The Pinocchio Brief

by Silver Abi

  “‘Andrew is lacking in enthusiasm for any of his academic subjects and takes no care with any of his work. Many teachers find him surly and uncooperative. He wants to be…’ Hey, this isn’t my report!”

  “Please turn to the front of the report and read what it says.”

  “Andrew Partram. End of year report. Year 10.”

  “Mr Partram, my instructing solicitor was given your report by Mrs Taylor yesterday afternoon. She downloaded it from the school intranet. I think we can therefore conclude that it is your report. Will you read on, please?”

  Partram’s eyes narrowed. He stared at Judith and then appeared to be looking around the gallery for help. Then he appealed silently to the judge, who nodded at him to continue reading. Reluctantly and with a quivering voice, he continued.

  “‘He wants to be a professional rugby player, which is a fantastic ambition in every sense of the word, but he needs to ensure he does not neglect his studies as there are no guarantees of a future for him in the game. I hope that next year Andrew will spend less time on the rugby pitch and more time on his academic work.’ I know what it says on the front, but it’s not my report.”

  “Thank you. Is that what you meant by Mr Davis encouraging you to do better?”

  Silence.

  “Well, let’s move on. I am focussing now on the rugby match between your school and Hawtrees. Is it correct to describe this match as the biggest match of the season?”

  “Yes, immense.”

  “And had you played in the match previously?”

  “No. I was picked last year but the rules meant I was too young to play. You had to be 15; I am one of the youngest in the year.”

  “And what was the result last year?”

  “We lost narrowly, 28–25.”

  “So this was a chance to avenge the defeat?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. But everyone likes to win.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you tell us what the final score was this time?”

  “It was 28–16 to us.”

  “So a convincing victory?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were awarded the ‘man of the match’ award?”

  “Yes.”

  “For scoring two tries in the second half.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be fair to say that the second half of the game was your better half?”

  Another pause.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Well, although I scored all those tries, in the first half I played more defensively and set up our other tries; it isn’t always the try scorers who play the best.”

  “Absolutely. I think everyone can accept that. It’s a team game. But, on any view, you had a storming match.”

  “Yes.”

  “And were there any scouts at the match?”

  Silence and a scowl.

  “Mr Partram. You mentioned that you wanted to be scouted for a team. Were there any scouts at the match?”

  “No. I thought before the match they would be there, but they never came.”

  “Ah. That’s a shame. So they didn’t witness your triumph?”

  Silence.

  “I think that’s a no, then. Mr Partram. We heard from Mr Bailey, the school groundsman, earlier in the week. Were you in court when he gave his testimony?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you in court yesterday when Mr Simpson, your head of sports and rugby coach, gave his evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr Partram, Mr Bailey told the court that he overheard a discussion between you and Mr Davis a few days before the match; he thought it was on the Monday, the match was on the Friday of the same week. He described it as ‘heated’. He heard Mr Davis telling you that you could not play in the match as you had not been working hard enough, rather along the lines of his comments in your end of year report. Mr Simpson’s evidence also referred to this, although he did not hear the discussion. Is that correct? Did you and Mr Davis have an argument?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it an argument.”

  “How would you describe it then?”

  “Well. Like I said, he, Mr Davis, was encouraging me to work harder. He said if I played in the match I wouldn’t have a lot of time to revise for a test coming up but I said I would still do the work.”

  “What did Mr Davis say?”

  “He listened. He listened to me and he said he would talk to Mr Simpson.”

  “At the moment at which you and Mr Davis left each other’s company, did you believe there was a risk that you might not be able to play in the match?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Well. I know Mr Simpson and he would have been able to talk Mr Davis round.”

  “I see. And I suppose Mr Simpson is part of the senior leadership team at the school and Mr Davis is a more junior teacher.”

  Silence.

  “Coming back to the match itself, Mr Partram. Do you believe in fair play?”

  “Yeah, sure. What d’you mean?”

  “Well. It’s very simple. In an important match, like this one, do you say to yourself and perhaps to your team mates, the important thing here is to play absolutely fair or do you think we should play a bit dirty, kick them, gouge them a bit when the referee’s not looking?”

  “No, well. There is always a bit of that. I mean, things start quietly and then get more, well, lively.”

  “So, in this match, against Hawtrees. Is that what happened? Did things start quietly and then get more lively?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Did anything happen to you during the match?”

  “Well…”

  “Take your time.”

  Andrew Partram shifted in his seat. He grimaced. He looked up at his schoolmates and then back at Judith.

  “At the beginning of the second half, I was running forward from behind the halfway line and then I caught the ball.” He closed his eyes tight for a moment before opening them wide and waving his hands as if to catch an imaginary ball out to his left. “And then I got caught high up on my nose.” He ran the fingers of his left hand down his nose before allowing both hands to return to grip the podium.

  “Were you hurt?”

  “Yeah, absolutely. I had a great big cut down my nose.”

  “And you had to come off the field?”

