‘There was another kid on the wall, a girl, and the witness said he saw her push the victim on purpose. He was adamant.’
The idea of a child deliberately shoving another to their death brought Maggie up cold. The oldest kids at Rushbrooke were only eleven years old.
‘You’re right, that is important. I’ll tell the SIO when I get to the crime scene. Make sure you record it word for word in your notes,’ she said.
Talbot nodded as he took the clipboard and pen back. He pointed to his left.
‘From here you need to go round the side of the main building, then across to the other side of the playground. You’ll see an area where they’re building new classrooms and that’s where the boy died. You can’t miss it.’
Maggie declined to mention that she already knew her way around the school. Numerous mornings she had dropped Scotty off in the very same spot and she’d also attended plays and assemblies and even a couple of parents’ evenings when Lou was unable to go herself. Stung by the memories, Maggie nodded at Talbot, then strode purposefully into the school grounds, her focus on the scene that awaited her.
She was paces away from the building site when Renshaw emerged through a gap in the hoardings dressed in the protective coveralls that forensics demanded. Her manner bore witness to what she’d seen on the other side of the wall – solemn and wan, her hands shook slightly as she removed her gloves and she greeted Maggie with a grimace.
‘Sometimes I really fucking hate this job,’ she said.
‘That bad?’
‘His head took the brunt. Didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Has he been ID’d yet?’
‘Yeah, Benjamin Tyler, but everyone called him Benji. Just turned eleven. He only started after Christmas, moved here from Somerset with his mum. She’s inside,’ Renshaw added, nodding towards the main school building. Two-storey, red-brick, it had high arched windows that required a pole to open them on the inside.
‘She wasn’t here when it happened, was she?’
‘No, thank God. She turned up about ten minutes ago. Another parent had texted her.’
‘How did they know?’
‘Usual Chinese whispers. The school didn’t manage to get a message out in time to say it was shutting, so parents started arriving as usual to drop their kids off and it didn’t take long for them to work out what had happened when they saw us here. Benji’s mum got the text, realized he wasn’t in his bedroom like she thought he was, then ran all the way here.’
‘Has she seen the body?’
‘No. She keeps asking to but we can’t yet, not in the state it’s in,’ said Renshaw, flashing Maggie a strained, knowing look.
‘We’re sure it’s her son?’
‘Yep. Benji’s got a strawberry birthmark on his lower back and so’s the body.’
Maggie hugged her arms to her chest, feeling a chill that didn’t make sense on a day already so warm. ‘His poor mum,’ she said.
‘I know, I’ve been thinking the same: how do you even begin to deal with something like this? The teachers say he was a lovely boy too. Not that it would be any easier if he wasn’t,’ Renshaw added hastily.
Maggie swallowed hard. If Benji was eleven, that put him in Year 6, the same as Scotty. Who knows, they might’ve ended up as friends if Scotty had stayed at Rushbrooke.
‘What about his dad?’
‘Looks like she’s a single mum. We haven’t confirmed that with her, though, she’s too upset to talk right now.’
‘Who’s the SIO?’ Maggie asked. ‘I need to pass on something one of the first responders just told me.’
Renshaw pulled back the hood on her blue coverall and shook her auburn hair loose.
‘As the ranking officer, I am. And before you ask, no, there isn’t anyone else.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
Their already cut-to-the-bone department was suffering from the recent departure of a DI and the failure to recruit another DC to replace the gap left by Renshaw when she was promoted to DS. The strained circumstances had made the rest of them a tighter operation, though, which in turn had facilitated a lasting thaw in Maggie and Renshaw’s previously fractious relationship. Maggie wouldn’t go so far as to call her a friend, but they were certainly friendlier.
‘Good. What do you need to tell me then?’
‘The eyewitness told PC Talbot that he saw the girl deliberately push the boy off the wall,’ Maggie relayed.
Renshaw frowned.
