, 2010

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 163

Sample

‘I can’t eat all that, mum.’

‘Of course you can, you need a decent breakfast inside you.’

‘I shall be sick on the coach.’

Her mother, a little barrel of a woman in a spotless, white overall, stood over her.

‘Be sensible, Elaine, you don’t know when you’ll get your next meal.’

‘But I’m taking a picnic lunch to have on the trip.’

‘I mean a proper meal.’

Elaine was fifteen, nearly sixteen, short like her mother but well proportioned. She was dark with large, soft eyes but a straight, determined mouth.

‘I hope this Miss Russell isn’t going to mind you coming dressed like that.’

‘The letter said leisure clothes.’

‘But jeans and a T-shirt …’

‘Mother, I’ve told you, it’s what the other girls are wearing.’

The Bennetts’ dining room was little more than a wide passage between the bakery and the shop. At one end a glass door with a pattern of incised stars led into the shop; at the other a plank door, painted green, opened into a little yard which led to the bakehouse. There, with two assistants, her father baked the crusty bread and yeast cakes which were the mainstay of the business. A business prosperous enough to pay Elaine’s fees at Bishop Fuller’s, a rather exclusive day-school for girls.

The plank door was pushed open and Elaine’s father came in carrying a wire tray of bread rolls.

‘That makes fourteen dozen, do you think that’ll be enough, Dot?’

‘There’s nine dozen ordered …’

The shop, the bakery, their house were all one. Elaine was used to it, she had been brought up in the all-pervading, warm, yeasty atmosphere and rarely noticed it. Her mother looked after the shop with the help of a girl who was not much older than Elaine.

Mr Bennett went through with the bread rolls, came back and lingered. He was as tall and thin as his wife was short and fat and he was dusted all over with flour.

‘Well, girl, you’ll soon be off. Willie will take you to the school in the van. I’ve told him to pick you up at twenty to nine.’ He stooped and kissed his daughter on the forehead. ‘Have a good time and look after yourself.’ He slipped two one-pound notes into the waistband of her jeans.

‘Thanks, dad.’

‘You spoil her, Sidney!’

‘And why not?’

‘Well, she’s got enough pocket money already.’ But Mrs Bennett’s plump features were smiling.

At twenty minutes to nine a curly headed youth of nineteen or twenty pushed open the door from the shop and put his head round, ‘Your carriage awaits, madam.’

Elaine kissed her mother and went out to the van. Willie followed carrying an enormous hold-all which was almost bursting at the zip.

Rosaline Parkin stood with a cup of tea in one hand and a piece of bread-and-jam in the other. She was wearing jeans and a brassiere while her aunt ironed her T-shirt to dry it after a last-minute washing.

‘Have you got everything else you want?’ Her aunt could not have been more than fifty but her features had long since set in a mould of sadness and resignation. She was pale and she moved with slow deliberation as though any effort taxed her to the limit.

‘I packed last night.’

‘I suppose you’ve got enough money?’

‘I’ll manage.’

The little kitchen was a lean-to, its tiny window looked out on a brick-walled yard and the backs of the houses in the next street. Every minute or two a heavy lorry rumbled down the front street causing the doors and windows to rattle.

Rosaline had the thin, wiry body of a ballet dancer and her skin was white in startling contrast with her mop of jet-black hair. She had high, broad cheek-bones though her face narrowed to a pointed chin giving her a mischievous, elfin look. But her eyes were sullen and her mouth was hard. She had passed the eleven-plus selection test for Cholsey Grammar and she had become friendly with Elaine Bennett through inter-schools hockey. Now they were going on a community holiday with girls from several of the city’s schools.

Her aunt finished ironing the shirt and handed it to her; she slipped it on.

‘That’s it, then. I’ll be off.’ She picked up a suitcase then dropped it again. ‘Christ, I’ve forgotten my camera!’

‘I wish you wouldn’t speak like that, Rosaline.’

She dashed upstairs and came down with the camera slung over her shoulder. Her aunt looked at it and shook her head.

‘I wish I knew where you got the money to buy that.’

‘I worked in the Easter holidays, didn’t I?’

‘When will you be back?’

‘Three weeks, I told you.’

‘You’ll write?’

‘I wouldn’t count on it, you know what I am.’

‘Have you got your tablets?’

‘I haven’t had a fit for months.’

‘I know that but being away from home …’

‘Oh, forget it!’

Her aunt followed her to the front door. ‘Look after yourself.’ She stood watching while her niece walked up the dismal little street to the bus stop on the corner.

The kitchen at 37 Oakshott Avenue glowed in the morning sunshine; primrose-yellow walls, white and chromium fittings. The Rendells were at breakfast, seated round a plastic-topped table.

‘You’ll telephone if there’s anything you want, Jane?’

‘Yes, mother.’

‘Are you sure you’ve had enough breakfast?’

‘I couldn’t eat any more.’

‘Another cup of coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You usually have two cups.’

