The Judas Scar

by Amanda Jennings

  They covered the basics: name, address, contacts, work details. The policeman didn’t look up, he merely asked the questions and paused, pen suspended, waiting for Will’s answers. Will found it difficult to think. His mind was foggy, drifting away from the room, trying to work out how Alastair had ended up in his studio. Who had called him and pretended to be him? Luke? Surely he wasn’t a killer? Will began to wonder if perhaps he was actually psychotic and had killed Farrow but had no recollection of it, like a sleepwalker? Maybe the memory of being at his father’s grave was an elaborate fantasy created by his subconscious mind. Was that possible? Harmony would know more about that. He wished she were there so he could ask her.

  ‘Mr English?’

  Will narrowed his eyes and forced himself to focus on the policeman.

  ‘Can you please answer these questions? Some of them you will have answered already, but if you could be patient, that would be appreciated. Did you know Mr Alastair Farrow?’

  Will nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. We were at school together. Twenty-five years ago. But we weren’t friends.’

  ‘But you met up with him recently?’

  Will began to drift again. He saw himself getting into the car to drive to the pub on the outskirts of Camberley. He tried to stop himself turning the engine on. Tried to stop himself going …

  ‘Answer the question,’ the policeman asked firmly.

  ‘Yes,’ Will said. ‘We went for a drink.’

  ‘And this was following contact you’d made with him … ’ The man looked back through his notebook, licking the tip of his finger to flip through the pages. ‘… via Facebook?’ He said the word Facebook as if it was something he’d never heard of.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was you who suggested you meet for this drink?’

  ‘I think so … though … it might have been him.’ Will racked his brain to remember which of them had suggested meeting up. Why couldn’t he recall? He closed his eyes and thought hard, trying to sift his mind for the answer. ‘It’s hard to remember … ’

  ‘If you weren’t friends, why did you contact him?’

  ‘Um, well another boy … a man now … from school … we bumped into each other at a friend’s house. I just … ’ Will shook his head. ‘It’s hard to explain. I think it was nostalgia. I was having a few problems with my marriage … ’ Will stopped talking as he watched the man scribbling with his hooked hand. What are you writing down? Will wanted to ask. Are you writing down that I was having problems with my wife? Because we’re fine now. You don’t need to write that down.

  ‘I understand from the landlord of The Dog and Duck—’

  ‘The Dog and Duck?’ Will shook his head.

  ‘The public house where you and Alastair Farrow met.’

  Will nodded. He turned his right hand over and stared at the scar. He understood now. He was going to prison for a murder he didn’t commit, the murder of the only person in the world who he’d ever actually felt like killing. Will almost laughed out loud at the irony. He placed his hand palm down on the table and pressed it hard against the wood.

  ‘There are several witnesses who saw you fighting. We spoke to the landlord this morning. He said you attacked the deceased and he heard you threaten him.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Will then, shaking his head vigorously. ‘No, I didn’t attack him. Or threaten him. We had a row but I didn’t threaten him.’

  ‘Did you, or did you not say: “I could fucking kill you?”’

  Will closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. I might have done. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘And you did grab him by the neck?’ Will didn’t answer.

  ‘Mr English? Did you grab Alastair Farrow by the neck in The Dog and Duck pub?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was your argument about?’

  Will recalled his feelings towards Alastair in the pub that night, the rage that caused him to jump up and lunge for him, the desire to put him down like a rabid dog.

  ‘He was a bully at school,’ he said at last, his head slumped forward. ‘Alastair Farrow bullied me and I wanted him to apologise.’ He hesitated. ‘At least, I think I wanted him to apologise. I’m not sure what I wanted.’ Will’s mind was hazy. A fresh layer of panic settled over him like thick snow.

  ‘So you wanted him to say sorry for things that he had done to you at school?’ asked the man. He looked up and gestured at another man who stood at the door, made some unintelligible sign at him, then the man nodded and left the room.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did he?’

  Will looked at the man. He had his pen poised. When Will didn’t answer he looked up and they locked eyes. He lowered his hand holding the pen onto the table. ‘Did he apologise to you, Mr English?’