‘He must be talking about the caretaker – he was trying to get both children down off the wall when Benji fell. He’s top of my list to interview after the girl.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Poppy Hepworth, same age, same class.’
Her name didn’t ring any bells with Maggie – she wasn’t one of the Rushbrooke girls Scotty used to talk about.
‘We haven’t been able to get anything out of her,’ Renshaw went on. ‘She’s clammed up. Shock, probably, or maybe it’s fear, because if she did push Benji she must know she’s in serious trouble. A year over the age of criminality, old enough to be charged.’
‘Okay, so what can I do?’ asked Maggie.
‘See to Benji’s mum. She needs an experienced FLO and I want it to be you. I’ll square it with DI Gant. I know he likes to put forward his own choice from his roster but you tick all the boxes for this one – you’re used to dealing with cases where a child is the victim, you know the school because of your nephew and you’re empathetic but not at the expense of being a detective.’
Renshaw’s assessment was quite the compliment and Maggie was suddenly grateful she hadn’t told anyone at work about being estranged from Lou. If Renshaw, or DI Tony Gant, the Family Liaison Coordinator for their force whose job it was to assign Maggie to cases, knew she was banned from seeing her nephews and niece they might think twice about putting her with a grieving mum with a child the same age as Scotty, in case it brought to the fore emotions she couldn’t handle. Which, a voice in her head quietly cautioned, it well might.
‘Benji’s mum needs a FLO like you,’ said Renshaw, as though she could sense Maggie wavering. ‘I need you to be her FLO.’
That made Maggie’s mind up. A young boy was dead and his mum would be desperate for navigation and support as the investigation gathered pace. This was the role she was trained for and was bloody good at and there would only be conflict if she let there be. She dismissed any lingering doubt with a firm nod.
‘Of course I’ll do it.’
‘Great, I’ll call Gant after I’ve talked to Poppy. The head has said I can use her office for the interview.’
‘You’re not taking her in?’
‘I thought I’d have a chat with her here before we do the whole formal bit at the station because I’m not ready to start the clock ticking,’ said Renshaw. ‘I want to see what she says, then ask for EIA.’
The police sought Early Investigative Advice from the CPS when they weren’t sure about bringing charges. If the CPS said more evidence was needed first, you listened, and Maggie could see why Renshaw wanted to run this one past them. She was dealing with an eleven-year-old suspect who had potentially murdered another child. There was absolutely no margin for error with this case.
‘What about her family? Are her parents here?’
Renshaw shook her head. ‘I’ve sent uniform round. Considering the rest of the school seems to know what’s happened it’s weird they haven’t turned up yet. Either they haven’t noticed their daughter’s not at home or they don’t care.’
4
Bits of cereal were scattering across the table and onto the floor, a steady stream of rice and barley malt with added fortified vitamins.
‘Dylan, watch what you’re doing!’ Julia Hepworth called across the kitchen to her son. ‘Look at the mess you’re making.’
Dylan dragged his gaze away from the back of the cereal packet, and the special offer for a plastic bowl with a built-in straw to drink up milk dregs, and looked
down. Quickly he righted the box.
‘Sorry, wasn’t looking.’
‘I can see that. I’ve already said no to you having that bowl as well. You don’t need one with a straw, just tip the bowl up and drink the milk that way like everyone else does.’
Dylan grinned. Then, without needing to be asked, he set about clearing up the mess.
Smiling, Julia returned to making the sandwiches for their lunchboxes. Dylan was only nine but she never had to bribe him to help out around the house and his sister was the same. Friends would often ask what her secret was – how did she manage to have two such compliant children? She wasn’t entirely sure herself, but she liked to think that it was because while pregnant with Poppy she’d vowed never to be one of those mums who lost their rag over the small stuff, like spilled cereal, pen marks on walls or mislaid PE kits. So she didn’t. Her children’s upbringing was bathed in smiles and calm – although she would never say that aloud, because if it sounded trite to her ears God knows what other people would make of it.
