The Pinocchio Brief

by Silver Abi

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “Just once. I said to him ‘Raymond, what happened to Mr Davis?’ And he looked up at me and he said ‘it wasn’t me’.”

  “It wasn’t me.” Judith rolled the words around in her mouth, testing their weight and significance with her tongue.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what he said.”

  “Did he speak to the police?”

  “Yes, he told them where to come.”

  “Do you recall what else he said on the telephone?”

  Mrs Taylor shook her head apologetically.

  “Constance, make a note that I should like a transcript of the 999 call. Mrs Taylor, did Mr Glover appear on the scene?”

  “Yes, after the police. It took Mr Bailey some time to find him in the middle of the crowd.”

  Judith paused for a moment and allowed her pen to run rapidly down her page of notes till she found the place she was seeking.

  “Thank you. Oh. One other little thing. Did you notice any unusual smell in Mr Davis’ rooms when you went in there?”

  Mrs Taylor shook her head. “No, nothing unusual. But I was more busy with what I could see, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I understand. I know this is very harrowing for you so I just have one more area to explore and then we can finish. I want to ask about the noises you heard at, I think you said, at around 2.50pm.”

  “Yes.”

  “You say they came from Mr Davis’ rooms and you were, where, in your office?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “But that’s not very close to Mr Davis’ rooms, is it? We had to walk along a corridor and around the staircase before we got here. Are you certain the shouting came from Mr Davis’ rooms?”

  Mrs Taylor hesitated and she looked around for reassurance.

  “Well, I thought, I assumed, the shouting came from Mr Davis’ rooms. I mean, he was the only one here.”

  “But how could you hear shouting from that far away?”

  “I don’t know. I...”

  She cast around for some assistance with her memory, eyes focussed on a distant far away spot. Then she stood up slowly and re-entered her office next door. Judith and Constance followed her and found her standing by the window, which was open about two inches.

  “Here.” She pointed. “I always have the window open as the fresh air keeps my brain clear. I don’t want to get any of that SARS, you see.”

  “May I open it further?” Judith was at Mrs Taylor’s elbow, already beginning to prise the sash further up. Mrs Taylor assented and Judith tussled with the window until she had a wide enough aperture to thrust her head out into the open air. To her right, she could just about detect the dog-leg leading to the building which housed Mr Davis’ rooms. Judith clucked her tongue twice against the roof of her mouth and then stood for a moment before extending her hand once more to Mrs Taylor and thanking her profusely for her time.

  7

  LEVEL TWO is accomplished. It has taken hours, but I had hours, many of them. And now I can do it I can’t believe I had never tried before. It’s such a wonderful way of throwing them off the scent; to appear slack and careless but, in reality, to be taut and attentive.

  And more than that, so many things now catch my eye which would have gone unnoticed before, despite my superior sensory faculties. Perhaps it is that people are more casual and slipshod before me than previously, now they believe me stupid and indolent, their guards down; the whispering of the wardens when they bring in my meals: “Is he awake or asleep?” “Can’t tell with him.” “Phew he’s a strange one, all that staring. Do you think he’s cracked?” “He never speaks, probably funny in the head.” “But watch out, as the quiet ones are often the worst.” “Once they get a doctor to assess him we’ll see if he’s mad or not.” “Either way he’s fucked.”

  I know when Howard, the old man with the prostate problem (I heard him whispering on the phone to the doctor only this morning), who should have been promoted but has “missed the boat”, has overslept. It won’t surprise you to know that I looked that one up, just to check: “To lose an opportunity that could lead to success” – that was my favourite definition, short, snappy and to the point. He arrives with odd socks, his shirt untucked, his face unshaven and spots of ketchup down his front from the Sausage McMuffin he consumed on the train on his way into work. And his hands shake when he first comes in to check on me. He hovers by the door, reluctant even to share my air. Later, two cups of black coffee and a cigarette later, the shaking is less pronounced.

