Dying Truth

by Angela Marsons

  He opened another folder and slid it towards her.

  She could see that the first few documents were witness statements. She opened the last folder which contained the photographs. Stacey spaced out the photos, and they both viewed them silently for a minute. Lorraine Peters’s body captured in time from every angle. Her long, athletic limbs splayed around her; once so efficient and powerful at moving her through the water, now limp and lifeless, smashed against the tiled floor.

  She looked back at the witness statements. They would be no use to her. Any witness to the events that had led to the body in the pool was not going to be telling the truth.

  ‘So, which folder do you want to—’

  ‘Neither,’ Stacey said, reaching for the computer printout. ‘I’ll take this one.’

  Dawson pulled a face at her. ‘But that’s just a bunch of numbers. You’re not gonna get anything from that.’

  Stacey shrugged. ‘Maybe, Kev. Yes they’m just numbers but, unlike your witness statements there, numbers don’t lie.’

  Eighty-Six

  ‘That’s the one,’ Kim said, pointing to a small bungalow at the end of a row of identical properties that had housed Lorraine Peters’s mum for almost six years. The small front garden was overgrown with weeds that came up to her knee. Kim saw recycling bags shoved into the corner by the front door, which opened as they approached.

  Kim guessed the woman to be early- to mid-fifties, reed thin, with bobbed purple hair. She wore a blue overall and held the keys to the property in her hand.

  ‘Maggie Peters?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘Inside,’ the woman said, blocking the door. ‘She don’t need no windows, a new drive or boiler and she’s got a bible.’

  ‘Good to know,’ Kim said. ‘But we’re not selling anything. We’re police officers.’

  ‘Oh, okay then,’ she said, but still didn’t move.

  ‘Is Mrs Peters at home?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘ID,’ the woman demanded.

  They both obliged as Kim noticed the stickers on the front window about cold callers and unsolicited visitors.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ the woman said. ‘Only last week she had two nice ladies come to tell her she needed to go to the bank and transfer her money cos staff at the bank were stealing it from her.’

  Kim ground her teeth. Yet another scam that played on the fears of the elderly.

  ‘Luckily, she phoned me before agreeing to anything,’ she said. ‘And by the time I got here they were gone.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Maggie’s home help, carer, whatever they call us these days, and I live just over the field.’

  Kim followed her through a small hallway into a lounge that looked out onto the road.

  A thin frail woman smiled at them from the single armchair that faced both the window and the small television in the corner. A small-two seater sofa lined the back wall. Part of the sofa was occupied by a few books and a knitting bag.

  ‘Mrs Peters?’ Kim asked, offering her hand.

  The woman took it and nodded as she looked around them.

  ‘Shelly?’

  ‘It’s okay, Mags, they’re the police.’

  Maggie looked less than convinced it was all in order.

  Kim took a seat in the vacant spot as Bryant began to move the woman’s possessions to the side.

  Shelly stood in the doorway.

  ‘We’re fine now, thanks,’ Kim said, aware that the woman had been on her way out.

  ‘Yeah, so am I,’ Shelly said, folding her arms. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  Maggie smiled fondly. ‘She’s a Godsend. Takes care of me every day. I don’t move so well any more,’ she said.

  Kim calculated that she was only mid seventies but appeared around ten years older.

  ‘Arthritis,’ she said. ‘Rheumatoid arthritis in the joints, probably from the swimming.’

  ‘You were a swimmer too?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘She was indeed,’ Shelly said, reaching for a photograph from the windowsill. ‘Competed in the Commonwealth Games, you know. Came fourth,’ she said, proudly.

  But Maggie Peters wasn’t listening. Her eyes were on Bryant. Her body might be failing her, but her mind was wide awake.

  ‘You said “too”, officer,’ she breathed. ‘Are you here about Lorraine?’

  Kim could hear both fear and hope in her voice. Maybe it was the fear to hope. She nodded at Bryant for him to continue.

