The Pinocchio Brief

by Silver Abi

  Anyway, when Mr Glover came in he noticed the tea and started searching all around and I’m sure it was for the biscuits, although he didn’t say. Then he saw the cupboard door was open and he pushed it closed with a thud. He stared at me and raised his eyebrows, but I didn’t let on that it was Mrs Taylor. Then he sent me away without telling me how proud he was of my achievements in the maths challenge, which is why he’d asked to see me in the first place. Jamie says that’s called “taking the rap” and he said he might have done it too, except Mrs Taylor doesn’t really need to eat any more biscuits.

  Mr Bailey? It’s funny, isn’t it. I never thought of him as a brave man. I never thought of him very often at all before today, although I used to see him all the time, a bearded man, darting around outside, always hurrying, always muttering under his breath, always agitated. He never spoke to us, to any of the boys, well not directly. He just picked up the litter, cut the grass, painted the fences, mowed the lawns. Sometimes he would carry around a radio sticking out of his pocket, “To keep him company when he was working,” Jamie said. The only time I have ever seen a radio is when we took one apart in Year 7 Physics.

  I thought it would be music that he listened to but he preferred chatting; endless shows where people called in and told other people what they thought about things. I remember once, when he was trimming the hedge with the electric saw and we were having athletics, that it was all about euthanasia, and he switched it off halfway through.

  But I think that day, the day Mr Davis died, he was brave, braver than me. I couldn’t stay in that room, not with Mr Davis lying dead there on the floor. Mr Bailey ran in, right past me and into the kitchen and he would’ve stayed if the policeman hadn’t made him go.

  There was a lot of blood, you see. On Mr Davis, on his shirt, on the floor and on me. How did it feel? Wet, sticky, clammy, clawing at me, dragging me into a parallel world of horror and death. And the smell, like the sourest metal, setting my teeth on edge. Later on, as I sat in the chair and waited, it was like being baked inside a flaky crust of dry, decaying matter.

  They wouldn’t let me wash at the police station or change my clothes. Not till “forensic” had come and taken photos and swabs. Then, suddenly, a policeman took me into a room and told me to remove all my clothes and take a shower. He had plastic gloves on and my clothes went into a bag; it was a fairly ordinary looking bag, nothing to write home about. I didn’t explain that I dislike showers; the pounding of the water on my back and skull leaves me with a profound headache. I just did as I was told.

  I wanted to ask lots of questions; if only Jamie had been there to help answer them. There were so many things I wanted to know. But, instead, I had to sit there whilst they asked me questions, endlessly, till the pain in my head intensified to a constant drumming on my brain. But I knew that if I answered one question it would not be enough. It would never be enough. So I waited and waited, even though my questions were bursting to come out and eventually they stopped. My inquisitors were fed up. “We’re used to having a bit of a dialogue, son,” that was what one policeman said to me. “Everyone talks eventually,” said another.

  But now I’m straying back to what happened before, when this is so much more fun. Where was I? Mr Bailey. Who knew he was quite so perceptive? I hope Judith was listening, really listening. I can’t wait to see what happens this afternoon.

  27

  CHRISTINE WILSON rose from a nearby wooden bench as the lawyers emerged from court, Judith charging along at a tremendous pace. Constance recognised her from her photograph and motioned to Judith to slow down. Christine was a young woman of around 25, small and pretty, with a quiet air of urgency in her body language.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” she muttered nervously, once Judith had come to an abrupt halt by her side and Constance had greeted her warmly. Judith merely nodded. It always took her some time to return to Earth after being on her feet in court, time for the adrenalin to dissipate and allow her some respite. She also desperately needed to have something to eat, to fuel her brain for the next session. She despatched Constance to locate a sandwich and led the anxious journalist into a meeting room.

  “Miss Wilson, I understand that you knew Mr Davis quite well. Constance tells me that you were once an item?” Judith threw herself into a chair, kicked off her shoes and began to remove her gown. There wasn’t much time so she may as well get on with things. Christine Wilson, albeit a little surprised by Judith’s directness and abrupt manner, sat down too and replied politely.

  “Yes. We went out some years back. We had fun but it didn’t work out. He was a bit of a perfectionist and I suppose I wasn’t nearly perfect enough.” She gave a low laugh of self-deprecation. “He knew it about himself,” she continued earnestly, “that he was like that, but he couldn’t stop. Sort of an obsession. He liked things organised, very organised.”

  “I see.”

  “But we remained in touch and friendly and we met up from time to time, as friends.”

  “Yes. And you called him on the day he was killed. Why was that?” Judith asked.

  Christine Wilson’s face grew pale, her fingers interlocking from their vantage point on her lap.

  “Look, you’re a lawyer, a barrister, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you always think like a lawyer even when you’re not at work. You’re cautious, always trying to find out what your legal rights are, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, that’s often the case.”