  I know when Brandon, the young firebrand, who practises knife-throwing in his garage at night and who is missing two fingers on his left hand after a historic encounter with a similar kind of knife, has fought with his girlfriend Charlene. He is jumpy, his fingers twitching and curling themselves around an imaginary blade at every opportunity. On the days when they are reconciled, his step is more secure, his breathing more regular. Funny thing how he needs his knife. He is forbidden to bring it to work (I heard Howard reminding him in an almost-fatherly tone, when they chuckled over some story of Brandon’s heroics), so he has to settle for pretending it is still there, its weight in his back pocket comforting him through his day. He’s not very clever but he understands that rule is sacrosanct; no blades or sharp objects. Which is illogical, given what the wardens are authorised to carry.

  I know what weapons they are allowed now and where they keep them, the stun gun in case I leap up unexpectedly, the favoured choice of the nervous ones like Howard, who don’t want to get too near me and abhor physical contact; the rubber baton to administer a short, sharp rebuke if I look askance or to beat me into submission if I refuse some tedious request. Brandon is itching to use that on me. I can tell. But I also know what they were told by Narinder; she’s the boss even though she’s 20 years younger than Howard and he told Brandon, in a rebellious moment, that she was only promoted because of “positive discrimination”. She told them I was going to have a big trial with lots of “media interest” although I’m not sure Brandon knew what that meant. She ordered them not to touch me unless they were in “extreme danger”. That still doesn’t mean I am completely safe but it provides a modicum of reassurance.

  I know the code for my door; I learned it on only the second time they entered: “2710”, probably someone’s birthday. Scorpio. That means born between October 23 and November 21. Scorpio: known to be passionate, faithful but ambitious. Scorpio is ruled by Mars (the Roman god of War) and Pluto (the Roman god of the Underworld). If you want to date a Scorpio, not that that is on my mind at the moment, or ever has been really, you need to wear black leather and behave in a dominant and fiery way. I think I’ll steer clear of Scorpios from now on.

  I could probably venture which warden it is, though. I wager Narinder, with her black-lined lids. She wears bangles under her regulation shirt. Jewellery is forbidden for the guards but perhaps, as she is the boss, she can bend the rules.

  “Bend the rules”. I love that expression.

  Marnie had to explain it to me, I remember. We were sitting around the breakfast table. I was having toast with butter on one half only and jam on the other, cut diagonally. Marnie was eating Special K with water instead of milk and mum said to Marnie that wearing a mini skirt at school wasn’t allowed and if she insisted on wearing it she would be “bending the rules”.

  I still see a picture in my head, when I say it, of these little stick men, in a group, musicians, called the Rules or maybe, like the Beatles, we could call them “The Rools”; it’s written on their drum, just like the Beatles’ name was, and they are first leaning right over one way and then the other in time to the music. Oh, it makes me happy to think about it even now.

  But I don’t want to waste valuable energy on such mundane things. I have much more important matters to focus on. Miss Constance Lamb, my new solicitor, came to see me. I didn’t speak to her either, although I wondered if I should. She smelled much nicer than the last one and she wore a scarf which I wa
nted to touch. In the end, I decided not to say anything but I gave her a clue, just so that she wouldn’t leave empty-handed. She told me the trial would be soon and that she was “working on some leads”. But she didn’t sound very convinced when she said it, more sad and tired. So, like I said before, I have to help myself. I have to get on with my plan.

  And anyway, there is nothing else to do in this dreary location but prepare, no books and one hour of internet twice a day, which I utilise fully, when they are not watching. Five minutes of Brian Cox leaves them bored to death so they exit and then I begin in earnest.

  If I could just persuade them to give me my iPhone. I’ve asked. I don’t speak, of course. But I wrote it down on a piece of paper which I left on my dinner tray. Then Narinder said the police have kept it “for analysis”. She spoke to me slowly as if I was a small child. For what? They won’t find anything on there. Perhaps another device, a new one? They couldn’t object to that. I’ll ask again. That would be invaluable. That would allow me to progress more quickly to level three, which I need to complete swiftly if I am to achieve my aim in time.

