by Nic Roberts
Lawrence nodded as he continued to write in his notebook. He was a good actor, that much Olivia had become more and more aware of throughout their partnership.
“You seem to know a lot about Mr. Fisher. Were you two close?” he asked, looking up at the end of his question to meet Francesca’s eyes.
She fidgeted.
“Not really. I just enjoy gossip,” she replied, twirling a strand of hair through her fingertips. “Makes a boring class get interesting.”
The girl bit the corner of her lip, a trait that Olivia took to mean she was either trying to keep from crying or trying to keep the truth from spilling out.
“Where did you hear that Mrs. Fisher had stopped living at their shared flat?” Dean continued to probe. Even though his questions were more pointed, he didn’t let it affect his tone of voice. He remained calm—though not overconfident—even as he started to corner Francesca into her own lie. It was impressive to watch.
“Loads of people knew.” She sighed, pretending to sound bored. “It wasn’t like he hid it well. Listen, I don’t understand how this is helping you solve the case.”
“That’s fair,” Lawrence shot back. “You were in Mr. Fisher’s poetry class, correct?”
Francesca nodded wordlessly.
“Have you studied the poet, John Keats?”
Francesca jolted forward in her chair at the question, unable to contain a physical response. She cleared her throat. She’s sweating, Olivia noticed. You know we’re going to get there, sweetheart. Just tell us now.
“Yeah, we might have talked about Keats in class,” she replied, extra acidity melding into her voice. “He was one of the Romantics. Real tragic and all that. Don’t get how that’s relevant to Mr. Fisher’s death. Just a dead poet.”
Although Francesca tried to act disinterested, Olivia could see that her breathing had quickened. They were closing in.
“I think you do know how Keats is relevant, though,” Lawrence replied, calling Francesca’s bluff. She swallowed.
C’mon, kid, Olivia wanted to say. Just give it up.
Instead, the teen simply shook her head. She was clearly rattled.
“Francesca,” Lawrence sighed, sympathy washing over his features. “We know about Bright Star.”
Her eyes widened as Lawrence uttered the alias Mr. Fisher used to court his victim.
“Wha—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she fumbled over her words. She couldn’t look him in the eye. “What’s that?”
“You know, Francesca. I know you do,” Lawrence urged, leaning so far forward Olivia thought he might fall out of his chair.
“Please stop.” Her plead was barely above a whisper, tears threatening to streak down her cheeks. It had never been so abundantly clear to Olivia that this was a child they were speaking with. It built a rage deep in her stomach that their victim would hurt someone as young and fragile as Francesca. Even with her attitude, she was still a young woman, just learning how to operate in the world. The fact that a grown adult would prey on her sickened Olivia. Teachers were supposed to help students, not hunt them.
“You know that I can’t just stop, Francesca.” Lawrence’s voice sounded like a concession, even as he pressed her further. “You were Bright Star, weren’t you?”
Tears flooded to Francesca’s eyes, and she let out a wail that shocked Olivia, coming from such a small body. She sounded like a wounded bird. She buried her head in her hands, silent sobs wracking her shoulders.
“Francesca, I’m so sorry,” Lawrence spoke quietly. “He shouldn’t have done that to you.”
“What do you mean, he shouldn’t have done that?” Rage bubbled over Francesca’s voice, cutting through her cries. “I love him... He loved me.”
Olivia winced at the declaration. She wanted to rush over to the teen, to assure her that grown men shouldn’t be in love with children, that with time she’d realise the situation for what it was. But she couldn’t. She had agreed with Lawrence to let him lead.
“Forgive me,” Lawrence backtracked. “I hadn’t realised…”
“Of course you wouldn’t have known,” Francesca sobbed, head still buried between her arms. Despite being unable to see the girl’s face, Olivia knew that it was probably a mess. She knew what it was like to cry that hard, and it was never pretty. “Our love was special.” The second statement was quiet, almost an ode.