  Will held his gaze for a moment or two as he was hit by an overwhelming urge to vomit.

  ‘Mr English?’

  Will shook his head slowly and then looked down at the table.

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘He didn’t. He said he had nothing to apologise for and that him bullying us was nothing more than acceptable boyish mucking about.’

  ‘And you left in such a state you left your credit card behind the bar?’

  ‘Yes. I had to cancel it the next day.’

  The man turned to a new page in his notebook. ‘The premises where the victim was found. What do you use it for?’

  ‘It was where I ran my photography business from. I don’t use it much now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Will shook his head. ‘It didn’t make money. I couldn’t make it work.’

  ‘And who knew the access code to the door?’

  ‘The padlock, you mean?’ The man nodded.

  ‘Just me and my wife,’ Will said.

  ‘So only the two of you could have unlocked the padlock using the code?’

  ‘Was it open?’

  ‘Yes, with no signs of forced entry. Whoever went in there with Mr Farrow unlocked the padlock. They knew the code.’

  Will’s heart pummelled in his chest. Everything pointed to him. But how? he thought, trying to make some sense of the chaos in his head.

  Where did you fuck him?

  He saw Harmony’s face fall, her eyes well with tears and her head shake back and forth.

  At the studio. I’m so sorry.

  His head began to pound. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his knuckles against his temples.

  ‘Why did you call Alastair Farrow’s house?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Will said, snapping his eyes open. ‘I didn’t call him.’

  ‘You spoke to his wife and then to Farrow. You called from the phone in your business unit. At … ’ The man flicked through his notes. ‘At four minutes past ten.’

  Will shook his head. The man stayed quiet.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ Will said, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. ‘I didn’t kill Alastair.’

  The policeman said nothing. The door opened and the other man came back in with a cup of tea for the questioning officer. He thanked him with a nod of his head and then reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a box of sweeteners. He clicked twice over the cup and two tiny white pills dropped into the tea, making circular ripples on its surface. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Alastair Farrow?’

  Will’s mind whirred. He closed his fist over the scar on his palm.

  ‘Yes.’ He dropped his head. ‘There’s a man. My friend. Luke Crawford. Farrow bullied him too. And then he … ’ Will stumbled over his words.

  ‘Then he what?’

  ‘Alastair Farrow sexually assaulted him.’ Will hesitated. ‘Raped him. I saw it. I saw Alastair rape Luke.’

  Will winced as he heard his voice cry out to Farrow.

  I didn’t do it! Don’t hurt me. It was him, not me. It was Luke.

  Alastair Farrow had looked at him with scorn, shook his head, blood running from the cut on his face, dripping from his jawline
and chin. Will watched Farrow nod at his friends. Watched two of them drag Luke over to Farrow, his feet desperately scrabbling against the ground, his arms flailing in their clutches, trying to wriggle free. Will froze. Transfixed. Watched Farrow advance on Luke, face bloodied, blood on his neck and shirt as if someone had thrown a tin of scarlet paint over him. Will saw Luke’s face smeared with terror. He muttered I’m sorry over and over, too scared to move, to get help, to intervene. Farrow held his hand over Luke’s mouth to muffle his shouts and tried to force him onto the ground. Luke must have bitten him because Farrow yelled and hit Luke so hard that he spun and fell into the dark, loose earth. Will watched as Farrow pulled him up while yanking his belt open, grasped Luke’s hair with his hand, pulled his head back so hard that Will feared his neck would snap.

  ‘You should talk to him. Luke Crawford. He’s a lawyer in the City.’

  The policeman wrote on a piece of paper and then handed it to the other man at the door. He whispered something to him and the man nodded and left the room. Then he put his pen down.

  Will scraped his fingers through his hair. ‘I don’t want to say any more,’ he said. ‘Not until I have legal representation present. I can say that, can’t I?’

  The man nodded. He sat back and closed his file, reached for his tea.

  ‘Can I go home?’

  ‘No,’ the man said. He sipped his tea. ‘I’m afraid you can’t, as it happens.’