  ‘Mrs Peters, we’re—’

  ‘Maggie, please,’ she said, quietly.

  Bryant nodded. ‘We’re here because of certain incidents at Heathcrest. The name of your daughter came up,’ he explained. ‘We understand she was on a full scholarship at Heathcrest,’ he said, guiding her gently back into the past.

  Shelly sat on the arm of Maggie’s chair and took her hand.

  ‘Yes, she was approached at a regional championship gala. She was so excited and so was I. Her father, God rest his soul, was not as keen. And neither was Lorraine after we visited.

  ‘We were shown around Heathcrest, and the more excited I got the quieter she became. Visiting the place had highlighted the possibilities for me but had brought home the reality of leaving all her friends and everything that was familiar for Lorraine.

  ‘Her father told her to make the right choice for herself and that we would be fine with whatever she wanted to do.’

  ‘And you?’ Bryant probed for the words she wanted to say.

  Maggie shook her head. ‘It’s what I wanted to say. It’s what I should have said but I honestly thought that Heathcrest would be a fantastic opportunity for her. She would have access to better facilities, one-on-one coaching, focused training and a top-notch education to boot. I knew that with her talent and their expertise my girl would be swimming in the Olympics. And she would have been…’

  ‘Was she happy there?’ Bryant asked.

  Maggie smiled. ‘I tried to convince myself that she was. She’d lost some of her sparkle, but I told myself that she’d be fine once she made some new friends. Her training was going well. She’d shaved almost three seconds off her personal best. Her coach was entering her into higher pressure meets to acclimatise her to the world of competitive swimming.’

  ‘So, what happened?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘She met a boy,’ Maggie said, simply. ‘Her attention moved from her training and also from her studies. She started missing sessions and questioning her coach.

  ‘I got a call asking if I’d speak to her. Attempt to refocus her attention. And I did so, earlier that day.’

  ‘The day she died?’ Bryant asked.

  Maggie nodded. ‘That’s when she told me she was pregnant.’

  ‘And did she tell you who the father was?’ Bryant asked.

  Kim held her breath. One name. All they needed was one name.

  Maggie shook her head.

  ‘She said it was a secret but that he was as happy about the baby as she was and that they were meeting later that night to discuss their future.’

  ‘So, you’re saying that the father of the child definitely knew about the pregnancy?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Oh yes, officer. He definitely knew.’

  Eighty-Seven

  ‘You do know you’re wasting your time?’ Dawson said across the desk. ‘Those numbers aren’t going to tell you anything.’

  ‘Found your smoking gun in the witness statements yet?’ Stacey retorted.

  He grumbled something incomprehensible as he reached for the next.

  Stacey was working her way through the printout the old-fashioned way, how she’d been taught at school. She placed a ruler on the printout and travelled down the page one row at a time. Numbers were beginning to merge together and dance across the page.

  She sat back and rubbed her eyes for a minute.

  ‘You know, Stace, sometimes you gotta listen to experience…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Kev,’ she said, glancing back at the ruler lying idle across th
e page.

  ‘It may surprise you but just now and again I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, looking at the last two records she’d checked.

  She frowned.

  ‘Your time would be better spent putting that down and helping me read through these…’

  ‘Shush, Kev,’ she said sitting forward.

  ‘I swear to God, Stace. You’re as stubborn as…’

  She moved the ruler back to the previous record and checked each individual number.

  ‘Kev, write this down…’ she said, no longer trusting her own number-weary eyes.

  He huffed but picked up a pen.

  ‘… seven, one, three, three, six, two, nine, two, six, nine, one.’

  ‘Yep,’ he said.

  She lowered the ruler and did the same again.

  ‘Now, write this down underneath: seven, one, three, three, six, two, nine, two, six, nine, one.’

  He frowned at her. ‘Why have you just given me the same number twice?’