“When did this start?” Lawrence asked quietly, finally lowering his gaze to his notepad and away from the girl. Smart, Olivia thought. Let her feel the pressure relax.
“We started writing a year ago after he had to cover my class. At first, that’s all it was,” Francesca started to explain. She let her head emerge from between her arms but kept her gaze downcast. “I’d ask him about a poet or a verse, and he’d explain them to me.” She smiled as she recalled it.
Olivia had to turn away; she couldn’t stand to look at Francesca as she recounted the beginning of her abuse.
“Then we started talking about our lives,” the teen continued. “How I want to be a poet when I’m older. How he’s finishing his novel. Stuff like that. We decided we’d grab coffee after school one weekend and realised we were like old souls.”
Lawrence looked back at Olivia; his face was as pained as hers was.
We have to let her continue to talk, she urged with her body language. Lawrence gave a defeated nod.
“I was the one who initiated a relationship,” Francesca declared, finally looking up to meet both detectives’ gazes. “I swear on my nan’s grave. He didn’t touch me until I had practically forced myself onto him.”
Olivia’s stomach lurched. It was painful to hear Francesca romanticise it all.
“We knew we had to keep it a secret. That the world wouldn’t understand that this was love, not some creepy teacher perving on his student.”
Olivia shook her head. That’s exactly what this is, sweetheart, she wanted to say.
She bit her tongue instead.
“We agreed that we’d wait until I started uni to make it official.” Francesca explained. “That until then we were just going to go about our lives as if nothing had changed.” Her eyes shone with passion—and tears—as she spoke.
“Did anyone else know about the relationship?” Lawrence asked, interrupting Francesca’s soliloquy.
She shook her head.
“We swore to never tell a soul,” she explained. “Even when he ended things with his wife, he said it just wasn’t working for him to be married to her.”
Lawrence glanced at Olivia again. He told her he was the one who broke things off. Sick bastard.
Francesca sniffed.
“When in reality,” she continued. “He just couldn’t stand to be with her while he was committed to me.”
Lawrence wrote that down too.
“Not even your parents knew?” he pressed, searching for any explanation that someone knew of the affair. “They didn’t suspect anything?”
Francesca shook her head.
“My parents are too busy chasing their careers and hating each other to notice what their middle child is doing,” she seethed.
Olivia made a mental note that the young teen was clearly neglected at home. She was the perfect recipe for an abuser.
“Francesca, this is very important. It might help us figure out who killed Mr. Fisher,” Lawrence urged. “You’re sure no one else knew?”
“Positive,” she replied, face crumpling as she said it. “And I wish you would stop acting like our relationship would be enough of a reason for someone to—to hurt Simon.” Her sobs started anew at that comment.
Lawrence looked to Olivia, who simply shrugged. Francesca seemed to be telling the truth; that much was certain. They let her cry, waiting to see if she’d say anything else.
“Simon made me feel so special,” she blurted out through her sobs, drawing the detectives’ attention back to her.
“I know that right now it feels like your love for him is the only thing
holding you to this earth,” Olivia said before her internal monologue could warn her against it. The girl glanced up, seemingly affronted that Olivia spoke but also wanting words of encouragement. It was all Olivia needed. “But I promise you that that’s not the case. You’re strong, and you’re your own person, and this next while is going to be difficult, but I think you’re going to get through it just fine. In fact, I know it. I have a counsellor I trust that I think you should consider giving a visit to. She’s helped me through loss before.”
There was silence in the room for a moment, and Olivia caught Lawrence looking at her, the expression on his face thanking her for adding in the warmth.
“What do you know about loss?” Francesca wailed, wiping tears away as she spoke. “People always pretend to know everything, but no one will know what this feels like!”
Lawrence gave Olivia a gentle nod, encouraging her to tell her story.
