When We Were Friends

by Tina Seskis

  ‘No, we haven’t committed any crime,’ she continued, still not remotely short of breath despite her pace. ‘We weren’t responsible for her in the eyes of the law for a start – that’s only the case if she were a dependant, a child or something, not a grown woman. We simply say we didn’t go back when we heard the splash because we thought it wasn’t her. I’m pretty certain the absolute worst that can happen is that we can have a civil action against us, not a criminal one. That’s called tort law, I’ve read up on it. But we can talk to lawyers about that if we need to, once everything’s in the open.’

  Renée was too busy thinking about Camilla and her bloody raspberry torte, how the picnic had been all her idea, how if they’d never met up in the first place then Siobhan wouldn’t be dead, to really take in any more of what Natasha was saying. She’d had quite enough shocks lately. She couldn’t believe Natasha could be so matter-of-fact about her friend’s death, almost like she was discussing her team’s monthly sales performance or what to get for dinner. She knew Natasha hadn’t really got on with Siobhan in recent years, even before that final devastating night – they’d become the exact opposite of each other by the end, Siobhan the ditzy single girl and Natasha the uber-Superwoman – but even so, it was a bit callous. Natasha seemed to have lost any kind of heart these days, Renée thought, was more driven and ambitious than ever. She imagined her now, head-to-toe in designer running gear, about the only thing she ever wore when she wasn’t in one of her hideous suits, face tight from Botox, sprinting home to set up a spreadsheet about probable outcomes. She was ghastly, really she was, how had she changed so much, how had they ever been friends?

  67

  Belgravia

  Sergeant Hunter looked at the beautiful pale woman sat across the table from him. Her lawyer looked out of place in the scruffy interview room – in his pinstriped suit and yellow silk handkerchief he would have been more at home in a gentleman’s club; he had that air about him, as if this was all beneath him. Sergeant Hunter didn’t think he needed to ask any more questions; she was the fourth woman he’d interviewed in the last two days and she was just repeating the same boring account of the evening – they’d obviously all got together and colluded to make sure they got their stories straight, despite the monumental acrimony they’d had towards each other by the time they’d left Hyde Park, according to Terry Kingston.

  Now there was an odd bloke, Sergeant Hunter thought. He’d seemed like such a creep at first, but it turned out he’d been the only one who’d tried to save the dead woman, after her so-called friends had all just upped and left her to her fate. And it appeared he’d only lied at first to try to protect his half-brother – it seemed now they were finally getting to the bottom of exactly what had happened it was Terry Kingston who had more morals than the rest of them put together.

  Sergeant Hunter wasn’t interested in the interview with this woman. They’d had the pathologist’s report back and nothing she was saying added to it. No, it seemed he’d have to let her go. He asked her a few more questions, just for the hell of it. Let her sweat a bit, he’d thought. Even if it did turn out she was criminally in the clear, which seemed likely, seeing as the funeral had already been approved to go ahead (what had become of the British criminal-justice system!), morally she and her friends were guilty as hell in his book. Typical selfish middle-class values, he told himself, somewhat bigotedly – give me my Sandra and the lads at the snooker club any day over these stuck-up cows.

  Sergeant Hunter took a final glance through his notes to check he’d covered everything. He looked up, saw her frightened frigid face next to her lawyer’s fleshy smug one, sighed and said, ‘OK, madam, that’s all, you’re free to go.’

  68

  Royal Leamington Spa, The Midlands

  Juliette drove Sissy to the funeral in her Range Rover. The others took the train – Natasha and Juliette were no longer talking if they could help it, now Juliette’s affair with Natasha’s husband was out in the open, and it seemed Juliette would never speak to Renée again either, after all the things she’d said about Stephen at the picnic, not to mention the further vile accusations she’d made in Juliette’s garden. Anyway, it was more practical that way – it would have been unbearable in the car with everyone. It was a nightmare, but despite everything they had to go: they were some of Siobhan’s oldest friends, and they’d been together on the very night she’d died. They couldn’t not go.