  ‘Kev, stop what you’re doing and tap into the Heathcrest website. I think I’ve finally got something.’

  Eighty-Eight

  ‘I’m just not sure that means as much as you’d like it to,’ Bryant said, once they were back in the car.

  ‘Bryant, if the father of the child knew about the baby and was happy about it, why the hell didn’t he come forward and say something when both his girlfriend and baby died?’

  ‘Frightened, I’d imagine,’ Bryant said. ‘We’re talking kids. Lorraine was barely fifteen…’

  ‘And the fact she was meeting him that night doesn’t make you think the father of the child could be involved in her untimely accident, and if you say “they’re just kids” once more, I’ll punch you where the bruises won’t show.’

  He stared silently out of the window.

  ‘Look, Bryant, I’ve tried to protect you from this fact but kids do bad shit too. Not as much as adults, admittedly, but we do have to consider the possibility that—’

  ‘Just not feeling it, guv,’ he said, tightly.

  ‘Bryant, did you retire and not bother to let me know? Cos right now your gut instinct is out shopping with your missus.’

  ‘There is the possibility the father of the child wasn’t a kid. Strange how the funding for the DNA ran out before they got round to testing the adults. Lorraine spent a lot of time with her coach. There were other teachers who could have taken advantage of a young girl out of her depth who was just trying to fit in. Sickening, guv, but we know it happens.’

  Kim opened her mouth to concede the point, but the ring of her phone made her close it again.

  Bryant returned his gaze to the window as Kim put her phone on to speaker.

  ‘Go ahead, Stace,’ she said.

  ‘Boss, I think we’ve got something interesting in this DNA list. I mean, it may be nothing but…’

  ‘Go on, Stace,’ Kim said. She’d learned to listen carefully to the constable’s nothings.

  ‘I was going through the DNA profiles of all the boys tested against Lorraine’s unborn baby, and one of the records was duplicated. Now, if your chief inspector is to be believed about who they tested, there should be seventy-seven records.’

  ‘And how many are there?’ Kim asked, frowning.

  ‘There are seventy-seven, just like he said,’ Stacey answered. ‘So, with the duplicated test taken into account, it looks like one boy got tested twice.’

  Kim got it.

  ‘Which means that one boy wasn’t tested at all.’

  Eighty-Nine

  Kim watched as another expensive car passed them and eased to the front of the building to deliver another well-dressed couple bedecked in evening gowns, tuxedos, fur and jewels.

  She couldn’t help wondering if the alteration from concert to memorial service had changed the outfit of choice for any of them. Kim guessed that the press pack at the gates was having a field day taking photos of the local society elite. With the precision of a military operation each car crept towards the entrance, where a line of smart boys waited to step forward and open the car door. Another appeared at the driver’s window and offered parking directions. The guests then walked the red carpet between ornamental decorative lights illuminating the path into the school.

  How much of tonight’s event would be given to the death of two young children and one adult? How much had events been adapted to accommodate the inconvenience? She couldn’t help but wonder.

  ‘Look, Tom Cruise,’ Bryant said, pointing to the next impossibly long car in the line.

  She could see his point. She’d seen Hollywood film premieres with less pomp than this. The external lights placed around the building shone patterns and a yellow romantic glow onto the brickwork. Four separate uplighters shone onto the bell tower to the right of the main building, emphasising its height.

  ‘I think this is him,’ Bryant said, looking in the rear-view mirror. The wing mirror showed her Dawson’s small Renault nestled in between two limousines as though it were being escorted in.

  Dawson left the car line and parked beside them.

  ‘What is this, the bloody Oscars?’ he asked as he got into the car.

  Both Kim and Bryant turned in their seats as the cars continued to stream past them.

  ‘Boss, these folks do know that two pupils and a teacher died this week, don’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, but why miss an opportunity to dress up, eh?’ she said wryly.

  Dawson offered her the computer printout, but Kim shook her head. She wouldn’t be able to make it out in the dim light of the car, and she trusted Stacey’s judgement completely.