Jane’s father intervened. ‘She might not want to, love, going on a long coach trip.’

Jane was small for her age, thin and underdeveloped. She had straight, dark hair and a sad little face which might have been used in an appeal on behalf of deprived children. But with Jane it was heredity, she was like her mother.

‘You’re sure you’ve got enough spending money?’ Her father was a grave, anxious man, almost morbidly meticulous.

‘Yes, thank you, daddy.’

Jane went to the School of the Sacred Heart, a Catholic school though the Rendells were not Catholics.

‘All the girls come from good homes and the fees are reasonable.’

Jane wore her school uniform, a black blazer with the school badge and a blue and white summer dress.

‘The sisters said it would be best to wear school uniform on the trip but to take casual clothes to wear when we get there.’

‘We shall miss you, Jane.’ Mr Rendell’s large hand closed over his daughter’s and squeezed affectionately.

‘I shall miss you, daddy.’

‘Don’t make her cry, Jim, she’s going to enjoy herself. I’ve put a dozen postcards in your bag all stamped and addressed. If you haven’t got time to write you can always pop one of those in the post.’

‘Yes, mother.’

‘You’ll have Barbara Brooks for company.’ Barbara was the only other girl from the School of the Sacred Heart who would be going on the holiday. ‘You’ve always liked Barbara, haven’t you?’

‘I’ll be all right, mother.’

‘It’s lucky it’s a Saturday and that your father can take you to the school. If it had been a weekday we should have needed a taxi.’

It was a strange atmosphere. In the Rendell household nobody ever spoke a harsh word but all three of them seemed to be permanently tense. Harmony on taut strings.

Mr Rendell looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-five to. We’ve got to pick up Barbara so it’s time we were going.’

A pale-blue Cortina, six years old but looking like new, stood at the gate. Mr Rendell carried his daughter’s case.

‘Sure you’ve got everything?’

Mrs Rendell was crying. She hugged her daughter, clutching at her thin little body.

The Jukeses lived on a council estate—14 Stoke’s Road, in the Cholsey district of the city. Sheila was the youngest of three, her two brothers worked as machinists in a factory where her father was a welder. To everybody’s surprise and tolerant amusement, Sheila had passed her eleven-plus test for Cholsey Grammar.

On Saturday mornings it was unusual for anybody to be up before ten or half-past so Sheila had the living room to herself. She was scraping butter on to slices of cut bread and slapping slivers of cooked ham between them. Sheila was plump with a large behind and a prominent bosom. Her jeans did not meet her blouse and a pink roll of flesh bridged the gap. She gathered her sandwiches into a polythene bag and put them in a haversack then she went to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Mam!’

‘What is it now?’

‘I can’t find my wedge heels.’

‘They’re in your wardrobe.’

‘No. I’ve looked.’

Her mother muttered something inaudible.

Sheila went to the open dresser on which china was kept and took down a soup tureen from the top shelf. She lifted the lid and disclosed a number of crumpled one and five-pound notes. She slipped one of the fivers into the pocket of her jeans then, after a moment of hesitation, added three singles. Then she put the tureen back in its place.

There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and her mother came in. She was Sheila thirty years on, her heavy breasts scarcely concealed by her nightgown, her features almost lost in fat. The first cigarette of the day hung from her lips. She dropped Sheila’s wedge heels on the table.

‘Where did you find ’em?’

‘In the bloody wardrobe where I said. You don’t look.’ She glanced round the room and yawned. ‘Any tea?’

‘In the pot, it’s not long made.’

Her mother poured herself a cup of tea. ‘How you off for money?’

‘I took eight quid out of the dish, is that all right?’

‘Christ, your father gave you a fiver, you aren’t going to the Costa del bloody Sol.’

‘It’s three weeks, mam.’

Mrs Jukes looked at the clock. ‘You’ll be late.’

‘Tony said he’d take me on his bike.’

‘Tony’s still in bed.’

Sheila went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled. ‘Tony!’

‘What is it?’

‘You got to take me to the school.’

Eventually Tom came downstairs, his eyes full of sleep, dressed in jeans and a shirt. ‘O.K. Let’s get it over with.’

Mrs Jukes stood in the doorway in her nightdress to see them off. The bike roared down the road with Sheila bouncing on the back, clinging to her brother with one hand and her haversack with the other.

The coach with twenty-four schoolgirls and a mistress on board sped along the A35. It was a hot, August afternoon but, because it was a Saturday, there was little traffic. Miss Dorothy Russell, thirty-nine years old, sat in front by the driver. She wore a light-blue dress patterned with huge white daisies which confused but did nothing to soften the aggressive angularity of her figure. She had light, brown hair, cut short and kinked at the ends to make it turn inwards; her features were small and sharp and she had a tiny mouth with thin lips.

‘In a few minutes the old Roman road joins us, the one which led from Isca, that is Exeter, to Durnovaria which was their name for Dorchester.’

