She tried calling Ewan again, shifting sideways in her seat and turning her face to the window so the officer driving couldn’t see her expression as he spied on her in the rear-view mirror. Her call diverted straight to voicemail again. She sent another text asking him to call her immediately, uppercasing the words for effect.
On arriving at Rushbrooke was struck by how quiet it was, the usual flow of parents in and out of the playground at that time eerily absent.
As the car pulled to a halt, panic overwhelmed her.
‘Where’s Poppy? I want to see her now.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ve been told to take you straight to her,’ said the tall officer.
Inside the playground it was much busier. The sight of all the police and vehicles made her insides churn. The only person she recognized was the caretaker, Mr Donnelly, who was sitting on a bench at the edge of the playground. She could see he was using his asthma inhaler, his upper body rearing up as he sucked the vapour in. Their eyes met as she went past but he looked away before she did.
Julia followed the officers into the main building, the only part of the original red-brick structure built in 1910 that remained. Designed as a school for boys, half the school was bulldozed in the sixties and replaced with two bland concrete annexes to accommodate girls and an expanding catchment. Now, it was one of the best-performing primaries in Mansell, an Ofsted shining example, but its success was pushing it to bursting point: when Julia attended Rushbrooke in the early eighties there had been only one form per year; now there were three, with bulge classes being added to the lower years in September.
‘Your daughter is in the head’s office,’ said the tall officer once they were inside.
Julia’s head swam with confusion. Why had Poppy sneaked out to go to school early? Leaving the house without permission was a rule she knew never to break and there was no reason for her to be at school at such an early hour – no morning clubs for her to attend and no class trip scheduled that would require her being there ahead of the usual time. Her being there made no sense.
The corridor they were walking along was achingly familiar to Julia. Year 6 lockers on the left – Poppy’s was number 23 and a quick glance confirmed it was unopened – then past the girls’ toilets, the Welfare Room – in her day it had been Matron’s – and the alcove where the head’s PA sat until they reached a door with a sign proclaiming it as Mrs Pullman’s office and a warning to knock before entering. The tall officer rapped softly on the door and it opened to reveal a woman with long auburn hair, dressed in a sober skirt suit. She slipped through the gap and closed the door softly behind her, thanked both officers and said she’d take it from here. They left without another glance at Julia, their pace brisk as they headed back along the corridor.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Anna Renshaw and I’m the officer in charge,’ said the woman, shaking Julia’s hand. ‘Before I take you in to see Poppy I need to quickly explain why we want to question her, with you present as her appropriate adult.’
‘Question her?’ gasped Julia. ‘About what?’
‘Poppy was involved in a serious incident this morning. Another child fell off a wall inside the school grounds and was fatally injured.’
It took a moment for Julia’s brain to catch up.
‘Fatally injured? You mean . . .’
‘Yes. I’m afraid he died from injuries sustained in the fall.’
‘And . . . and you think Poppy had something to do with it? That’s preposterous,’ Julia spluttered.
‘I’m afraid Poppy was on the wall with him when he fell,’ said Renshaw, her tone soft. ‘I have a witness who saw her. Now, I need to question Poppy to find out exactly what happened, with you—’
Julia’s shrill cry cut her short.
‘No, no, this is crazy. You must have the wrong child.’ She was overcome with dizziness. ‘It’s too hot in here . . . I’m going outside. I need some air.’
‘Mrs Hepworth, I understand this has come as a shock, but Poppy needs you.’
But Julia was already backing away from her. When she was out of arm’s reach she spun on her heel, the rubber sole of her sandals squeaking violently against the buffed floor. She was level with the door to the Welfare Room when it swung open and two women walked out. One was dressed in a vivid orange sundress but her demeanour didn’t match the cheeriness of her attire – her face was a picture of devastation, her eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying. She looked up and as their eyes locked it was as though time had suddenly stopped.
Julia froze to the spot, breathless with shock.
