False Witness

by Michelle Davies

  ‘Honey, did you tell Daddy what really happened when Benji fell?’

  Poppy’s expression slowly morphed as her eyes flickered from her mother’s face to her father’s and it pinned Julia to the spot with shame. For the first time she saw her daughter was every bit as intimidated by Ewan as she was.

  55

  The discovery of Donnelly’s 999 transcript had triggered a witch-hunt to find out whose fault it was that it had been mislaid in the first place. The admin assistants, led by the irrepressible Pearl, were refusing to take responsibility, saying it had been delivered to the team as procedure demanded, while Renshaw was arguing that it hadn’t and their sloppiness had thwarted the investigation.

  The stand-off between the two women was taking place in the middle of the CID department, in the full view of everyone, and Maggie admired Pearl for not backing down in the face of Renshaw’s fury.

  ‘I don’t know how it ended up mixed up with those other statements but I know it wasn’t my girls who put it there,’ she said.

  ‘So who did, the fucking Tooth Fairy?’ Renshaw shouted back, her anger fuelled by Donnelly’s own refusal to back down from his statement that Benji’s fall was accidental. He was currently downstairs in an interview room, cooling his heels until Renshaw had another crack at him.

  ‘I gave it to one of your detectives like he asked me to,’ Omana piped up.

  Maggie, who was standing behind Renshaw, froze.

  ‘Who asked you to?’ Renshaw demanded to know.

  ‘I think I know,’ said Maggie. ‘It was Byford.’

  Renshaw spun round.

  ‘Why the hell would he need the transcript first?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think there’s something else he’s got that he shouldn’t have.’

  Leaving Pearl simmering about wanting an apology, Renshaw followed Maggie back into the incident room.

  ‘We need to get into his bottom drawer,’ said Maggie. ‘But he keeps it locked.’

  Renshaw tried it anyway but it was firmly shut. ‘Anyone know how to jimmy this open?’

  ‘This might do it,’ said Burton, holding up a lock pick.

  ‘I won’t ask where you got that from,’ said Renshaw wryly.

  She and Maggie stood aside as Burton got to work. In less than ten seconds the drawer was open.

  ‘Are these what you’re looking for?’ he asked, holding up a notebook in each hand. Renshaw took the one with flowers while Maggie flicked through the football one.

  ‘Imogen told me Byford found these in Benji’s room,’ Maggie admitted. ‘I was going to give him a chance to explain himself before I told you.’

  Renshaw shot her a look that made it clear how unimpressed she was at Maggie not telling her sooner.

  ‘What’s in that one?’

  ‘It’s a story by the looks of things,’ said Maggie, reading on.

  The writing was clearly that of a child, a spidery, lopsided scrawl, and the story about a boy called Leo who sneaked out of his house at night because he was a secret spy. On the evening the story was set Leo came across a man shoving a body into the ground. The man was tall, with ‘a grin that showed his teeth like a wolf’ and a round, shiny head like a skeleton’s. It wasn’t the most coherent piece of creative writing she’d ever read, but instantly Maggie knew it might be crucial and she relayed the story to Renshaw and the others.

  ‘Is it dated?’ Burton asked.

  ‘Sadly, no.’

  Nathan chimed in. ‘So, do we think it’s a work of fiction, or is it Benji’s account of seeing someone bury a body in the grounds at Rushbrooke masquerading as fiction?’

  They all looked at each other as the prospect of it being the latter sank in.

  ‘We should ask Poppy and the rest of his classmates if he mentioned anything about seeing a body, even as a made-up story,’ said Burton. ‘Worth checking with his mum too.’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ said Renshaw. ‘Nathan, can you do the kids?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve got email addresses and phone numbers for all the parents now.’

  ‘Good.’ Renshaw flicked through the pages of the flowered notebook. ‘This one’s just pages of phone numbers with random letters after them.’

  ‘Imogen thinks Benji must’ve found the notebook somewhere and was trying to crack the code. He fancied himself as a spy, hence the story he wrote,’ said Maggie.