‘I hope those two aren’t for me. They’ve got mould on.’
Julia jumped as her husband’s voice rang in her ear. She hadn’t heard him creep up on her and, looking down, saw why: Ewan’s feet were bare and made no sound on the floorboards. She glanced at Dylan and saw he was hunched over his cereal bowl, shovelling spoonfuls into his mouth. She was grateful he’d cleaned up the mess before his dad saw it.
Ewan poked the two slices of bread that Julia had been about to butter, his fingertip leaving craters.
‘See, there’s blue bits on them.’
Julia looked closer and saw he was right. And, bloody typical, they were the last two slices in the loaf.
‘I’ll have these ones,’ she said hastily.
‘I should think so. People might think you were trying to poison me. Dylan . . . help me!’
Ewan staggered over to the table pretending to gag while clutching his throat. His scalp was still pink from his shower, visible through a receding hairline that he shaved down to dark bristle. Dylan giggled at the performance, which culminated in Ewan throwing himself on the floor.
‘Honey, you’ll get your shirt and trousers dirty,’ said Julia, laughing along with her son.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Ewan, picking himself up. ‘The way they were ironed it looks like I slept in them anyway.’
Julia flushed. ‘I did use the steam setting like you said.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ he said, turning his back to address their son. ‘Your sister not up yet?’
Dylan, mouth full, could only shake his head.
‘She’s probably got her nose stuck in a book,’ Julia interjected. ‘Can you tell her to get a move on? It’s twenty past eight and we have to leave in fifteen minutes.’
‘Sorry, can’t. I’ve got to leave now or I’ll be late for the Arnold meeting. He’s not happy with the blueprints.’
Ewan came over to grab his lunch and kissed his wife on the cheek. His lips felt dry and cracked against her sweaty skin. With another scorching-hot day looming, Julia’s armpits were already telling her she’d need to reapply deodorant before leaving the house.
‘I won’t be home until late,’ he added. ‘Client dinner.’
‘It’s not on the board,’ said Julia, glancing at the wall planner covered in multiple scribbles and crossings-out that denoted the family’s coming and goings.
‘I did tell you about it last week.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘It’s not my fault if you don’t listen properly,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve always got too much on the go to pay attention.’
Julia felt a pang of guilt. He was right: between work, the children and running the house, Ewan did tend to slip in her priorities.
‘I’m sorry. I should’ve listened. Who’s the client?’ she asked, thinking that might jog her memory, because she could’ve sworn he hadn’t said a word about it until now.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Ewan. He looked wounded, which made Julia feel even worse. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’
She forced a laugh. ‘Of course I won’t. I know what those client dinners are like. You’ll come back drunk and bouncing off the walls before you crash out on the sofa until I come and put you into bed.’
Ewan held his hands up in a conciliatory fashion and grinned.
‘Busted.’
He crossed the room and kissed her again, this time on the lips, harder and longer.
‘I do love you,’ he said.
‘I love you too. I promise I’ll do good listening from now on.’
They both laughed – that was what they used to say to the children as infants when they never paid attention.
‘Good, otherwise it’ll be the naughty step for you, young lady.’
At that he left and relief that a row had been averted washed over her.
‘Dylan, can you please fetch your sister?’ she asked, snapping the lids shut on the children’s themed lunchboxes. ‘We’re going to be late.’
‘Okay,’ he grumbled, pushing his chair back.
The sound of the chair’s metal feet scraping against the hardwood floor made Julia wince. As soon as he’d left the room she checked for marks. There was a tiny one, so she got out the special floor polish Ewan had suggested she buy and rubbed hard with a cloth until it was gone.
Sweaty from being on her hands and knees, she checked her make-up in a compact mirror only to wonder why she had bothered applying any as it had already melted off. Her dark brown hair, which she’d painstakingly styled in a sleek bob after her shower, was curling moistly into the nape of her neck like a fortune-teller fish from a Christmas cracker that flips over in your palm.
