False Witness

by Michelle Davies

  No, there was no reason for Benji to be in school so early. I thought he was in his bedroom getting ready.

  He settled in well at Rushbrooke, made friends and had been invited to a couple of birthday parties.

  We left Somerset because I wanted to come home to Mansell. I grew up here and need to be closer to my mum.

  Now she was crying again, doubled over as though in pain, unloading her anguish into her lap. Only the crown of her head, the tiniest hint of dark roots striping her blonde hair, was visible to Maggie sitting opposite. As she cried, her small, delicate hands rhythmically clenched and unclenched on her knees, bared by the bright orange sundress she wore. Her nails were coated with blood-red varnish.

  Maggie’s gaze was drawn to the rings on the fourth finger of Imogen’s right hand – a wedding band and an exquisite diamond solitaire. Relics of a former marriage moved to the opposite hand at its demise, or heirlooms passed on? Her left hand was bare.

  Maggie waited for a lull in the crying, then leaned forward.

  ‘Would you like me to contact Benji’s father?’ she asked gently.

  The blonde hair slowly lifted. Imogen was short, much shorter than Maggie’s five foot eight inches, and she had to look up to make eye contact. Her gaze was bloodshot and swollen.

  ‘His father?’ She spoke the word as though it was alien to her. ‘He . . . I mean –’ She sat up straight, the effort it took reflected in her weary expression. ‘My husband died when Benji was a baby.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is there anyone else I can contact for you? Someone who can stay with you once we get you home?’

  They were in the school’s Welfare Room, sitting on low, brightly upholstered chairs designed for small frames and legs shorter than theirs. Maggie’s back had stiffened in the hour they’d been sitting there but she wouldn’t move. She didn’t want to leave Imogen alone, not even for a minute.

  ‘I’m a good mum,’ said Imogen softly, as though she’d misheard Maggie. ‘We’ve been doing fine, just the two of us –’ She made a tiny choking sound and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut but still the tears spilled out.

  Maggie moved across to sit next to her. With only a moment’s hesitation she put her arm around Imogen’s shoulders. You could never quite judge how someone might respond to physical contact and whether they would find it odd or inappropriate for a police officer to hug them, but Maggie’s instincts about Imogen were correct and she felt the woman involuntarily shudder as she relaxed against her, cleaving to the physical support as she continued to cry.

  It was impossible not to be moved by the woman’s distress and it took every ounce of Maggie’s self-control, and a lot of blinking, to stop tears filling her own eyes. It wouldn’t help Imogen to see her mirroring her upset – what she needed from Maggie now was stoicism and a clear head to get things done. The poor woman was on the precipice of an indescribably painful process for which there was no definitive end. Her son was dead, he was never coming back, and there would be moments in the coming days, weeks and months when Imogen would barely be able to function, when even the simplest tasks like putting one foot in front of the other would be beyond her. She might even wish herself dead at times, asking herself what was the point of going on. Part of Maggie’s role as her FLO would be to ensure Imogen had support around her to pull her back from the brink should she ever reach that point.

  Eventually the crying eased into sniffles. Then, with an exhausted sigh, Imogen sat forward.

  ‘There’s my mum to tell, but she should hear it from me,’ she said. Her voice was dull now, every inflection of emotion wrung from it. ‘And my brother. He lives in Somerset still. I’ll call him after I’ve spoken to her.’ Imogen cradled her face in her hands. ‘They’re going to be devastated. They love Benji as much as I do.’

  ‘It might help for you to talk to someone about what’s happened, a counsellor who can help you process how you’re feeling,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m not trained to do that, but I could arrange for someone from Victim Support to contact you, if you want?’

  ‘Maybe . . . I don’t know.’ Imogen wiped her eyes again. ‘Do I have to decide now?’

  ‘Absolutely not, it’s whenever you’re ready. In the meantime, my job as your liaison is to answer any questions you have regarding our investigation into Benji’s death. I might not always be able to tell you information straight away, like if we need to keep something quiet so it doesn’t affect a future arrest or court proceedings, but I’ll always let you know if that’s the case.’

  Imogen looked at her blankly.

  ‘Hasn’t Poppy been arrested yet?’

  Maggie stilled. They hadn’t discussed any details yet, so how did Imogen know another child had been present when Benji died, let alone who she was?

  ‘She pushed him,’ Imogen went on, her face now set with a discernible flintiness, ‘and now he’s dead. You should be arresting her.’

  Maggie fought to keep her expression neutral.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘One of the mums saw Poppy being led into the school and then she overheard a policeman tell another one that it looked like she’d pushed Benji off the wall.’

  Loose-lipped coppers and playground gossips . . . just what the investigation needed, thought Maggie grimly.

  ‘Is it true?’ Imogen pressed.

  Maggie had been in the same hot seat enough times to know what information she could impart without tying herself in knots or jeopardizing the investigation.

  ‘There were two witnesses at the scene and we will be speaking to both of them. Only when we’ve got their statements and have gathered all the physical evidence will we have a clearer picture of what happened. I do understand you want someone to be held accountable for Benji’s death, but we can’t rush this process or mistakes will be made. For his sake we want to get it right.’