  ‘Of course, we can’t tell who is who because they’re just numbers here, no names,’ Dawson explained.

  ‘But someone would have a record of the corresponding names, surely?’ Kim asked.

  Bryant nodded towards the building. ‘I’m betting it’s in there somewhere.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Kim.

  She thought for a moment. ‘Okay, Bryant and I can’t deal with the past case and the present at the same time. We’ll go and speak to Thorpe, while you try Sadie’s friends again. We need to know if there are rumours about someone having an illegal abortion. Sadie’s poem confirms she knew something and we have to nail that down.’

  They all stepped out of the car, and three doors banged shut at the same time. Dawson headed off at speed as she paused to glance up and take in the imposing height of the bell tower.

  Ninety

  Stacey tried to pretend she wasn’t pissed off.

  She’d never been one to sulk but being kept away from the questioning at this stage when it was her own efforts that had spotted the duplication in the DNA records had left a definite sour taste in her mouth.

  ‘Bloody Dawson,’ she said, kicking at the leg of the desk.

  He’d taken the printout as well as her glory. She knew deep down that the boss always knew who had done what, but that logic did not sit well with her current mood.

  She had already spent half an hour searching the Heathcrest archives for the list of students pertaining to the registration numbers on the DNA printout, entering all kinds of keywords and search criteria, but with more than 300,000 documents on the mainframe, she couldn’t even get a list of results below five figures.

  The boss had asked her to start looking for any scandal surrounding any of the male teachers around the time Lorraine had been a student. Stacey could understand why she was asking. It stood to reason that if someone in authority had been having a relationship with Lorraine there was a good chance they’d done it again.

  And this was why she was no good at stropping, she realised. Her brain was always ready to offer her a balanced alternative view.

  She sat back in her chair and pictured Devon getting in from work, kicking off her shoes and making a pot of tea. Only she could find a girlfriend with an addiction to a cup of tea.

  She reached for the phone to give her a q
uick call. It was bound to sweeten her mood. The phone began to ring before her hand got there.

  ‘Wood,’ she answered.

  ‘Constable, I have a lady down here that’s looking for Dawson,’ Jack said.

  ‘Good for you,’ she said to the custody sergeant.

  ‘Says she really needs to speak to him,’ Jack persisted.

  ‘He’s not here, Jack,’ she explained. ‘I’m sure you saw him tear out of here about half an hour back.’

  ‘Can’t say as I did but this woman seems jumpy as hell and won’t speak to anyone else. Said Dawson’s been looking for her, about Heathcrest, and she won’t say any more.’

  Stacey frowned. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Mrs Forbes is all I’m getting.’

  The name registered somewhere in her brain.

  ‘Okay, on my way,’ she said, replacing the receiver. The call to Devon would just have to wait.

  Stacey headed down the stairs and let herself into the reception.

  Jack nodded to the only person around.

  Mrs Forbes was standing so close to the automatic doors Stacey could see that the sensor kept trying to kick in to open, detecting her presence. A full-length brown camel coat dropped from her shoulders to her ankles. A grey woolly hat covered her head with just an inch of red hair peeping out from beneath. She was either regretting walking through the door or was eager to get out and she hadn’t even spoken yet.

  ‘Mrs Forbes,’ Stacey said, approaching with her hand outstretched. She still wasn’t sure who she was, but the name had seemed familiar and Dawson had obviously been trying to speak to her.

  ‘I’m afraid Sergeant Dawson isn’t here right now. I’m his colleague, Detective Constable Wood. Do you want to come through?’

  The woman hesitated and glanced outside before nodding. ‘Just for a minute, my husband is waiting.’

  Stacey smiled reassuringly as she keyed herself back into the corridor.

  ‘This way,’ she said, leading the woman along the hallway to interview room one. ‘We can talk in here. Can I get you a coffee, tea, a cold—’