  Burton peered over Renshaw’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s code, but not like you think. I’ve seen this before, on another case. The letters next to the phone numbers denote the person’s sexual preferences – what you’ve got there is a prostitute’s little black book.’

  Renshaw looked baffled. ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to put the client’s initials down next to their number to remind you who they are?’

  ‘You’d think, but these girls aren’t stupid. If their clients are important people they’re going to be careful not to write their names down anywhere,’ explained Burton. ‘For their sakes as much as their clients’.’

  Renshaw flipped back to the opening page. ‘There’s nothing here to ID the book’s owner.’ She slowly leafed through the pages, then stopped. Maggie heard a little gasp escape from her lips.

  ‘What is it?’

  Renshaw couldn’t speak. The colour had drained from her face.

  ‘I – I need a word with Maggie in private,’ she rasped.

  Burton and Nathan shared a look of concern. ‘Is everything okay?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Give us a minute. Please.’

  The two of them left the incident room, shutting the door softly behind them.

  Maggie’s heart rate soared as she watched Renshaw slump into a chair.

  ‘Anna, what the hell’s wrong?’

  ‘I recognize one of these mobile numbers.’

  She looked up at Maggie, crestfallen.

  ‘It’s my boyfriend’s.’

  56

  Saturday

  Maggie was woken by the sound of her doorbell ringing continuously, like someone was pressing down on it with their finger and not letting go. She rolled over to check the time on her alarm clock and groaned when she saw it was only nine o’clock.

  She’d had precisely four hours’ sleep, having stayed up drinking wine with Renshaw, who was now passed out in her spare room.

  As she pulled back the covers the doorbell suddenly stopped. She gave it a few seconds to make sure it didn’t start up again, then, when it didn’t, flopped onto her back, and stared up at the ceiling.

  She still couldn’t believe it. ACC Bailey, Renshaw’s boyfriend, paying for sex.

  The situation had snowballed after Renshaw told Maggie she’d spotted his number in the notebook. Despite Maggie urging restraint – because they couldn’t be sure Burton’s theory about it belonging to a prostitute was even correct – Renshaw had called Bailey in his office at area HQ in Trenton and asked him outright why his phone number was listed in the notebook alongside other punters.

  He didn’t even try to deny it.

  There were tears, shouting and, from what Maggie could glean, desperate attempts by Bailey to apologize for his indiscretion. All the while Maggie sat there wishing she didn’t have to play witness to Renshaw’s life imploding and watch her become more and more broken by her boyfriend’s admissions of guilt. He couldn’t even tell her whose book it might be – the owner could be one of half a dozen girls he regularly used.

  Then, after refusing his pleas to let him drive home so they could sort it out, Renshaw lit the fuse she knew would detonate his career as well as their relationship.

  ‘The notebook was found in the bedroom of a child whose death we’re investigating. How do you explain that?’

  The snowball had avalanched after that, and by the time Maggie had persuaded Renshaw to leave the office and come home with her around midnight, ACC Marcus Bailey was suspended pending an inquiry, while Renshaw had been given a leave of absence on compassionate grounds, the first few hours of which she spent
getting drunk on Maggie’s sofa.

  Still woolly-headed herself, Maggie clambered out of bed to get a drink of water. In the kitchen was a bouquet of flowers she’d come home to find outside her front door last night, signed for and brought up to the top floor by one of her neighbours. A vivid explosion of orange and pink roses, lilies and flora, they were from Belmar and Allie Small to wish her a happy birthday. When Renshaw saw them she had berated Maggie for not revealing it was her thirtieth and insisted they open a bottle of champagne Maggie had been saving for a special occasion.

  As Maggie downed the water, she wondered who was going to be brought in to take over now that Renshaw was no longer SIO. Their Superintendent had agreed that Burton could oversee the excavation at the school that morning but a new lead detective would be appointed by Monday.

  She went back to bed and drifted off again, only to be woken an hour later by Burton ringing.

  ‘What’s up?’ she answered groggily.