The hair was different, far blonder, and the face older, but there was no mistaking who the woman was.
Imogen.
Panicked, Julia looked around for an escape route, like she was nine years old again and desperate for a hiding place where Imogen couldn’t get to her. She could feel Imogen’s gaze raking over her face and her skin blazed with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. Did Imogen recognize her after all these years . . . was she remembering what she did?
Before either of them could speak, Renshaw gestured to the woman who was with Imogen – a finger wag by her side as though she was signalling ‘no’ to a dog begging for a treat. The movement was subtle but frantic and Julia suddenly knew why Imogen was so upset.
‘Not your child –’ she whispered in horror.
Imogen held her hands up to stop her, fresh tears streaking her cheeks. Her companion put a protective arm around her shoulders.
‘Let’s get you home,’ said the woman, who was tall, with longish, honey-blonde hair and striking eyes. ‘I’ll call you later,’ she added in an aside to Renshaw, who replied, ‘Thanks, Maggie.’
As they walked away, Imogen slumped against the Maggie woman for support, Julia turned to Renshaw.
‘Please tell me it’s not her child who’s died.’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
Julia closed her eyes. The beginnings of a headache gripped her temples.
‘I know this is difficult, but are you ready to see Poppy now?’ asked Renshaw.
Julia ignored her.
‘Imogen’s child is a pupil at Rushbrooke? Since when? I mean, they moved away, didn’t they? Imogen and her family. They left in the summer holidays after we left Rushbrooke. Isn’t that right?’
The staccato of questions brought a frown to Renshaw’s face.
‘Mrs Tyler moved back to Mansell at Christmas. Her son was in Poppy’s class,’ she said.
Julia swayed on the spot. Imogen was living in Mansell again? Walking the same streets, breathing the same air as her? She couldn’t bear the thought.
‘Are you ready to see Poppy now?’ Renshaw repeated.
Julia was suddenly overcome with guilt. What was she thinking, not going straight to her? Poppy needed her.
‘Yes, I am. Please, take me to her.’
Julia’s mind was in turmoil as she followed Renshaw back to the head’s office.
What on earth had Poppy got herself caught up in?
What was she thinking climbing the wall in the first place?
And why did the child who died have to be the son of the one person Julia hated more than anyone else she’d ever met?
8
The house that until a few hours ago Imogen had shared with her son was a terraced cottage set back from a busy road, ten minutes from Rushbrooke on foot, three by car. The downstairs was open plan but small, a lounge-cum-dining room leading into a galley kitchen, with everything wedged in its place. The decor was tasteful if a bit lacking in personality for Maggie’s taste: all muted tones and pale wood furniture. Imogen had said there were two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and Maggie imagined they were done out the same.
She offered to make tea as Imogen wandered numbly around the lounge area, picking up and putting down toys that obviously belonged to and had been left out by Benji, among them a hand-held games console. Eventually she sank down onto the sofa, a light grey three-seater set against the
longest wall.
‘Benji’s usually waiting for me when I get home from work,’ she began, her voice hoarse from all the crying. ‘Sometimes he’ll be in his room but usually he’s here, watching telly.’ She stroked the seat beside her. ‘He gives me this soppy grin when I come in, like he’s really pleased to see me but he’s too self-conscious to give me a kiss.’ She looked up at Maggie beseechingly. ‘Are you sure it’s him? Maybe there’s been a mistake, and it’s another boy who looks like him? I wouldn’t be cross if it was a mix-up, I promise. You can tell me.’
Maggie’s heart ached for the woman. She would love nothing more than to be able to tell Imogen they’d got it wrong.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘But the birthmark . . . it matched.’
Imogen bit down hard on her bottom lip, nodding.
‘I wish I could tell you differently,’ said Maggie. ‘I really do.’
She finished making them tea, then carried two full mugs back into the lounge. Imogen was reading texts on her phone.