  As Juliette parked up in the narrow car-lined lane, she couldn’t believe what a huge event the funeral was. The media were there and an outside screen had been erected for all the mourners who wouldn’t fit inside the church. Juliette was horrified by the photographers – who immediately recognised her and began taking photos – but more than that she was shocked by how many people had turned up, for Siobhan. She’d had no idea Siobhan had so many friends. ‘It must be because it’s all over the news,’ she overheard Natasha whisper, as Natasha sat down behind her in the church, and Juliette thought there was no need for cattiness at a time like this, but of course she didn’t say anything.

  The service had an unbearable poignancy that inked through the air and magnified everyone’s sadness. Siobhan’s father, an elegant old-fashioned-looking man, stood tall through his grief as he addressed the congregation, dark suit immaculate, tie militarily straight, hand-made shoes polished, as he talked of his love for his funny, eccentric, warm-hearted daughter, who although at times could be a little outspoken perhaps, undiplomatic even, had empathy and generosity that more than made up for it. He spoke of his and his wife’s pride at how well Siobhan had done over the years, how she had grown into such a capable young woman who’d achieved so much in her career (it appeared she’d just been made a director at her publishing company; how come she’d never told them that?), how much her boyfriend Matt had adored her, although she often didn’t seem to realise it. Derek had choked a little at this point, and stopped, seemingly unable to go on, and after a few seconds the vicar had taken his arm and guided him gently back to his seat, where Margaret had grabbed his hand and held it tightly, as though letting go would cause something to break.

  Matt’s speech was even more devastating, if anything. Natasha thought it odd that only Camilla and Sissy had ever met him before, as it seemed he’d been going out with Siobhan for ages, and he was much better-looking than she’d expected – how had Siobhan pulled such a dish? Matt spoke of Siobhan’s lust for life, her success in her career, her courage, her risk-taking, her integrity. He talked of her love of acting that she’d discovered in just the last year or so, when she’d joined a group and even been in a play in a small theatre in Chiswick. Natasha and the others were stunned – how come she’d never told them? It was like the service was about a different person to the one they’d known.

  But it was when Matt spoke about how Siobhan could never do too much to help someone and was such a wonderful friend, that Natasha felt uncomfortable, and the others succumbed to remorseful tears. Although the service, as these things are wont to, teetered into over-indulgence at times, the odd thing was it felt real, heartfelt, not just false flattery in death. Natasha found herself recalling the time when Nigel had cancer, of Siobhan helping Sissy through the pregnancy, the birth, although Sissy had been so delirious with grief she’d barely noticed. She remembered Nigel’s death ten years later, of Siobhan being there for Sissy, and then every weekend for months afterwards, of how Sissy’s kids had adored Siobhan. When the music signalling the end of the service started up (‘Wishing I Was Lucky’, by Wet Wet Wet) the irony felt unbearable, and Natasha wondered who’d picked it. Siobhan had adored that song, had played it over and over again in the flat in Bristol, and although Natasha had pretended it had driven her mad, she’d secretly loved it too.

  As Natasha sat there, her thoughts in turmoil, she finally acknowledged that she’d misjudged Siobhan, not appreciated the person she’d become, and probably always had been. She’d written her off in recent years as nothing more than a
calamitous irritant. Natasha felt faint. She had failed her friend in life and had left her in death. She was despicable. They were all despicable. As she looked desperately around the church, searching for something, someone to comfort her, she could see the shame on all their faces, every last one – even the one who had no need to feel ashamed, the one who’d already left and truly hadn’t heard the splash.

  69

  St Pancras, Central London

  Three and a half weeks after the funeral, Siobhan Benson’s parents travelled from their home in Royal Leamington Spa to the coroner’s court for the inquest. They were still in shock. Margaret hadn’t slept for longer than a couple of hours at a time, not since the police had knocked on their door on that terrible Sunday afternoon nearly two months earlier, and the exhaustion had changed the shape of her face: it looked skull-like now, as if the flesh around her eyes had been prematurely gouged out by maggots. Derek stood tall and stiff, with a muted, sad air about him, and as they walked from their Audi past the waiting photographers he put an arm around his wife’s shoulder, but the contact didn’t comfort either of them. There was no comfort to be had.