  8

  IT WAS only when they were safely installed in Mr Glover’s office, awaiting his arrival, that Constance spoke and the force of her emotion shocked Judith.

  “You don’t believe her, do you?” she questioned Judith sternly.

  Judith sat down heavily and unbuttoned her jacket.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I saw your face.” Constance wanted to shout but, in the confines of this room, she settled for a loud but forceful whisper. “You didn’t believe Mrs Taylor, when she said she heard shouting from his room. You thought it was too far away.”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe her, Constance. I am just weighing up, in a dispassionate way, the likelihood of it being accurate. That’s my...that’s our job.”

  “But it’s his only lifeline, don’t you see?” Constance had risen to her feet and was staring back at the room they had just vacated. “She, Mrs Taylor, has thrown him his only lifeline. She said in her statement, and again, to us, that she heard shouting coming from Davis’ room 20 minutes before she found him. That was incredibly helpful for Raymond. It showed he was unlikely to be the killer.”

  “I don’t see that. Explain.”

  “Well, he isn’t going to have a blazing row with Mr Davis, stab him and then come back 20 minutes later to look at the body, is he?”

  Judith gave a low moan, weighted heavily with annoyance.

  “Sit down, Constance, please.”

  Constance obeyed the instruction, her eyes blazing, her arms folded defensively across her chest.

  “When you called me and asked me to help you, did I or did I not attach some conditions?”

  Constance fumed silently. She was not stupid. She remembered their conversation verbatim, including the icy stare Judith had bestowed on her whilst delivering her sermon on the parameters of their working relationship.

  “Ah. I see you remember. So, without dwelling on that point for now, as I said, we must not be influenced by emotions or hopes; that will not help Raymond. We have to be clinical and weigh up what we are told, particularly if it comes from a potential suspect.”

  Constance swallowed once and stared at the table, suddenly deflated.

  “Judith, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to question you. It’s just that, well, I was hoping you would share your theories with me, not keep running ahead. I was hoping this would be, well, more of a partnership.”

  “Ha!” Judith snorted once. “I don’t believe for one moment that the other barristers you work with are collaborative. They probably expect you to do all the work and then they just turn up on the day and do the talking.”

  “Well, at least I know what’s going on then.”

  Judith viewed the younger woman cautiously.

  “Constance. I can’t change the way I work after all these years. If I have a hunch, I follow it through. I cannot possibly keep stopping to check if you agree.”

  She paused and placed her hands flat on the table.

  “However, it would be a waste of your considerable skills for me to simply use you as a bag carrier, I know and appreciate that. I do and will continue to value your contribution. But, for now, today, I need you to watch and listen and make notes and provide support. Please do as I ask and please stop taking offence when none is intended. And I note your comments and I will remain open-minded about Mrs Taylor’s testimony, for the present, anyway.”

  Judith had surprised herself with her level of self-control. In the past, she would have asked to see the senior partner and have another solicitor appointed or she would have walked out and waited to be coaxed back with a lengthy written apology. But this was not the past. She had changed since, well, since that matter with Martin.

  “What about the rest of her evidence?” Constance was speaking with a more even and relaxed tone and her gaze was gentler too.

  “Mrs Taylor? Well, clearly she didn’t like Davis.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, it’s obvious. All that ‘some people are in here all the time’. You saw how she enjoyed being buttered up. Davis wasn’t like that; not ‘one of the boys’. He kept himself to himself, ate on his own and he liked ‘formality’. He probably didn’t even know her first name.”

  “So, why did she go to his room?”

  “Curiosity, I think, about the call he took or why he had defied Mr Glover’s demand to go to the match. She thought she would see what he was doing so she could report back. But the idea of making him tea is ludicrous. We saw, he has his own kitchen.”

  “But say she really did hear a noise when she says, that might fit with our story after all,” Constance concluded, her face flushing anew.

  “How so?”