  “Well I’m a journalist and I find that, even with friends, I am tempted to… oh, this is so hard to say without sounding too Machiavellian.”

  “I think you are trying to say that you find yourself seeking out stories to publish, even from your friends. Am I right?”

  Christine Wilson hung her head and sniffed.

  “It doesn’t sound very ‘friendly’ does it? I would always ask them and if they objected I would never run it, never.”

  “And Roger Davis had a story to tell?”

  “It wasn’t really much of a story, to be truthful. I asked him a few questions and then suddenly he was the one who wanted it out there. I had to insist he find me some better angle or my editor would never take it.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Well, it was story of a school in decline. He said the headmaster was unhinged, that he was trying out all these strange theories on the boys, that the academic results were suffering.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said it wasn’t enough. Richmond isn’t Eton, no one would be that interested. And the grades were down a little but nothing very noticeable.”

  “But something happened to change your mind?”

  “Yes. He let it slip that a Qatari prince was about to join the school in September.”

  “And that was significant?”

  “Well, in isolation it wasn’t. Our schools are full of sons of foreign princes and dictators and no one cares. I mean there’s always a bit of noise about whether they pay to get in, that sort of thing, hardly front page. But I knew that we had had to pull a story on the father the year before. The editor had made the decision at the last minute, when he threatened to sue. That was a really juicy story. Obviously I can’t say what, but it involved his use of public funds.”

  “So this gave you a reason to reopen it all?”

  “Yes. But that wasn’t what we were going to print in the end.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, my editor agreed I could spend some time digging around, because of the Qatari angle. To be honest I would’ve done it anyway, in my own time, as it was for Roger. Well, in the end it wasn’t the prince who was the story, it was the headmaster.”

  The door opened and Constance slid in with a Prêt a Manger bag in her hand. She sat down next to Judith as Miss Wilson drew breath and wrung her hands again.

  “Please go on. Constance must hear this too. What did you find out about Mr Glover?”

  “Mr Glo
ver divorced his wife four years ago, after 20 years of marriage. When I looked at his overseas travel I found a lot of trips to Thailand. Since his divorce, he has been living a double life; during the school year, he’s the headmaster of Richmond Boys’ and lives alone in a small apartment a few streets away. In the holidays, he leaves for Thailand where he has a new, very young and glamorous wife in a village two hours from Bangkok.”

  “Oh gosh. Well that is a little surprising, having met the man, but is that so terrible, so newsworthy?”

  Miss Wilson hesitated for a moment before continuing.

  “He met his wife in a popular bar where she was working.”

  “So?”

  “She was a part-time stripper and probably also a prostitute. During term time, when Mr Glover is back at Richmond, she returns to her work in the bars of Bangkok.”

  Judith and Constance exchanged glances. Judith spoke first.

  “Hm. I can see that may not go down well in Richmond or with the Qatari royals and it certainly doesn’t raise him up in my estimation. But chacun à son goût, Miss Wilson. Is there really a public interest in printing that kind of story? She is his wife, after all.” Miss Wilson cleared her throat and stared at the floor.

  “Oh, it’s all such a mess,” she muttered, running a hand across her face. “Poor, poor Roger. Why did I ever suggest it?”

  “Please compose yourself, Miss Wilson,” Judith replied with little empathy. “I need to get the facts straight, as far as possible, so I can determine if any of what you are telling me is remotely relevant to Mr Davis’ death. To recap then, Roger Davis and you were friends. He contacted you, saying that his headmaster was ‘unhinged’ – his words – in some way and this was affecting the education of the boys. When was that, please?”

  “Probably around a year ago.”

  “Thank you. You said ‘that’s not much of a story’. You didn’t hear anything for another year or so…”

  “No that’s not right. Whenever we met or spoke he would ask me when we were going to run the story.”

  “I see. He must have been unhappy.”

  “He was.”

  “So why didn’t he leave?”

  Miss Wilson faltered once more. “He had some trouble with the police when we were at Uni. Mr Glover knew, but had been really fair at the beginning, said he would give Roger a chance. But when Roger asked for anything for the department or had any ideas, he said Glover just refused because he knew Roger wouldn’t push for it.”

  “In case he was sacked and couldn’t get another position.”

  “Yes.”

  “So then he told you about the Qatari prince and you dug around. Did you tell Roger about Mr Glover’s extra-curricular shenanigans?”

  “No. Absolutely not. I just asked him for Mr Glover’s telephone number. We always give people a chance to comment before going public on any story.”

  “That’s very honourable of you.”

  “Look, I don’t feel very good about any of this now, do I?”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t. So, you discussed this with Roger on the day he died and he gave you Mr Glover’s number?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you called Mr Glover?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  Miss Wilson held out her phone.

  “It’s on here. It was 2.40 in the afternoon. I kept all my phone records once I heard about Roger.”

  “Ah. Right in the middle of the important rugby match. And what did you say to him?”