  Will was taken to a cell and given a glass of water and a limp ham sandwich from a vending machine. He lay on the bed, his hands behind his neck, and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Farrow again, about his plump wife and his red-faced children, about his cord trousers, his balding head, and the smug look he’d given Drysdale in the office, then the colluding smile Drysdale had given in return. Will turned over and hid his face in the crook of his elbow.

  At nearly nine o’clock the lock on the cell opened with an ominous clunk. The craggy policeman and a female officer he hadn’t seen before stood in the doorway.

  ‘William English,’ the policeman said. ‘You are being charged with the murder of Alastair Farrow.’

  As the policeman read him his rights, Will’s thoughts returned to the day after the rape. He remembered waking, sitting bolt upright in bed and looking across the room at his friend’s bed. With horror he saw it hadn’t been slept in, the grey blanket tucked under the mattress – smooth, without a single wrinkle. Will had pulled his uniform on and then hared along the corridors, down the stairs and across the courtyard to the large refectory. But Luke wasn’t there. He sat on the end of one of the long wooden tables and craned his head as each group of boys came in, desperate to see Luke among them. Careful not to be spotted by any masters, he pocketed two slices of white bread and an apple to give him when he found him. All day he looked out for him. At lunchtime he snuck back to the woods, his heart pounding, sweat creeping over his skin, to see if he was still there, too injured to move. After supper, while he was supposed to be concentrating on prep, his housemaster, Mr Fraser, came with that apologetic look on his face and his voice tinged with regret, as he told him that he had to go and see Drysdale. He still recalled the weight of his hand squeezing his shoulder, trying to reassure him.

  Just tell the truth and you’ll be fine.

  When he’d opened the door to Drysdale’s office the man had looked terrifying, larger than a giant, his cane laid out on the desk in front of him, his tool of torture.

  ‘Sit down,’ he barked.

  Will had sat on the chair opposite the desk.

  ‘There’s been an incident,’ Drysdale had said. ‘Involving a boy – a friend of yours, I believe. Luke Crawford.’

  Will’s heart had started racing. Please be okay, he thought. Please be okay. He’d crossed the fingers on his left hand and slid them under his thigh. Please be okay, Luke.

  ‘He’s accusing one of the prefects of a very serious crime.’ Will stared at him.

  ‘Of course,’ Drysdale said, ‘we know he’s lying.’

  Will opened his eyes wide and began to shake his head.

  ‘We know he’s lying because this type of thing doesn’t happen at Farringdon Hall. Farrow is one of the most well-respected members of our school. He’s a sterling boy, on track to do great things. His father was at this school and is a valuable benefactor. Alastair Farrow is everything a Farringdon boy should be and he has assured me that he hasn’t laid a finger, or anything else, on the boy.’ Will began to protest. Drysdale rose to his feet and leant over his desk, glaring at Will with blazing eyes. He reached for his cane, picked it up, and came round to Will’s side of the table.

  ‘Boys like Crawford are easily confused. He’s a liar and always has been and I think we all know who’s telling the truth and who isn’t.’ Drysdale walked over to Will and leant close to his face. ‘If Crawford is telling the truth the reputation of this school will suffer. Now, you don’t want that any more than I do, do you, English? Of course you don’t. Crawford says you were there.’

  Will stared at him, his tongue tied, unable to speak.

  ‘If you were there you would’ve seen that nothing untoward happened, wouldn’t you? If you do the right thing, if you tell the truth, then I’ll spare you the caning for missing prep and playing silly buggers with the Crawford boy. If you lie, I’ll make your life a misery. You’ll be standing outside my office every day for the rest of the year during afternoon break and I’ll suggest to Farrow that he might like your services for a bit of errand running. And you and I both know your father would be most unimpressed to hear that his only son was involved in a scandal so sordid.’ Drysdale leant even closer to Will, his breath warm and sour. He laid the cane across Will’s lap, tapping his thigh lightly a few times. ‘You do know what the right thing to say is, don’t you? You know what really happened. Farringdon Hall doesn’t need any muckraking. It won’t do any of us any good at all. You appreciate this, English?’