“My partner was killed,” Olivia confessed gently. “And you know what? It still hurts every single day. But I’m able to get out of bed now and keep going. I even make it through most days without crying about him now. And it doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. I miss him desperately, in fact. But I’ve learned that he wouldn’t want me to live my life for him instead of for me.”
The last sentence sunk into herself deeper than she’d intended. She always knew that, but saying it out loud gave her strength and made her realise that she hadn’t been doing that.
“I don’t ever want to get over him,” Francesca whimpered, pulling her blazer tighter around her. “I just want him back.”
Olivia thought about telling her that she wouldn’t always want him back, that one day she’d realise that Simon Fisher was a predator. Just a common abuser, not the love of her life. That one day she’d meet a boy—or maybe a girl—who took her breath away and that she’d begin to heal. That when she was older, she’d understand that near-middle-aged teachers shouldn’t be going after fifteen-year-olds. That one day she’d be angry at Mr. Fisher, not missing him.
Instead, she swallowed her pride and gave the child a sympathetic nod.
“It’s hard. But this counsellor—or any counsellor, really—can help you process your grief. It’s really important that you do that,” Olivia urged. “We can set you up with one.”
“I’ll think about it,” Francesca muttered, looking down to her hands.
Olivia looked back to Lawrence as she crossed the threshold to soothingly rub the teen’s arm.
He seemed unsettled at Francesca’s adamance that she was in love. A pang of gratitude shot through Olivia as she realised he didn’t seem upset with her; in fact, if anything he was giving her a look of admiration.
“It’s okay to be sad,” Olivia reassured her as she settled back in her seat. “I promise.”
Francesca sniffled but nodded as she stared at the scuffed tiled floor.
“If it’s all right with you, we’d like to drive you home,” Lawrence offered, standing to grab his coat. “Make sure that you make it back safely and all that.”
“But it’s only partway through the school day,” Francesca replied, confusion dancing across her face.
“Indeed. But we’ll speak with Mr. Hargraves to make sure you’re excused,” Lawrence assured her, passing Olivia her coat. She took it with a gentle smile. They were building their trust back, slowly but surely.
“I don’t understand,” Francesca stuttered, looking from one detective to the other. “Why can’t I just finish my day?”
“We’d like to speak with your parents briefly, Francesca,” Lawrence admitted, leading the way to the door.
She raced to Dean, panic in her eyes.
“No, you can’t tell them,” she blurted out. “They’d—please, please don’t tell them.”
Lawrence gave her a long look before sighing.
“I think telling them now would be the right thing to do,” he explained, trying to maintain a calm tone. “Something like this... We have to help them understand what happened and why. Abuse...”
“It wasn’t abuse! It was love!” Francesca interjected, now physically clinging to Lawrence’s arm. He gently tried to release her hand, but she was desperate.
“Francesca,” he urged. “Please, let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”
Sobs wracked through the teen’s body as she crumpled into Lawrence. Slowly, he lowered his hand down and comforted her. He looked slightly awkward doing so, but the softer side suited him.
“Why is the whole world against me?” Francesca wailed.
Dean hesitantly gave her a gentle squeeze before extricating himself from her grasp. Olivia deftly swooped in, grabbing the teen and pulling her into an embrace.
“It’s going to be okay,” she urged, brushing her hair out of her dewy eyes. “I promise it’ll be okay. We’ll do it in the kindest way possible, and we’ll let you decide if you want to be there or not.”
“I—” Francesca choked on the word, another cry consuming her body. “I think I want to be the one to tell them,” she managed to say. “I want it to come from me.”
“Of course,” Olivia promised, giving the young woman a squeeze before stepping back to let her have her own space.
“Right,” Lawrence said taking out his phone. “I’ll call your parents and ask them to meet us at your house. Would you mind giving Liv directions?”
Francesca nodded, clearly numb.
“That’s great,” Olivia encouraged. “That’s really great.”
What have we gotten ourselves into? she asked herself. And who the hell killed Simon Fisher?
