School Reunion

Chapter One

14:19 Saturday 19th July

Suffolk Police Station

"Well, this is just great," muttered Sergeant Adam Scott. Constable Patricia Simpson looked at him. "Not only are there fourteen suspects, but our own DI is one."

Trisha shrugged. "I'd have never thought that old Atkins was a murderer. He wouldn't have had the nerve."

The pair were sat at a table in the incident room, looking serious. All of the suspect profiles lay on it and on the wall was a complicated map of photographs and pieces of string showing the complicated relationships between the suspects. Scott stared at it hopelessly. "The suspects."

"Suspects and victim," Trisha reminded him.

They sat and gazed at the map on the wall, and Trisha's eyes were drawn to the figure in the middle, with the most threads running to and from their photo.

07:56 Tuesday the 8th

Southwold, Suffolk

Robert Atkins picked up the post. He didn't get much nowadays - no-one does - but he still collected it every morning. A bill, another bill, his wife's bank statement. . . And a cream envelope with his name and address written out in full in scribbly letters that looked like someone had written it with their weak hand while not looking.

Indeed, the police handwriting experts were soon to confirm that.

Dear Robert, it began.

I know that we haven't met for years, but I'd like to invite everybody from our Year 11 form from Eastbourne Comprehensive for a get-together. I've booked a few tables at The Orwell, (near Wigan Pier) so I hope to see you there Friday 11th July.

The letter was unsigned and Atkins stared at it. "Are you OK, Dad?" asked Jackie, his thirteen year old.

"Yes, love." he replied. He walked past her into the kitchen. He handed Marie, his wife, her bank statement and left the envelope on the table when he went to find his coat and bag. Robert was a the chief inspector at the station down in the town centre.

Marie was a quick judge of her husband and read the letter to see what was bothering him.

"It's not signed and it's written oddly. Maybe the person doesn't want to be identified," she said. She thought. "Is it anybody's birthday today?"

Robert looked up at her from pulling on his coat; Marie shrugged. "I've lived with a police officer for fifteen years. Don't think that I haven't picked up a few tricks."

He laughed and kissed her pale cheek. "Bye Marie. Don't forget that we need some more milk."

"Has Sadie been eating your cereal again?"

"Err, no. I wanted a drink last night and didn't see the cat basket..." Marie grinned as Robert walked out of the door.

O8:05 Tuesday the 8th

Holloway, London

"Oh, hello Robert... The post? No, I haven't seen it..."

Katie Foster looked under The I, inside National Geographic, behind the fruit bowl and finally found two cream envelopes written on with what she later told Scott what she thought was blue ballpoint pen.

He took a small delight in telling her that it was fountain pen.

But that morning she opened then with a marmalade-covered knife, wiped the marmalade off the letters and read them. They were both identical except for the names at the top.

"Mmm, interesting," she said down the phone. "Are you going?" She listened for a bit and cut in with "II'll ask David, but I want to go. Might be fun." Katie could almost hear Robert rolling his eyes at her as she put the phone down.

Her twelve year old, Tom, walked in. Katie took out a black bag and began searching through it desperately. "Was that your boyfriend?" he asked his mother while she attacked his mop of brown hair with the comb from her handbag. Katie looked over her shoulder for David, even though she knew that he had gone to work already. She was still in the habit of secrecy.

"No," she replied. "Me and Lee are well over each other now."

14:21 Saturday 19th July

Suffolk Police Station

"Are you beginning to think that this is hopeless?" Scott asked Trisha.

"Hopeless? Not at all. We've only got about twenty motives for murder, fourteen suspects and nowt in the way of evidence. Easy." replied Trisha.

"Easy? Alright then, Sherlock. I bet you a tenner that this ends up a cold case."

"A tenner? Make it five quid and you're on - Dr. Watson."

"Get a room!" came the shout of at least three constables. The pair looked at the map, and Trisha stood up. "I've noticed something!" she said. "What?" asked Scott; maybe, finally, a lead!

"No," came the reply. "A piece of string's fallen down."

All six police officers in the room were tempted to put their head in their hands. Trisha sat down back at the table next to Scott and didn't look at the map for the next five minutes.

The Map was spread over two corkboards and took up half the wall. It was covered with the photographs of the suspects and notes that Trisha and Constable Lily Wollaston had had fun writing. From studying witness statements and CCTV footage, they had built up a picture of what the connections were: 'Attracted to' 'Loathes', even 'had row about cheese'. Scott and Sergeant Cyril Blake had tried to create a 3D version on the computer, with untold software and Cyril's photo scanner. Unfortunately, a little bomb had kept appearing and had forced the boys to slink back to the corkboards.

Lily looked at Scott and sighed. "Shall we listen to some more witness statements, then?" she said brightly.

O8:43 Tuesday the 8th

Newcastle

Narinder Jawanda was still asleep when the post arrived and she didn't get up until well after her sister had left for work. A novelist's life is a constant struggle between naps, writing, Twitter and shopping (if Narinder actually had enough money to go shopping). Unfortunately, she had writer's block and her publisher had sent her a letter asking for the final chapter. She debated with thin air whether to say it was a cliffhanger and that she'd write a sequel, or to get upstairs with a cup of tea and start writing. A real-life murder mystery. was the title and she needed ideas. The Telegraph wasn't an inspiration and neither was her mind.

Then she opened the letter. A real-life murder mystery indeed...