  ‘Is Renshaw with you?’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s asleep.’

  ‘I thought she’d want to know that she was right. We’ve found a woman’s body wedged into the foundations.’

  Maggie bolted upright.

  ‘Seriously? How did she die?’

  ‘Looks like strangulation but she was also badly beaten, which would account for the blood. We’re treating it as murder.’

  ‘Do we know who she is yet?’

  ‘Yep, her name’s Violet Castle. She’s got a distinctive tattoo, a peacock with its tail fanning across the top of her back, and when we ran it through the PNC it came up that she’s been picked up before for solicitation.’

  Maggie’s hungover brain needed a minute to slot the pieces together.

  ‘She’s a prostitute? Do you think the notebook was hers?’

  ‘I’m willing to bet it was. Benji must’ve found it on the building site or somewhere close to it. Mal’s going to run it for prints to make sure.’

  ‘Christ. So let me get this straight – ACC Bailey was the client of a prostitute who’s just turned up dead in the grounds of a school where an eleven-year-old boy died – the same boy who appears to have found the prostitute’s client list with ACC Bailey’s phone number on it.’

  ‘I’d say that’s pretty much it.’

  ‘How the hell am I going to explain this to Anna when she wakes up?’

  There was a noise behind her and Maggie looked round to see Renshaw in the doorway, her face twisted in anguish.

  ‘It’s okay, you just did.’

  57

  Monday

  The weekend passed in a comatosed blur for Alan. Not at The Wheatsheaf – he’d bypassed that on Friday evening and gone straight to the off-licence where he bought three bottles of the cheapest Scotch it stocked with the intention of drinking every last drop. By last night, Sunday, there was only a quarter left in the last one, so he’d finished it off for breakfast and was now sprawled out on the sofa with the empty bottle on the floor beside him, watching TV through blurred vision.

  He drank because he didn’t have a job to go to. Mrs Pullman had told him the school was going to be shut today even before he’d left on Friday. Apparently the police couldn’t be sure two days was long enough for their search, so they wanted to take the precaution of keeping the school closed on Monday as well.

  His phone had been switched off all weekend, his curtains drawn. He wanted to keep the world at bay for as long as he could. A couple of times, in his stupor, he thought he might’ve heard a knock on the door, but he hadn’t been able to rouse himself off the sofa to check.

  But there was no mistaking the knock that had been sounding intermittently for the last ten minutes or so, nor the voice echoing through the letter box demanding he open the door.

  ‘I know you’re in there,’ said Gus, voice clenched with anger. ‘I can hear the TV.’

  The letter box clattered shut again. Alan held his breath and counted, hoping Gus had given up and gone away. But after less than sixty seconds, the knocking started up again and the letter box reopened.

  ‘If you don’t answer this fucking door right this second I’ll call the police. I mean it. I’m dialling them now –’

  Alan knew he meant it. He managed to roll himself off the sofa and landed heavily on all fours. He dragged himself upright, then wove drunkenly down the hallway.

  The front door was on the latch, as it had been since Friday evening. It took him three attempts to open it, his brain and fingers so alcohol sodden that they failed him at the first and second goes.

  Gus pushed his way in before the door was even open a crack, sending Alan flying. He slammed the door shut behind him, put the latch back on, then grabbed Alan by the upper arm and hauled him into the kitchen at the rear of the house. He shoved Alan into one of the two chairs either side of the small foldaway table, then lowered the window blind, cursing as the pulley became tangled and the right side of the slats finished up lower than the left.

  Then he turned on Alan, his expression devoid of any warmth.

  ‘What the hell did you do?’

  Even as drunk as he was, Alan still managed to summon up outrage.

  ‘Me? What about you?’ He wobbled to his feet. ‘The police think there’s a dead woman at the school.’

  Gus seized hold of Alan’s shoulders and shoved him back down onto the chair.

  ‘There is a dead woman – and it’s Ruby.’

  Alan stared up at him, confused.