  “Well, only to stop the blood. They checked I was OK, stuck on some strips and then I was allowed back on.”

  “And it healed up quickly, the cut?”

  “Yeah. I suppose it did.”

  “I mean, you didn’t require any treatment for it, any stitches?”

  “No.”

  “And there was no lasting mark, no scar?”

  “No, nothing.” He touched his nose again and Judith noted that a light sweat had broken out on his upper lip.

  “Mr Partram. You appear to be uncomfortable. Would you like a drink of water?”

  He wiped his mouth abruptly with the back of his right hand. “No. I’m fine,” he replied.

  “Thank you. You will be pleased to hear that I don’t have too many more questions for you. Excuse me for just a moment.”

  Constance had arrived behind Judith and the two women conferred for a full minute, with lots of hand gestures. As Judith turned back to address the court, Constance retreated to the back of the room.

  “Your Honour, thank you for indulging me. It was a matter of importance which my instructing solicitor, Miss Constance Lamb, just imparted to me. Mr Partram. What rugby boots do you wear?”

  A laugh. “What’s that all about?”

  “The importance will be revealed shortly. What kind are they?”

  “Err. I wear Asics.”

  “And what colour and size are they?”

  “They’re black with white at the back, size 12.”

  “Is that a new boot?”

  “Well, I’ve had them for a few months, but…�
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  “I’m asking because the court heard from Dr Mainwaring on Tuesday that the prints of some rugby boots were found just outside the open window of Mr Davis’ study. You will have heard that too, I imagine.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But we checked and those boots were a rather unusual style. Dr Mainwaring showed the court the print and confirmed they were made by a company called Nazabe, based in Australia. Now Nazabe told Dr Mainwaring that they no longer put their logo on the sole but what my instructing solicitor has been able to ascertain is that, in fact, there was only one style of Nazabe boot made which bore the Nazabe logo on its sole in that particular configuration.

  “Usher, can you hand Mr Partram one of these boots please and then pass them up to the judge. Your Honour, just to explain. These boots, which my instructing solicitor has painstakingly tracked down, they are the style of boot which matches the print. They are the only style which matches the print, manufactured for only a few months in this distinctive orange and black colour in 1996.”

  “Yes, I see. And these definitely match the prints outside Mr Davis’ kitchen?”

  “Yes, Your Honour. I can have Dr Mainwaring confirm this to you in court but I would assume Mr Arkwright is not challenging the point. Have you ever seen boots like this, Mr Partram?”

  A giggle. “No, why should I? You said they were old, from the 1990s. I wasn’t born then, was I?”

  “Are you certain, Mr Partram? This may be an important question.”

  “I said I hadn’t seen them.”

  “Your Honour, we have all indulged Miss Burton far too long.” Arkwright was standing up, rolling his eyes heavenward and waving his arms at the same time. Judge Blake frowned but more with interest than disapproval.

  “Yes, Miss Burton. I get the point about the boots and Dr Mainwaring confirmed that the prints outside Mr Davis’ room could have been made by a boot like that, but these are not Mr Partram’s boots, are they?”

  “No, Your Honour.”

  “So enough cloak and dagger and mothers’ meetings, what is this all about?”

  Judith turned around and nodded to Constance, who opened the door of the court wide. A young man, similar build to Partram, but with red hair and freckles, entered the court, flanked by two police officers. They marched forward, the young man clearly unwilling, being almost dragged along. They took a seat towards the front, in three places which had been cleared for the purpose. Now he was seated, the new addition sat with his hands folded in front of him, ashen-faced.

  “Can the court reporter note that a young man has just entered the courtroom. Mr Partram, do you know this young man?”

  Silence.

  “I will repeat the question. Do you know the young man sitting there in the front row in between the police officers?”

  Through gritted teeth. “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell the court who he is, please.”

  “Damian Miller.”

  “Thank you. And Mr Miller is a pupil in Year 11 at Richmond Boys’.”

  “Yes.”

  “In your rugby team.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr Partram. Stay there for a moment. We’ll come back to Mr Miller in a moment. I have a short video clip to show you. Usher please. If you could dim the lights as this is a home-made recording of the Richmond-Hawtrees rugby match, taken from a camera situated at one side of the pitch, and the quality is not so good.”

  Judith held her breath as the film began. She was almost out of the woods; almost but not quite. She allowed herself, for the first time in an age, to look at Raymond. He was animated now, on the edge of his seat.

  The film began with some shaky images but gradually it focussed in on the action and the two teams could be seen fairly clearly walking on to the pitch, shaking hands and beginning to play. Judith waited for about a minute and nodded to Constance to stop the footage. She used her mouse to point to a boy on the right of the picture.

  “Can you tell me who that is, please?”

  “That’s the easiest one so far. It’s me.”

  Constance played the film forward for a few minutes and then fast forwarded and zoomed in to the image so that it was blown up many times. Now the court could see it was Partram, with his red top, black shorts and black and white boots, carrying the ball under his left arm.