  To her relief, Imogen nodded in agreement.

  ‘I also understand people will be speculating about what happened,’ Maggie went on, ‘but I promise you that’s all it is right now – speculation. They don’t know anything. So unless I tell you otherwise, disregard what anyone else says. Now, do you have a recent picture of Benji we could use? We’re not going to release it publicly, it would just be really helpful if we had one.’

  She didn’t air the thought that followed – that it would be helpful for her colleagues who’d seen his broken little body to see him as perfect and whole again.

  ‘Yes, I do, his last school one, from just before Christmas. The original’s at home but I’ve got a copy on my phone.’

  Imogen reached for her mobile phone, which was resting on the chair next to her. In her haste to get to the school she’d brought only that and her house keys with her.

  Maggie watched as she scrolled through a succession of images until she paused at one and held it aloft.

  ‘This is Benji.’

  ‘What a gorgeous picture,’ said Maggie, meaning it. The child filling the frame had short dark hair that stuck out at angles, richly lashed brown eyes and a smile that could power a funfair. As she studied Benji’s face she felt a sudden pang: this was the first year she hadn’t received copies of Scotty and Jude’s school pictures. Just as quickly, she pushed the thought aside.

  ‘He’s such a smiler, always happy,’ said Imogen. She faltered. ‘Sorry . . . I mean he was.’ Her face suddenly crumpled and she let out a wail. ‘I can’t talk about him like he’s not here any more, I just can’t.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ said Maggie soothingly. She handed the phone back. ‘Why don’t you tell me a bit more about him? I’d really like to know.’

  Imogen gently stroked the screen with her finger as she spoke.

  ‘He’s never been a boy’s boy, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t like football or any other team sports. He’s a really good swimmer, though, can swim like a fish. That’s probably because of us living in Somerset – I started him on lessons really young because we lived
so close to the sea and I was scared he’d drown.’

  For the next twenty minutes Maggie listened while Imogen painted a picture of her son as a funny, bright kid who rarely gave her any trouble, for which she was always grateful because life as a single mum was tough. Maggie could see his loss was going to have a profound effect on her, that their connection had been intense. Benji was, in Imogen’s words, her little shadow and it had always been the two of them against the world, inseparable.

  As Imogen’s monologue drew to an end, Maggie asked her again if she had any idea why Benji had gone to the school so early that morning.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I don’t know why he climbed up on a wall either. But I promise you Benji wouldn’t have done something so stupid unless he was forced to, he’s just not that kid. He’s not a daredevil,’ she stressed. ‘I know in my heart it wasn’t his idea to climb on top of it and anyone who says otherwise is lying.’

  6

  Alan slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. His palms smelled of the soil embedded in the lines criss-crossing them. His breathing was almost back to normal, though, his chest no longer burning as though it was on fire. But the subsidence of shock brought clarity of thought – and the realization that he had made a terrible, stupid mistake.

  What he’d said to the copper who’d pulled him away from the body, the stuff he’d come out with . . . now the police were crawling all over the place and he kept hearing the words ‘suspicious death’ being bandied about.

  Why the hell didn’t he say it was an accident?

  He played the moment back again in his mind, but already it was like watching an old cine film, all blurred, jerky and vague. It had happened so quickly, too fast for him to stop it. But there was no doubting what he saw. The girl pushed the boy, no question. And, really, the police should know that, because what she did was bad, so bad. But by being honest he’d dropped himself right in it.

  Because the way he saw it now, if the police thought the boy’s death was an accident, they’d probably poke around the building site for a bit, then pack up and leave. But now they were treating it more seriously than that – because of what he said he saw – and they could end up searching the entire premises, including opening up the Pavilion – and if that happened he was a dead man.

  Just thinking about it made Alan’s heartbeat accelerate again and his breaths grow shallower. He raised his head and checked around him. The playground was teeming with coppers, some in uniform, some not, but they weren’t paying attention to him. Earlier, someone had pointed out the detective in charge and he could see her now on the other side of the playground. With a start he realized she reminded him of Ruby: her hair was the same shade of auburn and styled the same way, poker-straight to the shoulders. When the detective moved her head, her hair swished as one, like a curtain, same as Ruby’s.

  As he watched her talking to a bloke in a suit, another detective presumably, an idea suddenly came to him. There was something he should do while he had the chance.

  Eagerly he got to his feet and went over to the nearest uniformed officer, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention.

  ‘I need my inhaler,’ said Alan, surreptitiously placing his hand over the outline of the one concealed in his trouser pocket. ‘I’m asthmatic. It’s in my office – can I go and get it?’

  The officer hesitated, as though he was weighing up whether he was allowed to give permission. He glanced around, then nodded.

  ‘Come straight back, though.’

  ‘I will.’

  Alan’s office was in the bowels of the main building, next to the plant room. The head had offered him an alternative space on the ground floor when he started but he’d declined. The vibrating hum of the heating and water systems next door didn’t bother him: it was an antidote to the high-pitched chatter of children’s voices that often grated on him when he was going about his duties.

