Paula was still shaking from the shock. “She was only twenty-four,” she told Detective Chief Inspector Agyekum, a fiftyish, bony man with spidery fingers. He wrote everything down in his notebook.
The office door was shut for privacy. He had helped himself to a chair, but Paula had remained standing. For the moment, the schoolchildren were in the playground oblivious to the tragedy. Paula knew that she would soon have to call assembly to break the horrifying news, and she dreaded the prospect.
“Did you see her over the weekend?” Agyekum asked Paula. His voice was thin, like a river reed. He had a plodding air, and could have been either a dullard or a genius.
“No,” she said. “We seldom got together on Saturdays or Sundays unless we had a special school event.”
“I see.” He studied her. “The last time you saw her was Friday afternoon, then?” “Yes, sir.”
“Was she acting normally?”
“The same Heather we always knew. Happy, laughing, cracking jokes, helping the
students in the classroom. They loved her. We all did.”
As the DCI jotted down his notes, Paula gazed out of the window. She felt as if her chest had been hollowed out. The day had taken on a nightmarish quality. Heather had drowned to death. How could that be?