by D. S. Butler
‘Would you like a drink?’ Stuart asked, pointing at the kettle and then shoving his hands in his pockets when he noticed he was shaking.
‘No, thanks,’ Karen said, and Rick shook his head.
‘Do you know why we’re here, Stuart?’ Karen asked.
Stuart ran a hand through his fair hair and took a couple of shaky breaths. He shook his head and then nodded, looking confused and scared at the same time. He was leaning heavily on the back of a chair, breathing fast. Karen was worried he was going to hyperventilate.
‘Come and sit down, Stuart. Try to relax. We’re just going to have a conversation.’ She put a hand under his elbow and gently urged him to sit down on the chair.
Karen sat beside him, and Rick sat opposite.
Stuart rested his forearms on the table and tried to slow his breathing. They gave him a moment to recover.
When he finally looked up, he said, ‘I think it’s about something that happened a very long time ago.’ He shot a glance at Karen and then at Rick.
‘Yes, we want to speak to you about a man called Oliver Fox,’ Karen said.
Stuart had already looked pale, but now his skin developed a greenish tinge, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, standing up rapidly and knocking his chair to the floor. He yanked open the door and ran out.
Rick got to his feet. ‘Is he doing a runner?’
Karen sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘I think he’s gone to the bathroom, probably to throw up.’
Rick righted the fallen chair and went into the corridor. ‘Should I go after him?’
Karen shook her head. ‘I don’t think you need to. He’ll be back.’
‘You sure?’
She shrugged. ‘Where else is he going to go? We know where he lives. He’s been trying to hide from this for three decades, but he can’t hide anymore.’
Rick kept his gaze on the corridor, looking for Stuart. ‘How did he know we’d come about Oliver Fox? Sophie didn’t tell him.’
‘William Grant and Albert Johnson have been trying to protect Stuart Bennett for the past thirty years. Old habits die hard. I imagine William felt guilty about giving us the names of the three boys, and called Stuart and Michael to warn them.’
‘Oh,’ Rick said. ‘I suppose that makes sense.’
Stuart returned a few minutes later.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. He was still shaking, but his breathing was now under control.
‘Have a seat, Stuart.’ Karen said.
Stuart sat down in the seat he’d vacated in a rush.
Rick shut the door firmly and sat opposite him. ‘Can you tell us what happened to Oliver Fox, Stuart?’
Stuart stared down at the table. ‘We found him. He was lying on the floor in the boys’ changing room.’
‘Who was with you when you found him?’ Karen asked.
‘James and Michael.’
‘Do you remember their full names?’ Rick asked.
Stuart nodded. ‘James Hunter and Michael Simpson.’
‘And you were all together when you found him?’
Stuart’s face crumpled. ‘He said we had to meet him there after school. We didn’t want to go. He said he would hurt my little sister if I told anyone.’
He began to tremble.
Karen took a deep breath. She wanted answers, but watching Stuart’s expression as he relived the experience that must have haunted him for thirty years made her pause. It wasn’t hard to picture him as a scared thirteen-year-old boy. ‘So you were supposed to be meeting Oliver Fox in the changing room. All three of you?’
Stuart nodded.
‘And when you went into the changing room, you found him on the floor?’ Karen asked after a moment when Stuart didn’t elaborate.
He took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. His voice was tight and strained as he spoke. ‘There was a lot of blood. He was lying on his front, and when James pulled him over to see what was wrong, he got blood all over his hands and clothes. He stood up quickly but slipped. There was blood on the floor. We went to help him up and I got it all over my hands.’ Stuart stared down at his hands as though he could see the blood there now.
‘We went running out of there as fast as we could. We were going to go to the headmaster’s office because we knew he always worked late, but then we passed Mr Grant’s classroom and saw he was there.’
Karen leaned forward. ‘So you told Mr Grant what you’d found?’
Stuart raked a hand through his hair. ‘Yes, he took control and went to get the headmaster. Then they told us to get in the shower and clean up and gave us some clothes to wear. I don’t know what they did with the body. I didn’t ask. They told us never to talk about it, and we didn’t.’
‘You never told anyone about this?’ Karen asked. ‘Not even your parents?’
Stuart shook his head firmly. ‘No, I didn’t want anyone to know because then I would have to talk about what he did. I was just glad he was gone.’
‘Did he do something that afternoon to make you uncomfortable?’ Rick asked. ‘If he did, and you or James or Michael got upset and pushed him . . .’
Stuart’s head jerked upwards. ‘We didn’t kill him! We just found him like that. We didn’t do anything.’
‘All right,’ Karen said, suspecting Stuart was close to losing control. They’d need him to come to the station to make a statement, but she didn’t think he was going to be in any fit state to do that today.
‘What did you suspect Mr Johnson and Mr Grant did with Oliver Fox’s body?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They were trying to help us. I think they must have hidden it somewhere.’
Stuart rested his head in his hands. He seemed genuine. He had carried this trauma with him for thirty years, and it was still raw and painful.
‘Have you kept in touch with James or Michael?’ Karen asked.