  Few people ventured down to his office, unless Alan expressly asked them to. If any of the cleaning staff he managed wanted to speak to him they sent him a text or called him on the internal phone system, which is also what the head and other school staff did. Everyone knew the basement was Alan’s domain and he didn’t take kindly to people nosing around it.

  He disentangled a silver Yale from the bunch looped to his belt – he was always careful to keep the door locked when he wasn’t there. The latch was stiff and the bow of the key required an extra hard twist before it gave. Stepping inside the room, he quickly shut the door and secured it behind him, just in case.

  Like the lock, his work computer had seen better days. Typing one key at a time with his index finger, Alan called up the school’s CCTV system, which was password protected. Only he, Mrs Pullman and the chairman of the governors knew what the password was and Alan changed it once a month.

  It was his predecessor who had fixed it so that whoever was Rushbrooke’s site manager – Alan preferred being called caretaker because the proper title sounded too poncey to him – was also its Data Controlling Officer, responsible for running the CCTV system. Had his predecessor foreseen how the system could be abused? Did he ever do it himself? Alan had often wondered.

  The cameras were installed in the main hall, front and side entrances, playground and some corridors; unions didn’t like them in classrooms in case footage was used against teachers. Initially Alan hadn’t given much consideration to being in charge of the system, apart from thinking that the extra few quid he received for the role would come in very handy. Now he knew exactly what it meant to be responsible for it, good and bad.

  With the quick action of someone who’d done the same thing before, Alan pulled up the recording for one of the cameras that spanned the playground and rewound the footage until he saw the two children come into view. The time stamp read 07:02. He was curious to see how they’d been before they got on the wall and to his surprise he saw it was the boy leading the girl towards the building site, pulling her along by the hand – and she didn’t appear too happy about it. He peered closely at the screen. Was she crying? It looked as though she was.

  He shook his head, then closed the footage down. It didn’t matter if she was crying, laughing or banging a bloody drum. She wasn’t his biggest concern right now.

  With a shaking hand he clicked on a camera labelled ‘Corridor 8’. If anyone else at the school saw it they’d question its existence immediately – because there was no Corridor 8 inside Rushbrooke.

  This was a camera Alan had secretly installed inside the Pavilion, a wooden, chalet-style building on the far side of the playing field that a lack of funding had allowed to fall into disrepair. Erected when the school was first built and used over the years as changing rooms, it was out of bounds to pupils now, and Mrs Pullman thought Alan used it for storing old sports equipment. Should she ever check for herself, she’d see the rotting gym mats and broken benches had long been removed and either side of the partitioned wall that once separated the girls’ and boys’ changing areas were two sofas that pulled out into double beds.

  If she knew what they were being used for, the death of a pupil on school premises would be the least of her worries.

  Alan steadied his hand as he clicked through a series of options to disable the camera and remove its technical presence from the CCTV system. The actual camera would have to stay where it was until he could sneak across to the Pavilion and remove it.

  A couple more clicks later and every recorded frame of footage vanished with it.

  7

  The police had baulked at the idea of Dylan accompanying Julia to the school and insisted she ask a family member or friend to look after him while she was there.

  Her first port of call had been her neighbour Cath, who lived two doors down and often minded the kids, but she wasn’t in. So Julia was forced to call Siobhan, whose son Callum was Dylan’s best friend. The mums weren’t anywhere near as close as the boys and Julia knew it was a big ask, but luckily for her Siobhan had decided t
o work at home for the day because the school was shut and she agreed to take Dylan. Julia hadn’t explained on the phone why she needed the favour, just that there was a family emergency she needed to sort out, and Siobhan’s shock was therefore palpable when Dylan was dropped off at her house in a marked police car.

  ‘Why have the police brought you?’ she asked suspiciously, standing on the doorstep and eyeing the vehicle over Julia’s shoulder. Dylan had already vanished inside the house with Callum.

  ‘They’re taking me up to the school,’ said Julia falteringly.

  Siobhan went pale. ‘I got a text from Sam’s mum to say that a kid had been hurt. It’s not Poppy, is it?’

  Julia matched her horrified expression.

  ‘It can’t be, they’d have told me, wouldn’t they? They just said I’m needed at the school.’

  Siobhan peered at the police car again. The two officers in the front stared impassively back at her.

  ‘You’re right, they would’ve told you before you left home if it was that bad.’ Her gaze reverted to Julia. ‘But it must mean Poppy’s involved. Why else would they be taking you up there when the rest of us have been told to stay away? If she’s not with you, where is she? Do you even know?’

  ‘I should go,’ said Julia tearfully, unable to stand a moment more questioning. ‘Thanks for having Dylan. I’ll text you as soon as I know how long I’ll be.’

  ‘Sure. I hope you get it sorted,’ Siobhan called after her as Julia shot down the path.

  ‘So do I.’

  By the time they reached the lane leading up to the school Julia was stricken with anxiety. She tried to engage the officers in a conversation about what was going on but they kept insisting a more senior colleague, someone from CID, would explain everything.