  ‘She hasn’t been seen for days, no one can get hold of her,’ said Gus. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

  ‘That you’ll be going down for murder, most likely,’ said Alan. He wouldn’t normally dare speak to Gus like that, but the Scotch was making him braver. ‘You and your foul, disgusting mates.’

  To his surprise, Gus laughed.

  ‘Me? I didn’t kill her and nor did anyone I know. But you were definitely the last person to see her alive.’

  It took a few seconds for Alan to register what Gus was insinuating.

  ‘No way, it wasn’t anything to do with me,’ he slurred. ‘I saw Ruby on – wait, what day is it now?’ He counted backwards on his fingers. ‘That’s it, Wednesday. I saw her on Wednesday, although I still don’t remember that I did.’

  Gus bent down so his face was level with Alan’s.

  ‘That was the last day the other girls remember seeing her, which makes you the last person to talk to her, when you went round to her house, called her a whore and she scratched you.’

  Alan fumbled his cheek and felt the line that was still there, scored into his skin.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said, suddenly panicking. ‘I didn’t do anything to her.’

  Gus straightened up and smiled, then held his arms out as though offering Alan an embrace.

  ‘Let’s think logically about this,’ he said. ‘Neither of us wants the police at our door, so I’m prepared to give you an alibi for Wednesday evening – I’ll say you came round to mine after the pub and that you went nowhere near Ruby’s house. In return, you continue to keep quiet about the Pavilion.’

  The thought of being accused of murder terrified Alan into agreeing. Who wouldn’t believe an alibi from the school’s chair of governors? It was only after Gus left, when he was trying to take everything in, that Alan realized something crucial, something he had overlooked himself until that point.

  He didn’t actually know where Ruby lived. How could he have gone round to see her, let alone have harmed her in any way, when he didn’t actually possess her address? Why had Gus lied to him about her scratching him, when it was obvious now that he must’ve caught his cheek on a bush, as he originally assumed?

  The answer that came to him was horrifyingly simple: Gus was setting him up.

  58

  Monday morning the station car park was almost at capacity as Maggie eased her old Toyota into a space. A blast of chilly air swirled around her as she climbed out and her exposed arms showed their indignat
ion by covering themselves in goosebumps.

  ‘Looks like the heatwave’s over,’ said a voice behind her. It was Burton, wearing his usual jeans-and-T-shirt combo, but with a lightweight navy bomber jacket over the top. A shivering Maggie, again in a short-sleeved shirt and thin cotton trousers, mentally berated herself for not checking the weather report before getting dressed that morning.

  ‘Have you spoken to Anna since Saturday?’ he asked as they fell into step.

  ‘Only briefly on the phone. After your call she left mine to go home. Her parents have convinced her to go and stay with them in Newcastle for a bit.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was a Geordie. She doesn’t have an accent.’

  ‘Not even a hint of one.’

  ‘So how is she?’

  ‘Awful. It’s bad enough her finding out that her boyfriend has been sleeping with prostitutes, but she’s also got to contend with everyone at work knowing. She’s heartbroken and humiliated. He’s moved out.’

  They were almost at the outer door. The rear of the station was its modern half, a sleek, secretive facade of smoked-glass windows and reinforced-steel doors. What it presented to the world on the street side was its welcoming face: red-brick, preserved from history, it preened at passers-by like an ageing beauty queen. Maggie punched in the access code to get through the outer door, then swiped her pass to enter the foyer where the lift was.

  ‘Any word on who’s coming in as SIO?’ she asked.

  Burton chuckled. ‘Yeah, nice one.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’m asking if you know who it is.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘I’m not. No one’s told me anything. I don’t even know who’s replacing Byford as my new liaison partner. I’ve been trying to get hold of DI Gant to find out but he’s not answering.’

  ‘You know it was Bailey who suggested Byford as a FLO?’ Burton continued. ‘They’re good mates; they play for the same five-a-side football team at the weekend and socialize afterwards. I still can’t believe he put his neck on the line for the ACC. He must be seriously regretting it now he’s been suspended as well.’