The girls looked out on the green landscape of subtle contours and unexpected shadows thinking their own thoughts. In the back seat Rosaline Parkin sat with Sheila Jukes and Elaine Bennett. Rosaline drew surreptitiously on a cigarette and let the smoke trickle slowly from her lips in a thin, grey spiral. Once she passed the cigarette to Elaine who almost gave the game away by a fit of violent coughing. Miss Russell turned round.

‘Are you all right, Elaine?’

‘Yes, thank you, Miss Russell.’

‘She nearly swallowed the hole in her Polo mint,’ Rosaline said.

There was a general laugh.

Miss Russell, who had not taught for seventeen years for nothing, remarked that she hoped it wouldn’t prove carcinogenic.

‘We are staying near Maiden Castle, a famous Iron Age fortress which fell to Vespasian in the first century A.D. Vespasian eventually became emperor.’

‘Bully for him!’ Rosaline muttered but only loud enough to be heard in the back seats.

Jane, with her friend, Barbara Brooks, sat primly in the seat behind Miss Russell, the only ones in more or less formal dress. Barbara was a complete contrast to Jane, she was pink skinned and she had kept a lot of her puppy fat though a figure was beginning to struggle through. Miss Russell turned to speak to them.

‘Have you done the history of the Roman occupation at your school?’

Jane answered. ‘No, Miss Russell, we did the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries for ‘O’ level.’

‘But when you were younger, surely …’

‘Oh, yes, I think we did about it in the third form but I’ve forgotten.’ Jane blushed at the admission.

‘You must read it up; Dorset is a most interesting county for that period.’

‘Yes, Miss Russell.’

There was a derisive chuckle from further back.

The coach slowed down then turned off the main road into a narrow lane which had passing places at intervals. They jolted along for about half a mile then pulled into a gravelled drive which led to a gaunt, two-storeyed house with a pillared porch from which stucco was peeling.

‘Well, girls, this is home for the next three weeks.’

The coach came to a standstill, the driver climbed down. Miss Russell stood while the girls trooped past her and out of the coach to gather in chattering groups on the gravel.

‘Looks a crummy joint to me,’ Rosaline said. ‘God help us if we can’t get into Dorchester in the evenings.’

‘Get your baggage from the boot of the coach and assemble in the front hall.’

‘How far is it?’ Elaine asked.

Rosaline’s thought had moved on. ‘How far is what?’

‘Dorchester.’

‘Three miles.’

‘We could walk, I suppose.’

Rosaline opened her dark eyes wide. ‘Listen to the girl! Walk, she says. You should see me. There must be some farm lout or somebody with a car or even a motor bike.’ She looked round the deserted countryside with obvious misgivings. ‘We shall have to get organised.’

The hall was bare with a floor made of stone flags which extended down a passage on each side of a rather impressive staircase. There was no carpet on the stairs and the treads were badly worn. Miss Russell stood on the third stair to talk to them.

‘Well, this is it! I hope that we shall all enjoy the next three weeks. I want us all to get to know each other better and to learn to live together as a community. There are five of the city’s schools represented in our party, all day-schools, and we shall probably find by the end of our stay that we have made new friends, had a few corners knocked off and learned something about ourselves.

‘There are a few rules which I shall post on the notice board and I want you to keep strictly to them. They are not unreasonable and should not stop you enjoying yourselves.’

‘Fat chance!’ Sheila Jukes muttered. ‘Stuck out here in the bloody wilds. She said it was near the town.’

‘Are there any buses into town, Miss Russell?’

‘Yes, quite a good service for a rural area. There is a bus stop about a hundred yards beyond the point where we turned off from the main road. But, and I must emphasise this as one of our most important rules, no one goes into town without getting my permission first.’

There was a general groan and Miss Russell moved up another step to command her audience more effectively.

‘Quiet, please, girls. I want to give you some more details.

‘There are two dormitories and twelve girls will sleep in each. Pamela O’Brien and Rosaline Parkin, will you come here, please?’

A slim girl with red-gold hair and freckles joined Rosaline to stand demurely a step or two below Miss Russell.

‘I have a list of girls who will sleep in each dormitory and there will be no changes without my approval. The girls in each dormitory will be answerable to Pamela and Rosaline respectively, not only in the dormitories but in all matters concerning discipline while we are here.’ Miss Russell cleared her throat. ‘I will post the lists with a copy of the rules on the notice board.’

Miss Russell looked slowly round the group. ‘Are there any questions?’

No one spoke.

Miss Russell came down the stairs and went over to the notice board of moth-eaten green baize to pin up the sheets. The girls crowded round to read them.

The dormitories were in the front of the house, each with two tall sash-windows looking out over the Dorset-shire countryside. The ceilings were ornamented with plaster mouldings and the skirtings were almost two feet high.

‘Lady Chatterley summons Mellors to her boudoir,’ Rosaline said, glancing round at the ev. . .