  “I introduced myself. I said I’d been told that a member of the Qatari royal family would be sending his son to Richmond in September and could he confirm that was the case. He rang off. Then he called me back almost immediately. I don’t withhold my number. He said he didn’t know who had told me, but that he could not comment on confidential matters regarding pupils, I should understand that.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said that was fine, we would make it clear he hadn’t provided the information to the press. But I asked him if he was able to comment on standards at his school more generally. And he said ‘yes’.

  “So I told him I’d heard that academic standards were dropping, that he was only interested in sport. Well, he started shouting. Asked who’d told me, I said I couldn’t divulge my source. He said, ‘Can I hazard a guess? His name wouldn’t happen to be Davis would it?’ I told him I wouldn’t say. And he said, ‘Bloody Davis. I should never have taken him on. Bloody piece of work always undermining me. I tell you Miss Wilson, and you tell your source, that I’m onto him and by the time I’ve finished with him his life won’t be worth living.’ I asked if I could quote him and he rang off again. This time he didn’t call back.”

  The three women sat in silence weighing up the journalist’s words. After a few moments Judith spoke.

  “So you never told him you were about to ‘out’ him then?”

  “Well, not specifically.”

  “Not specifically?”

  “After he rang off the second time, I sent him a text urging him to call me back to give his side of the story before we went to print.”

  “And?”

  “And I said at the end that I wanted to give him an opportunity to comment on some personal information I had received about his family life too.”

  “So you just dropped it in, gently, in the middle of a text message. A nice touch.”

  Christine Wilson nodded and shrugged.

  “And what happened to the story?”

  “When he didn’t call back I asked the editor to hold it for a day; I didn’t think it was right to print without telling Mr Glover the full story we were going to publish.”

  “No, of course not.” Judith was sardonic in the extreme. “And then later that afternoon everyone knew Roger Davis was dead and that was the story.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Glover story?”

  “Who knows? I have persuaded my editor to focus on the murder for now; it’s much better news. And we were not sure how we stood legally as Mr Glover is a witness in the trial. When it’s over we’ll consider things again.”

  ***

  AFTER THE journalist’s departure, Judith munched her tuna mayonnaise baguette with little enthusiasm. Constance spent the time rattling away on her tablet, reading, saving and marking various articles. By the time Judith had finished eating she had completed her work and was sitting expectantly.

  “Is that what he meant then, do you think?” she asked Judith.

  “What, Glover, when he said to Bailey that he was ‘responsible’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I think so, although he didn’t strike me as a religious man, but I should never have guessed at the double life either. I must be slipping. I think that’s a reasonable explanation. He wished Davis dead and 20 minutes later he was dead, so he felt morally responsible. He really didn’t have time to organise a hit squad.”

  “He might’ve had time to get there, to Davis’ rooms?”

  “But Bailey found him in his seat at the match. He couldn’t be in two places at once. Let’s not rule it out, but I’d be surprised. Check the video again and ask around discreetly to check that he didn’t leave his seat. And the boys. We’ve heard now that Andrew Partram, Mr Simpson’s star player, argued with Davis. Can you do some quiet digging about him too?”

  “I will.”

  “And one other thing Miss Wilson said interests me. That Davis was a perfectionist and obsessive about things. I thought Jamie Benson might have exaggerated but perhaps not. And now I think back, do you remember that porch leading into his rooms, the identical pairs of shoes lined up neatly? Can you find me the photos you took?”

  Constance spent a moment locating the images on her laptop and they flicked through them one by one together till Judith asked her to stop.

  “There,” she said, pointing to the bookshelves in Davis’ room.

  “What is it?” Constance was nonplussed.


  “Well look at how his books are arranged? The ones still on the shelves. The entire middle section, they’re all the same height. And he’s left gaps in the shelves. If I were putting my books out I would just fill up the shelves one by one. But not Roger Davis. Oh no! If they don’t match precisely he puts them somewhere else. Each size of book has its own shelf. That’s why they are spread out so much. And yet there’s a wonderful symmetry to his pattern. The larger books to the left and right, the smaller books in the centre.”

  “But quite a few were thrown on the floor.”

  “Yes. That’s important, I think. Because the fight was in the kitchen, a long way from the books. They didn’t bump into the shelf when they were fighting. The assailant deliberately threw the books off the shelf either before or after the meat of the fight. Of course he might have just been so angry he lashed out at anything. But the books to me are symbolic of Davis’ rigidity.”

  Constance was silent. She just needed a concrete action plan, not airy fairy theories.

  “What else was there of interest in Davis’ rooms? I remember an overturned chair, the open window, and do you remember the mud by the door? Such a fastidious man wouldn’t leave mud on his floor.”

  “I checked it out, like you asked. It didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Ah.”

  “Forensic said it came from the playing fields, that’s all. And Mr Bailey had crossed the fields before he entered, the policeman might have done and even Mrs Taylor had been outside a few times, do you remember, to look at the score board.”