Stuart leaned back and stared up at the ceiling again. ‘I still see Michael from time to time. James moved away, went to university and built a life for himself. But six months ago I heard he’d killed himself. We went to the funeral.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Karen said. ‘I need to ask you if you received an anonymous letter about that time.’
‘We all did, I think. Mr Grant and Mr Johnson got them too. They all said: It’s time to pay for your crime.’
‘Did James get a letter?’ Karen asked, watching Stuart carefully.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. We didn’t keep in touch. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. The letter came just after he died. I got mine a day or two before the funeral.’
Karen held back on further questions, sensing Stuart was finding this very difficult. She checked she had his correct home address and contact details, and asked him to come in to the station to make a statement the following day.
‘But I have to work,’ he said.
‘If you like, you can come in and make your statement early, before you start work,’ Karen said. ‘What time is best for you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He was losing the ability to make even simple decisions. Shock and anxiety could do that to people.
‘As long as you make a statement tomorrow, we’re very flexible on time, okay?’ Karen said, trying to sound reassuring. It was hard to watch Bennett falling apart, knowing her questions were upsetting him.
‘Would you like to go home now, Stuart?’ Rick asked. ‘We could give you a lift.’
Stuart shook his head. ‘My wife is at home, but I don’t want her to see me like this. I’ll be fine. I’ll just take a few minutes before I go back to work.’
He stood up from the table and shakily made his way out of the room.
Rick looked at Karen. ‘Poor bloke. Sometimes I wish we didn’t have to deal with cases like this. How could anyone do that to a young kid? After all this time, he’s still hurting.’
Karen put her hand on Rick’s shoulder. ‘It’s not the easiest part of the job, but someone’s got to deal with it. It’s a travesty
that this didn’t get picked up thirty years ago.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Karen and Rick’s next stop was Pennells, a garden centre in Hykeham not far from the Volvo showroom. They parked out the front by the hot tub section, and walked in through the sliding doors. It was a massive place filled with clothing, furniture and homeware, as well as the plants you’d expect to find in a garden centre.
They stopped beside the customer service section and asked where they could find Michael Simpson. They were pointed in the direction of the furniture department and followed the signs, walking slowly behind an elderly man pushing his wife in a wheelchair.
When they reached the furniture section, they stopped and scanned the area. On the right-hand side of the walkway, a tall, balding man was arranging smaller items on a shelf. He wore green trousers and a khaki shirt with a thin green tie. When he turned, Karen saw the name badge on his chest – Michael.
‘Michael Simpson?’
He offered a nervous smile. There was a knowing look in his eyes that told Karen he’d been expecting them. He knew what this was about. A police visit to a big store like this could have been due to shoplifting, or perhaps an outdated trading licence, but he knew exactly why they were here.
Karen strongly suspected that he’d recently spoken to Stuart Bennett.
‘That’s me,’ he said with false joviality. ‘How can I help?’
They introduced themselves and asked for a quiet word.
‘We can talk here,’ Michael said. ‘I’m not supposed to leave my section.’ He gestured to the line of carved wooden ornaments he’d been setting out, a selection of cute little ducks and hedgehogs. He saw Karen looking at them and said, ‘They’re all handmade.’
‘They’re lovely,’ Karen said. ‘As you probably know, we’re here to ask you some questions about Oliver Fox.’
The smile slid from Michael’s face. ‘I see. In that case, sod staying in my section, I need a cigarette. Can we talk outside? My cigarettes are in my car.’
Karen and Rick followed Michael out of the store. He stopped beside a metallic-blue Astra, rummaged inside the glove compartment and grabbed a packet of Marlboro cigarettes.
He pulled one out, lit it and leaned back against the car as he took a long drag.
‘Sorry, terrible habit, but in times of stress . . .’
‘We’ve spoken to Stuart Bennett,’ Karen said.
Michael shrugged as though he’d expected as much. ‘I suppose he’s told you everything. There’s not much I can add.’
‘Did you hear about James Hunter’s passing?’ Karen asked.
He looked down at the cigarette pinched between his fingers and watched the curling smoke for a moment. ‘Yes, it was very sad.’
‘Perhaps you can tell us in your own words what happened to Oliver Fox.’
Michael turned, putting both hands on the roof of the car and staring down at the ground as though he didn’t want to look them in the eye while he was talking. ‘We found his body in the changing rooms. Then we told a couple of the teachers. They dealt with it. That’s all.’
Karen could tell from the man’s body language that was far from all. The way his eyes had clouded over and the way he was leaning against the car told her he was reliving the incident, picturing the blood and experiencing the fear, just as Stuart had done.
‘Did you receive an anonymous letter a few months ago?’ Rick asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Yes, a cowardly bit of nonsense. It came in the post a few days after James died.’
‘What did it say?’ Rick asked.
‘Can’t remember. I burned it. If someone wants to say something to me, they can say it to my face.’
‘We’d like you to make a statement, Michael. It might be a bit much for you today, but we’d appreciate it if you could come down to the station tomorrow.’
He nodded stiffly. ‘Yes, I can do that.’
‘In the course of our investigation, there have been various allegations against Oliver Fox,’ Rick said. ‘Namely that he abused his position as a teacher to take advantage of the children in his care. Would you say that was accurate?’