‘It’s work, wondering where I am. I should let them know what’s happened.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a receptionist at the GP practice in Medley Lane.’
‘I’ll call them, save you having to deal with it,’ said Maggie.
She went back into the kitchen to make the call, giving scant details to the inquisitive receptionist who answered. Maggie asked for the practice manager to call her back when they were next free.
Returning, she found Imogen shivering violently.
‘I feel really cold,’ she lamented.
Maggie felt the opposite. It was only mid-morning but it was already stiflingly hot and all of the windows downstairs were shut.
‘It’s probably the shock,’ she said. ‘Here, put this around you.’
She took a beige throw that was folded over the back of the easy chair and gently wrapped it around Imogen’s shoulders.
‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ she asked.
Imogen looked up at her, eyes brimming once more with tears.
‘I need to see him. I can’t bear that he’s on his own. He must be so scared.’
The woman’s anguish was so raw that Maggie felt her own composure begin to flail. She nodded briskly to settle it.
‘I understand. I’ll find out when it can be arranged.’
She went off to make the call and when she came back Imogen had stopped shivering and was sipping her tea.
‘Do you feel up to answering a few more questions?’ Maggie asked. ‘Only, one of my jobs as your liaison is to put together some notes to give to my colleagues so they can work out Benji’s movements this morning. We call it a victimology, which I know might sound a bit scary, but it’s really a list of his daily routine and habits, his likes and dislikes, the people he came into contact with, the places he regularly went to. Obviously it was unusual for him to be at school so early, so it might help us work out what made him deviate from his usual movements.’
While she spoke Maggie watched, hawk-like, for Imogen’s reaction. The last thing she wanted was for her to think that gathering the victimology was an interrogation. Maggie saw it more like a conversation, going back and forth, teasing the details out.
‘You think it will help?’ asked Imogen, reaching across and setting her mug down on the hearth, the hardest surface nearest to her.
‘I do.’
‘Okay.’ Imogen pulled the wrap tighter around her. ‘Ask me.’
Maggie pulled her notebook from her handbag. ‘I’ll use this to make notes,’ she said. Then her gaze fell upon a copy of a well-known children’s novel lying face down, pages open, on the sofa arm, waiting for Benji to come home and carry on where he’d left off.
‘Let’s start with likes and dislikes. You mentioned Benji loved swimming, and I can see the games console and novel here, so can I assume he was a fan of both?’
Imogen allowed herself a smile.
‘He actually prefers reading to playing that thing. You know how some kids want to watch TV round the clock, or be on an iPad? With Benji it’s always books. He’s never happier than when he’s got a good story to read. I have to bribe him to watch films with me at the weekend.’ Imogen reached forward and gently ran a finger down the spine of the book. ‘He’s only halfway through this.’
Although Imogen was still referring to Benji in the present, Maggie deliberately didn’t. It wouldn’t help Imogen in the long run if the police too spoke as though he was still alive.
‘What sort of films did he like when you managed to get him to watch one?’
They spent the next few minutes chatting about that, then Maggie asked what their usual morning routine involved.
‘I get up around seven, Benji by half past, then we have breakfast together and I go off to work because he walks to school on his own. They’re allowed to in Year Six,’ Imogen explained. ‘But this morning for some reason my alarm clock didn’t go off, so it was gone eight by the time I woke up.’
‘So Benji wasn’t here when you got up?’
‘I thought he was. I was in such a rush because I was running late that on my way into the shower I shouted for him to sort his own breakfast out.’ Imogen’s face crumpled. ‘I could’ve sworn he answered. Then when I got out of the shower I saw the text on my phone saying something bad had happened at the school and that it was shut. I went to tell Benji and that’s when I realized he wasn’t in the house.’
‘He hadn’t said a word to you about needing to go to school early, or arranging to meet Poppy?’
‘No, nothing.’