  “Mr Partram. You are left-handed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now if you notice the numbers at the bottom of the screen, they show the time which has elapsed from the beginning of the match. So, just to tell you, this is 35 minutes into the game, so in the first half.” She forwarded the action and stopped it a little further. “Now we are at 38 minutes, that is just before half time. Mr Partram, can you tell me who this is now in the picture?”

  A long pause.

  Constance zoomed in. Partram caught the ball and, as he did, the elbow of a boy in the other team collided with his face. The action stopped and Partram, his nose pouring blood, limped off the pitch to the side lines.

  “It’s me, like I said. I got hit in the face.”

  “Yes, you did say that. But look at the timing, Mr Partram. You testified that you were hurt in the second half of the match. Do you wish to correct your evidence?”

  Partram huffed and he glanced at the boy who was sitting at the front of the court, who was now glaring at him.

  “So, I got the time wrong. Doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You are right; nothing proven yet.” Judith allowed herself a moment to breathe deeply. “Let’s just watch what keeps happening as we move into half time. Mr Partram, Damian Miller, the boy you just identified, who has just entered the courtroom. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And did he play in the match against Hawtrees?”

  “Well, he was in the team.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Did he play in the match?”

  “No.”

  “And where was he during the match?”

  Partram shrugged, his face was beginning to redden and his shoulders started to sag. Constance had focussed in on the action on the sidelines and it was just possible to make out a huddle of boys talking and crowding together as the half time whistle blew. Then the film went black, evidently switched off to conserve battery, before starting up again, as the second half began.

  “I will come back to my last question in a moment. Did you start the second half of the game, Mr Partram?”

  “Well, no, not immediately.”

  “Ah. You neglected to mention that earlier.”

  “My nose was still bleeding. I had to wait till it stopped.”

  “I see. How long did that take?”

  “Not long. I was back on after a bit.”

  “And what was the weather like that day, can you remember?”

  “It was all right.”

  “All right?”

  “No. I can’t remember now.”

  “So, let me help you. The BBC weather records a balmy 14 degrees. Unusually warm for the time of year, I think you will agree.”

  No response.

  “Whilst you were waiting for the bleeding to stop, which one of the boys, on the sidelines, is you, then? Can you help the court with that, please? The footage doesn’t appear crystal-clear, I have to say, but let’s see, this boy here, the one with his hood up and face partially covered, he might be you, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But none of the others is you. We can see them all clearly. In fact, my instructing solicitor, Miss Lamb, has identified them all this afternoon, with the help of Mr Simpson. But none of them is Mr Miller either and you just told me he was there, ‘on the bench’ as they say, waiting to play too. So, we have just one unidentified boy, here, the one with his hood up –very strange given that warm, Mediterranean weather – we just can’t be sure about him. It might be you, but again, if it’s you then it can’t be Mr Miller, can it?”

  “I can’t remember.”

 
“I see. And just to complete the picture; one moment please.” Constance fast-forwarded and 10 minutes into the second half Partram was visible, sprinting back onto the pitch, some strips across the wound on his nose.

  “There you are,” he called out, uninvited. “I told you I came back on.” Partram’s voice rang out in the silent courtroom, his top lip curled, his eyes narrowing.

  Judith waved at Constance, who froze the screen and blew the photo of Partram up to 10 times its usual size. “Yes, Mr Partram. Let’s have a good look, shall we?” Judith quipped lightly. “Just to check it really is you. A really good, close look.”

  The judge squinted at the screen, Arkwright peered forward. Constance shifted the cursor down to show Partram’s feet. Suddenly, the court erupted with banging, shouting, a loud sob from Mrs Maynard and journalists rushing out of the room to send in the story before anyone else. Because on Partram’s feet, there in colour, magnified and glorious, were some very distinctive, bright orange Nazabe boots.

  A little after the others, Mr Arkwright leapt up. He had been mesmerised for far too long and he realised that this witness was about to be bamboozled into a full confession.

  But it was Raymond who took centre-stage now. He rose to his feet, he leaned his cuffed hands against the podium which contained him, then he began to beat it with his fists.

  “You bastard!” he screamed. “You dirty bastard Partram. You killed Mr Davis. You killed him over what? – over a game of rugby.”

  42

  JUDITH AND Constance sat opposite each other in the Old Speckled Hen bar, a few streets away from court. Although they could not have hoped for more than the success they had achieved for Raymond, they were each sapped from the effort of the last few weeks – weeks without light or respite.

  Constance bought the drinks; two gin and tonics for Judith and a large glass of white wine for herself.

  “Oh, God. Do you know it’s years since I gave up cigarettes and when I sit down like this at the end of a trial that’s all I want? Terrible how little control we have over our bodies, isn’t it?” Judith remarked glibly.

  “Well, I suppose that’s what Pinocchio is all about.” Constance shrugged.

  “Ooh, don’t mention that name!” Judith squeezed a smile. “I’m hoping I never have to hear it again. We make a good team, you know,” she ventured, changing the subject swiftly.