  “Well, let’s say that all she heard was someone, the killer, clattering around, perhaps not as far away as Mr Davis’ rooms, maybe on the stairs outside her office or even coming in through the front entrance. That lends support to the possibility that it wasn’t Raymond, that someone else entered the school 20 minutes before she found Mr Davis and Raymond.”

  “Absolutely. Good. Although why a killer would bash around or walk brazenly in through the front door I can’t imagine.”

  “No. Unless the killing wasn’t planned. It doesn’t look planned, does it? I mean, killed with his own kitchen knife.”

  “Yes. You’re right, Constance. Quite right. I don’t think the killer planned to kill Mr Davis. There was a row, the chair was overturned, the books were thrown to the floor, the laptop smashed. However, he or she, almost certainly he, was very angry when he plunged the knife in. The force of the impact broke a rib and penetrated the aorta. It was a pretty forceful blow. Probably, therefore, someone with a reasonable amount of physical strength, which I think we both agree is unlikely to be Mrs Taylor, unless she does tae kwon do in her spare time. Sadly, of course, it could be any number of the 500 or so boys who were all in close proximity to Mr Davis on the day he died.”

  “You think it was one of the boys then, rather than another teacher or a stranger?”

  “It’s too early to say. But I begin with the statistics which show that most people are killed by someone they know.”

  “And why did you ask about a smell in the room?”

  “I thought I smelled chlorine, just faintly, possibly a cleaning product. The window has been open all these days and it could have been something forensic brought in. But it might indicate someone, the murderer, trying to cover his tracks.” She shook her head from side to side. “Now, I think we have gone as far as we can with our analysis of Mrs Taylor for today. Shall we speak to Mr Glover? I believe I hear his step in the corridor now.”

  Mr Glover was a man of around 50 years old, tall and slim, hair greying around the temples and swept back from his heavily tanned face. Judith cast a disapproving eye over his apparel: navy blue tailored jacket and trousers, pale blue shirt and no tie. And most curiously,
on his feet he wore a pair of black and red Nike trainers. She had expected at least a three-piece suit and brogues. Richmond was not the best London boarding school for boys, although it was pressing on the door of the top 20, but it had had a reputation for stuffiness under the previous headmaster. Perhaps Mr Glover was trying to break the mould.

  He crossed the room in three long strides and settled himself behind his desk, tucking his chair well in and leaning his elbows on the table, his fingers clasped underneath his chin. It was a look which did not suit the formality of his position and he almost immediately shifted, returning his hands to the table top.

  “Well, ladies. I heard you asked to see me. Lorraine, Mrs Taylor, tells me you are representing Maynard.” His voice was light, his accent leaning towards a stint in the USA at some stage of his childhood or early working life.

  “Yes. Thank you for agreeing to see us. I am Judith Burton, Raymond’s defence barrister, and this is Constance Lamb, his solicitor.”

  “Yes. Well, fire away. I’ll do what I can. Anything to help that poor boy.”

  Judith nodded once and took up her pen, turning the page in her notebook simultaneously. Constance sat next to her, fingers poised above her screen.

  “I think it would be useful to begin with a few bits of background, if I may. First of all, did you appoint Mr Davis?”

  “Yes. Three years ago. He was my first academic appointment.”

  “I see. And was he a good teacher?”

  “Yes. I think so. All new teachers go through a probationary period, even the most senior ones, to check they are up to standard and that they fit in with our, well, our culture, and he passed very comfortably.”

  “And what is your culture?”

  “Good question. Under my predecessor, Mr Dante, the school developed a tremendous reputation for academic excellence, particularly on the maths and science side. But perhaps unusually for a school like ours, we seemed to be lagging behind some of our peers in sport. There were a couple of staff changes around a decade ago and there was no clear leadership on the sports side. I appointed Mr Simpson as head of sport and elevated his position to sit on the senior management team and we have never looked back since. Top of the London independent schools in athletics for the last two years and three boys achieved sports scholarships to US universities last year.” Mr Glover preened himself noticeably as he complimented himself on his considerable achievement.