Spotting an obvious segueway, Maggie decided to deviate from her victimology questions. She knew that Renshaw, as SIO, would want to ask Imogen herself about Poppy, but it wouldn’t hurt to give them a head start.
‘Did Benji and Poppy get on well?’
Imogen’s eyes widened apprehensively.
‘I thought they did.’
‘Did they often meet up outside school?’
‘Not as much as Benji would’ve liked, but occasionally.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘If he had his way, she would come for tea every day. He adores her.’
‘Are you aware of them ever falling out?’
Imogen grew teary. ‘Please, I don’t want to talk about her any more. I can’t. It’s too hard.’
‘Of course,’ said Maggie gently. ‘It can wait.’
‘I don’t want anyone going around saying she adores him though. Because she can’t do, not after this.’
‘What do you mean?’
Imogen looked at her squarely.
‘If she did, Poppy wouldn’t have done this . . . you don’t kill someone who’s meant to be your best friend.’
9
The atmosphere in the head’s office thrummed with tension. Ewan had finally arrived after switching on his phone once his meeting wrapped up to a bombardment of messages from Julia and he was now sitting one side of Poppy while she was on the other. DS Renshaw and another detective introduced to them as DC Nathan Thomas sat opposite, while Mrs Pullman stayed behind her desk, watching the proceedings solemnly and without interruption. The head was there at Julia’s request, a familiar face to dilute the uneasy sense that it was now her family versus the police.
‘Poppy, can you tell me why you were at school so early this morning?’ asked Renshaw.
The woman had patience in spades, thought Julia. It must’ve been the twentieth time she’d asked Poppy that question and once again her daughter stonewalled her. Well, she wasn’t refusing to answer as such – she simply wasn’t saying anything, not a word. Her hands remained limp in her lap and her head bowed low so her face was hidden.
Julia took her daughter’s right hand in hers and squeezed it, a gesture of reassurance that wasn’t returned.
‘Darling, you must say what happened,’ she said, unable to mask the panic she was feeling. If Poppy didn’t open up soon, they’d think she was h
iding something.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Ewan, not bothering to hide his exasperation. ‘My daughter needs a break, we all do.’
To Julia’s surprise Renshaw agreed and rose to her feet.
‘I need to talk to my colleague outside for a moment. Please excuse us.’
Julia flinched as the door shut behind them.
‘Why don’t I fetch some more tea? There might be some biscuits in the staffroom, too,’ said Mrs Pullman, coming out from behind her desk. Whatever the head was thinking she hid behind a smile. Julia returned it weakly. Mrs Pullman gathered up the tray of empty cups on the table and left.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Julia caught Ewan’s eye for reassurance but his brow furrowed and he mouthed at her to ‘say something’. Julia swallowed the flash of annoyance that rose inside her. He always left it to her to sort the kids out; why couldn’t he step up for a change?
Then she looked at Poppy’s bowed head and berated herself for being selfish.
‘Sweetheart, you know we love you no matter what,’ she said, squeezing Poppy’s hand again. ‘We’re not cross, we just want to know what happened.’
Poppy gave the tiniest of nods.
‘Take your time.’ Julia kept her voice low, so the police outside couldn’t hear. ‘It’s just me and Daddy here.’
A whimper, then, ‘I can’t.’
‘Come on now,’ said Ewan, his tone and volume rising above his wife’s. ‘What Mummy’s trying to say, rather badly, is that if you tell us we can help you.’
Julia smarted at the dig.
‘You can’t,’ said Poppy. ‘It’s all my fault.’
Julia looked across at her husband, bewildered.
‘But it was an accident, wasn’t it?’ said Ewan.
The pause between Ewan’s question and Poppy answering ‘yes’ shook Julia and she suddenly became aware of how hot the room was. Just one of the windows was open, and only by a crack. Her vision swam as though she was about to faint.
‘I can’t – I’m sorry. I can’t breathe.’
She got to her feet and rushed to the door.
False Witness Page 4