  The coroner felt for the Bensons (the most difficult inquests were always when it was somebody’s child involved) and he ushered them away from the throng into a private room and offered them coffee, as there was still half an hour to kill. No-one spoke. Largely to break the silence, the coroner went over what was about to happen, although the Bensons were already vaguely aware of it. He gently reiterated that they’d only be trying to establish the cause of death today, not who, if anyone, was responsible. He showed them the list of people he’d be calling as witnesses. Margaret Benson looked at the names, recognising many of them, and felt sad that her daughter had even been out with these women. Siobhan had been so hurt over the years at their various put-downs and slights, Margaret had tried on several occasions to suggest that maybe she shouldn’t see them so often, maybe even leave some of those relationships in the past – it was no good keep getting upset, dear, she’d said. But Siobhan hadn’t wanted to – they were her friends, she’d insisted, and besides, they all had so much shared history, accumulated like books over the years, and you never got rid of those, did you? Margaret knew that her daughter only really saw Camilla and Sissy by the end, she’d never failed to give Sissy support with those poor children. That was the thing about Siobhan, her mother thought, her throat constricting, she’d always wanted to help people. And now, following one of the most innocent activities you could hope to partake in – a picnic in the park with some old college friends – her only child was dead.

  The inquest was underway but Margaret could barely follow it. She understood a few things. She understood that her beloved daughter, Siobhan Alice Benson, had died, aged forty-four, at approximately 22:35 on Thursday 7th July 2011 at The Serpentine Lake, Hyde Park, London. She understood that she had died through drowning – they were quite unfussy in the way they said that, there seemed to be no fancy medical term for that way of dying. But from this point onwards Margaret struggled to keep up with what was going on. Apparently, the pathologist said, there were marks on the side of the deceased’s head consistent with a heavy object, perhaps a polyamide something or other, but not necessarily so. (What did he say? How did she get the marks? Did someone hit her with the polya-whatever-it-was-called?) He said Siobhan might have been unconscious when she hit the water. (Is that why she didn’t scream?) A post-mortem analysis estimated that she had 164mg of alcohol per 100ml of blood at the time of her death. (Did that make her drunk? Is that why she drowned?)

  Margaret’s head felt thick, as if she had a heavy cold, and the words were finding it hard to punch through to her brain. She was struggling to remember the meaning of quite basic expressions, let alone the technical ones. Eventually the pathologist finished and sat down, looking chipper, self-satisfied. He was small and geeky, and Margaret was dismally reminded of an excited little boy with a bucket of worms, one of those ghoulish types who’d been born to poke over dead rotting flesh, into unexplored cavities, her precious daughter’s body nothing but a macabre journey of discovery for him.

  Through her bewilderment Margaret still started – even though she’d been expecting her – as the first of the witnesses took the stand: the shock of flaming hair, pulled back as if in penitence, the exquisite pale face. She listened more intently now, as Juliette explained her relationship with ‘the deceased’, described how the evening had somewhat disintegrated, with ‘the deceased’ running off into the night after what Juliette described as a ‘bit of an argument’. Margaret heard Juliette admit (quietly, her voice choking) that they’d all been drinking, were all rather drunk in fact, and that no-one had known where Siobhan had gone, they’d just assumed she’d gone home. And so, she said, when they’d heard a splash it hadn’t even occurred to them that it might be Siobhan, they’d thought it was just a bird or something – after all, there was no struggling or splashing afterwards – and so they’d left without going to check (Juliette looked ashamed at this point, like she might cry). Margaret watched the coroner nod and ask Juliette to take her seat, and apart from the deep screaming red of Juliette’s hair the scene felt blank, colourless, unreal to her.