  Will’s eyes stung with tears and he nodded.

  ‘So,’ said Drysdale calmly as he turned to lay his cane back on the desk. ‘We have an understanding then.’ He clasped his hands behind his back and opened the door to his office.

  ‘Farrow! Crawford! In here!’

  First Farrow came in, his face bandaged, his exposed eye piercing Will who felt faint with fear. Farrow positioned himself to the right of Drysdale’s desk as Luke walked slowly in. When he saw Will his face lit up. Will felt a surge of relief. Luke had been crying, his cheeks were even more sunken than usual, and his arms hung limply, but he was okay, he was alive. Luke smiled at him. Will looked away and glanced back at Farrow and then Drysdale who was sat back in his chair, his hands on his chest, his fingers drumming. Will felt sick. His mind was muddled. He glanced at Farrow who glared daggers at him.

  Will heard Drysdale’s voice demanding the truth. The truth he wanted.

  Will knew what he should do. He should tell Luke’s truth. He should stand up for his friend, for what was right. But in Will’s world standing up for the truth never did any good. When he told the truth bad things happened. Life isn’t fair, William, he heard his father’s voice in his head. Life is ugly.

  ‘Crawford is lying,’ Will said. ‘I was there. Farrow was mucking around and Luke cut him with my penknife. That was all that happened. He’s lying.’

  ‘No, Will! Tell him the truth. Please! Blood brothers, remember? I’ll watch your back, you watch mine. You said—’

  ‘Shut up, Luke!’ Will screamed, clamping his hands over his ears. ‘I hate you, don’t you understand? I hate you. I wish I’d never met you. I hate you!’

  Then he’d pushed up from the chair, so hard it fell over, and with burning tears running down his cheeks, he ran from the room, ignoring Luke’s cries and Drysdale’s shouts for him to get back that instant. And that was the last time he saw Luke Crawford until that Sunday lunch at Emma and Ian’s when he walked back into his life and turned it upside down.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - N
I N E

  It was Frank’s message on the landline voicemail that galvanised her. Will had been in custody now for approaching forty-eight hours. She felt desolate, worn out from trying to face the very real possibility that her husband was going to prison for murder.

  ‘Harmony, dear, it’s Frank. I’ve called a couple of times but must have missed you. I hope you’re bearing up. I’ve made a cottage pie. It’s a bit large. Enough for eight, really, but maybe you could eat portions of it over a couple of nights. A lunch or two as well, if you fancy. Though maybe that would get boring. Anyway, I’ll bring it over on my way to work in the morning. If you’re not in I’ll leave it on the doorstep wrapped in a few carrier bags, with a packet of custard creams as well. I just know he didn’t do it. Keep strong, my dear. Bye for now.’

  ‘You’re right, Frank,’ she said out loud as she put the phone down. ‘He didn’t do it and at the moment the man who did is walking free.’

  She picked up the phone, grabbed the Post-it that was stuck to her computer screen and dialled the number. The lawyer Will had appointed answered the phone with an efficient brusqueness.

  ‘I want to know why they haven’t arrested Luke Crawford?’ she asked her.

  ‘He has an alibi. He was with people from eight until four in the morning. The police have questioned him, but there was nothing to hold him for, I assume.’

  ‘But he did it,’ Harmony said, shaking her head and gripping the phone. ‘I know he did it, so why isn’t he a suspect?’

  ‘As I said already, he has an alibi.’

  ‘What has he told them he was doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘He was entertaining a client. They were in London, drinking, and then they went back to his place with a couple of prostitutes, apparently. Which is nice,’ she said with obvious distaste.

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. He has an alibi and there’s no evidence whatsoever pointing to Mr Crawford. Worryingly for us, however, there’s an awful lot of evidence pointing to your husband, including,’ she said, with a loaded pause, ‘the fact he has no alibi whatsoever. This wandering around the countryside for twelve hours with no witnesses apart from a dead and buried father does not look good at all. Luke Crawford and this client … ’ She paused and Harmony heard the rustling of papers from the other end of the phone line, ‘… a Mr Barratt-Jones were—’