18
Francesca Atkinson’s family home was more of a mansion than a house. Olivia did her best not to gawk as they approached the front door. The teenager had done her best to try and clean up during their car ride, but they could still sense the apprehension from her.
It made sense; Olivia couldn’t imagine having to tell her parents what Francesca was about to disclose.
“Are your parents in, do you think?” Lawrence asked as they knocked on the large oak door. They hadn’t been able to reach them by phone despite several attempts on the way over.
Francesca nodded, obscuring her face behind her long brown hair.
“They both work from home, so yeah,” she affirmed, playing with the sleeves of her coat. “They’re probably both in meetings or something.”
Lawrence knocked again.
“Well, we’re going to have to speak with them,” he sighed.
Before Francesca had the chance to respond, the door swung open to reveal a petite woman with dark brown hair pulled into a sleek high ponytail. Mrs. Atkinson was the epitome of clean lines and a sharp silhouette, a woman who oozed business and seriousness. She stood there for a moment in her tight yet professional dark blue dress, arms crossed before reaching to her headset. Her hawkish gaze seemed to discern every detail of the scene in front of her. There were no questions in her eyes.
“Can I call you back in a minute, Joe?” Her voice was crisp and to the point, even at a whisper. The stranger she was speaking to evidently agreed, because she pressed a button before peeling the sleek earpiece off and finally turning to fully address the trio.
“What on earth has Francesca done this time?” She addressed Lawrence as she asked the question, annoyance tinging her words.
No wonder the girl felt like her parents didn’t care, Olivia thought to herself.
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Inspector Lawrence with Devon and Cornwall Police.” He held up his badge. “This is my partner, Detective Inspector Austin.” He kept an impressively tact tone as he addressed the woman. “Please, may we step inside?”
Francesca’s mother wordlessly pulled the door further open, welcoming the detectives into a grandiose foyer. A grand staircase trailed up into the next floor, presumably sequestering bedrooms and the discretion of private life. She gestured, still silent, to a drawing room off to the side.
“Thank you,” Lawrence muttered
as they walked to sit down.
Francesca trailed behind, refusing to meet her mother’s eye.
“I’m presuming that you’re Francesca’s mother?” he asked once everyone was inside the room.
“Correct,” she agreed, glaring at her daughter. “Please, I assure you whatever damage Fannie may have caused, we can pay for it. We don’t need—”
“Ma’am, is your husband here as well?” Lawrence ignored the comments. Mrs. Atkinson almost looked shocked.
“I—Yes, he is, but I promise this is something I can take care of on my own.”
Dean glanced at Olivia before looking back at Francesca. The girl, all rage and spitfire at school, was doing her best to make herself as small as possible.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, it’s important we talk with you both,” Lawrence enunciated.
Olivia knew her partner well enough to hear the gentlest of strain in his voice.
“Really, it isn’t necessary,” Mrs. Atkinson insisted with a dismissive wave of her hand. She glanced down to her phone and quickly started texting.
“Ma’am.” Lawrence’s tone turned dark. “I insist. This isn’t what you think it is.”
Olivia saw a flicker of confusion for the first time on Mrs. Atkinson’s face. She hid it quickly and effectively, but it had undeniably happened.
“One moment,” she muttered. “I’ll go and fetch him.” She whisked herself out of the drawing room before the sentence had fully left her mouth. Lawrence looked to Francesca.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice already gentler.
She shrugged.
“I still don’t think you need to tell them,” she whispered. “It’s not like they care, anyway.”
“You know that’s not how it works, Francesca,” Lawrence assured her. “Are you still up for telling them? Otherwise, we can do it.”
The teenager shook her head at that offer.
“I need to be the one,” she insisted, fresh tears brimming in her eyes.
“Understood,” Lawrence agreed as he looked to Olivia. She gave him a gentle smile.
Moments later Mrs. Atkinson entered the room trailed by a similarly short balding man in a crisp grey suit.