Michael let out a long breath. ‘Yes, I’d say that was accurate. I’d go further than that and say that he was a dirty, nasty man and he deserved everything that happened to him.’
He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped on it, grinding it beneath his heel.
Rick and Karen were both feeling drained by the time they got back to Nettleham station. It was hard to find the motivation to put Michael Simpson and Stuart Bennett through rigorous questioning when it was obvious they were still tormented by what had happened all those years ago.
Before she’d spoken to them, Karen had wondered if either of them could have sent the notes. The team needed to be open to all possibilities, but she couldn’t see a strong motive for either man hurting Albert Johnson, who’d tried to cover up what happened in order to protect them. Still, they’d both been under tremendous psychological stress, and that could trigger unexpected behaviour. She intended to keep an eye on them.
The job was easier when they had a clear-cut ‘good guys versus bad guys’ situation. Life was simpler when they had right on their side and the criminals were clearly defined. In this case, their main suspects were also victims, which added a whole layer of complications.
Karen had a long day ahead of her tomorrow. They had to conclude William Grant’s questioning and take Michael Simpson and Stuart Bennett’s statements.
Looking thoroughly worn out, Rick sat down beside Sophie’s desk and brought her up to speed. Despite the fact Sophie seemed to be back on an even keel and had re-found her passion for the job, Karen was glad she’d had Rick by her side when she’d spoken to Michael and Stuart. She had a feeling that Sophie, who tended to see things in black and white, would very much be on the side of the two men who’d been abused.
Karen chased up the phone company who were supposed to be providing records for Albert Johnson. She was hoping they could find out who had made the anonymous calls to the retired head teacher. Having no luck, and feeling like she was going around in circles as she was placed on hold for the third time, Karen opened up the booking schedule on the system to reserve an interview room for William Grant the following morning.
She was just saying goodbye to the woman manning the phone company’s unhelpful helpdesk as DI Morgan walked towards her, shrugging off his coat.
‘How did you get on?’ he asked, draping it over one arm.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Karen said. ‘Both men were very upset by the news we were looking into Oliver Fox’s death. They’ve been keeping this secret for a long time.’
Bennett’s reaction had been more visceral and immediate, whereas Simpson had attempted to mask his emotions beneath a tough exterior. But while the two men were handling things in different ways, there was no doubt in Karen’s mind they were both carrying a lot of pain.
‘Did they confess to killing Oliver Fox?’ DI Morgan asked.
Karen shook her head. ‘Nothing as simple as that, I’m afraid. Both Simpson and Bennett were consistent in their stories. They said they found the body in the boys’ changing room and deny killing him or even witnessing what happened. They’re coming in to make formal statements tomorrow.’
DI Morgan wheeled over a chair from DC Shah’s empty desk and sat down. ‘I’ve spoken to Stephen Fox. But I can’t track his brother down and he isn’t answering the phone. Both Elizabeth and Stephen say they have no idea where Martin is, but there’s something odd going on. It’s like they’re protecting him.’
Rick had overheard their conversation and strolled over. ‘I suppose the Fox brothers are top of our list of suspects as to who sent the anonymous letters?’
Karen shrugged. ‘I can’t think of anyone else who’d send them. Except maybe Elizabeth or Laura, but . . .’
‘I know what you mean,’ DI Morgan said as Sophie joined them. ‘I can’t picture Laura
or Elizabeth sending those notes.’
‘Do we work on the assumption the letters came from one of Oliver Fox’s sons, then?’ Sophie asked, tapping her pen against her hand.
‘I don’t think we can assume anything for sure, but they do have a motive,’ Karen replied. ‘The letters may have been the start of a campaign to clear their father’s name.’
Sophie leaned against the desk, looking pleased with herself. ‘While you were gone, I was working on the family trees. I discovered James Hunter was Albert Johnson’s nephew. Albert had a younger sister called Daisy, who was James’s mother.’
‘Interesting,’ Rick said. ‘So that gives Albert another reason for protecting James. Maybe he found out his nephew was being abused by Oliver Fox . . . That may have driven him to a confrontation where Oliver was fatally injured.’
‘Good theory,’ Karen said. ‘Although if there was as much blood as Michael and Stuart described, would Albert have been able to clean himself up in time? When the three boys went to him for help, they would have noticed if his clothes were bloodstained, wouldn’t they?’
All four of them fell quiet, mulling things over. Karen’s thoughts kept returning to the letters. The anonymous letters had all been received soon after James Hunter’s death. Karen wished they knew whether James himself had received a letter. Had that driven him to suicide?
As if reading her mind, DI Morgan said, ‘So, do we think James was pushed over the edge by the letter? Maybe it was all too much for him.’
‘That could be it,’ Karen said. ‘What confuses me is why, after thirty years, someone would send those letters.’
Sophie said, ‘Oliver Fox’s remains were only found because Albert Johnson was trying to move the body. The letter must have scared him into thinking it was about to be discovered.’
‘It wasn’t the letter,’ Karen pointed out. ‘They didn’t act until after Albert started to get nuisance phone calls. It was only then that Albert and William decided to move the body.’
Rick puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. ‘This case is confusing the heck out of me.’