She shouted her children’s names as she thrust her make-up bag back into the kitchen cupboard where she kept it for handiness alongside tins of beans and packets of pasta.
‘Come on, you two, we’ve got to go.’
Hurrying into the hallway, she shoved her feet into the sandals she’d left by the front door yesterday. The paint was flaking off the skirting board next to where she’d discarded them and she made a mental note to remind Ewan that he’d promised to discuss redecorating in the summer holidays.
They’d lived in the house – a Victorian-era, white-rendered semi in a quiet road on the east side of Mansell – for seven years and the hallway, like most of the other rooms, hadn’t been touched since the refurbishment they carried out when they moved in. Money wasn’t an issue – both of them had decent jobs, Ewan as a self-employed structural engineer and her working as a project coordinator for their local council’s Environmental and Community Services department – but time was. There weren’t enough hours in the day for her to sort out decorators and builders on top of everything else.
She couldn’t hear the children moving around on the floor above, so she went to the bottom of the stairs and called up to them. There was a cobweb spanning two banister spindles and she batted it away with her hand.
‘We’re going to be late. I hope you’re dressed, Poppy!’
Dylan appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Is she ready?’
His face was pinched. ‘She’s not here.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course she is. Check –’
There was a noise at the front door. Not the doorbell but someone banging the letter-box knocker. Three short raps, a pause, then three more.
‘She must be in the bathroom. You check while I get this,’ she said.
The frosted glass in the door panel had warped the outlines of the unexpected callers but Julia knew instantly who they were. Trembling, she opened the door to them.
‘Mrs Hepworth?’ queried the taller of the two male officers. This one was wearing his hat but his colleague had his tucked under his arm, his face sheened with sweat.
She nodded.
‘Can we come in?’
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, conditioning making her fear the worst. The police didn’t usually turn
up on doorsteps with good news.
Dylan appeared at her side and pressed his little body, sharp angled and skinny, into hers. Her arm snaked around his shoulders and pulled him closer.
‘It would be better if we came inside,’ said the tall one.
Julia let them in but the hallway was as far as she would allow them.
‘Please tell me what’s going on.’
It couldn’t be Ewan. Even if he’d had an accident it was surely too soon for the police to show up.
‘We need you to accompany us to Rushbrooke Primary School, Mrs Hepworth,’ said the shorter one. ‘There’s been an incident on site involving your daughter.’
Julia was bemused. ‘It can’t do. She’s still upstairs. We’re running late,’ she said apologetically, as if the officers would care.
Dylan prodded her in the side.
‘Mum,’ he whispered.
‘Not now, Dylan, the grown-ups are talking.’
The short one gave her a solemn look.
‘You need to come with us now, Mrs Hepworth,’ he said. ‘Your daughter needs you.’
‘There’s been a mistake,’ Julia insisted. ‘Poppy hasn’t left for school yet.’
Dylan poked her again.
‘Stop that.’ The rebuke was brusquer than she’d intended and his face fell.
‘Perhaps you should listen to your son, Mrs Hepworth,’ said the taller officer.
Now it was her turn to be abashed. Cheeks growing hot, Julia looked down at her son.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said as brightly as she could manage. ‘What is it?’
‘Poppy’s not upstairs. I’ve looked everywhere. She’s not here.’
Julia could tell he was frightened and a ripple of fear shook her body. She looked at the officers.
‘You mean . . .’ She couldn’t get the rest of the words out.
The tall one nodded. ‘There’s been no mistake. Your daughter’s in trouble.’
5
There was no template for the way a parent reacted to the news that their child was dead. The bewilderment that followed them being told almost instantly gave way to a scale of responses that, in Maggie’s experience, stretched from eerily calm or catatonic with shock at one end, to hysterical and in need of sedation at the other. Right now Imogen Tyler was pinballing from one extreme to the other – in-consolable for the most part, but calming down long enough to mechanically answer Maggie’s preliminary questions.
False Witness Page 2