  The next bit Margaret couldn’t understand. She knew why everyone was gasping and covering their mouths with horror, it was clear Terry had said something dreadful (‘ “She can bloody drown for all I care,” I heard one of them say, Your Honour,’) but she struggled to understand the implications. Did Siobhan’s so-called friends know that the splash was her all along? Did they deliberately leave her to drown? No. Surely not. Margaret slumped suddenly in her chair and, as Derek stood up shouting for a doctor, the coroner hurriedly adjourned the inquest.

  Fortunately, it turned out Margaret Benson had only fainted, and a shot of brandy that appeared from somewhere amidst the mayhem appeared to sort her out. Afterwards Derek explained to his wife what she’d failed to comprehend: that Terry had told the inquest the details of the conversation he’d overheard, which was that the women had agreed at the time to say they hadn’t heard the splash if it turned out Siobhan really had drowned – and how he, Terry, couldn’t be sure exactly which individuals had been involved in the conversation, it had been too dark to see. Derek told his wife how Terry had said he’d seen one of the women stride off into the night half a minute before the others, so she possibly really hadn’t heard anything, had left with a clear conscience at least. Amidst the chaos it seemed that no-one knew which woman it was though, and because of the disruption none of the rest of them gave evidence that day.

  70

  Canary Wharf

  On the afternoon of the inquest, Stephen Forsyth was sent home from work. It was all too awkward. Following the euphoria of his newspaper breaking the original story of the body in the lake (online, at least, they even beat Sky News to it), over the following weeks other less convenient facts had kept revealing themselves, like rampaging acne. Facts like the dead woman being a friend of the editor’s wife. Like there having been a group of other women present at the time, including his wife. Like the fact they’d all been arguing just before the woman died, as witnessed by a small-time private detective who had quite remarkably turned out to be Stephen’s very own half-brother.

  As the limo (probably the last one he’d get out of this fucking job) crossed Tower Bridge Stephen didn’t bother with the view, he was too busy seething. Those early revelations had been awkward enough, but Stephen had managed to ride out that storm; he had a thick skin, it hadn’t been too bad. It had only been a matter of time after that though – he’d known it would almost certainly all come out at the inquest, even though he’d offered Terry so much money to change his story, just a little. It wouldn’t have changed the outcome, he’d argued, but Terry wouldn’t budge, the sanctimonious wanker – he just kept saying he’d already made a statement, he couldn’t alter his story now. Stephen had tried his hardest to bully him into it, although deep down he’d k
nown it was madness, but he’d been desperate; and besides, he’d got away with worse before. So now, because of his weaselly half-brother’s sudden penchant for integrity, the rest of the unsavoury facts that would ruin Stephen’s hitherto soaring career were out.

  Stephen had known he couldn’t hope to have survived putting his own wife under surveillance while all the phone-hacking shit was going on, but it was Juliette’s leaving her friend for dead, she and her friends apparently saying they didn’t care if she drowned, that had caused the most sensational headlines, had finally finished him off. As the car crawled past the dismal sights of the New Kent Road down towards the Elephant and Castle, he let out a groan of humiliated rage, which the chauffeur politely ignored, he’d been doing this job long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. Stephen was finished, and it was all Juliette’s fault, the fucking bitch.

  Back in Canary Wharf, Stephen’s assistant Barry Smiley was jumping for joy, totally cock-a-bloody-hoop. He’d been as gobsmacked as everyone else when the story had started leaking out, in tantalising dribs and drabs at first, and then building relentlessly to the brilliantly shocking revelations of the inquest. He’d been amazed when everything had turned out to be true too: usually in these situations all manner of fantastical stories get bandied about before the less lurid facts are slowly extracted out of the morass of half-truths – but in this case the more wild the rumour the more accurate it had turned out to be. All it had taken was one emergency meeting less than two hours after the curtailing of the inquest for the publisher to decide to grant Stephen what they were euphemistically calling a ‘compassionate leave of absence’, and put Barry temporarily in charge.