The Pinocchio Brief

by Silver Abi

  Mr Simpson opened his mouth and closed it quickly again. Damn it! He had not intended to mention the video.

  “Sure.” His voice came out an octave too high and he coughed to regain his equilibrium. “I can’t see how it can be at all relevant, but if you want it? It was taken by one of the fathers. I’ll ask him to lend it to you.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind. Clearly we need to see it straight away.” The bell rang in the hallway and Mr Simpson sprang to his feet.

  “That’s it, ladies,” he announced chirpily. “Time’s up.”

  “Just one last thing, Mr Simpson.” Judith moved boldly to bar Mr Simpson’s way and he paused reluctantly to accommodate her. “Would it have been possible for any of the boys in the rugby team – you mentioned a few of them – to have slipped away during the match without you noticing?”

  Mr Simpson sniggered nastily at her.

  “Well, if that’s the best you can do, I pity Maynard. Of course not. They were all either on the pitch or on the bench where I could see them. They’re part of a team. They don’t just go wandering off.”

  “And Partram, your man of the match, is he the best player in the team?”

  “Well, one of them,” he replied. “He is usually quite good, but that day, yeah, like I said, he was on fire.”

  ***

  “SO NOW you’re going to tell me he’s our star witness.” Constance decided it was safe to broach the subject when their carriage on the Underground was empty, apart from a man with a dog who was soundly asleep in the far corner.

  “Possibly,” Judith muttered.

  “Oh Judith. You aren’t serious? You reject Jamie Benson because he’s too nice and Mrs Taylor ’cos she may be confused and then you want Rambo in the box?”

  “Well, you were the one who lectured me on how unsophisticated people make the best witnesses.”

  “I hadn’t met Mr Simpson at that time. Yuch! The guy’s a creep.”

  “I’ve met considerably worse,” Judith replied. “At least he is honest.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Or regarding what he thought of Davis anyway; perhaps the rest was not so candid. He told us clearly that he didn’t like Davis and I can see that would be the case, even though they both liked discipline and rules. Funny that, isn’t it? They couldn’t find any common ground.”

  Constance shivered dramatically.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Ooh…I just…I just disliked that man. The way he looked me up and down, the way he looked at you. The way he said ‘ladeez’ as if he meant we were anything but. I pity his girlfriend.”

  “Oh, I think you might find he bats for the other side.”

  Constance let out a loud guffaw.

  “Stop it!” she screeched, “or he’ll have us both for defamation.”

  “No, I’m serious. Spotless white T-shirt and slacks. Working all day in rooms full of boys. Marching into the changing rooms, checking on the temperature of the showers.”

  “Oh stop!” Constance shrieked again. “You are awful. And you are only saying that because you didn’t manage to charm him, like the others.”

  “Yes. You are right there. If only I was 10 years younger, then perhaps I would have stood a chance of making a conquest.” Judith pulled out a compact from her purse and gave her face a cursory critical glance

  “And you want me to review the video of the match?”

  “Yes. Look out for where Mr Glover was and when, if he’s visible. And I suppose it will most likely formally absolve all the boys who were playing. But if you think of where we were sitting earlier, you also had a pretty good view of at least one way to Davis’ rooms from the pitch. You never know what might appear in the background.”

  “Sure. And after that?” Constance enquired as they pulled into the next station.

  “After that? Well, tomorrow is Raymond’s turn I think. And let’s hope he is on form.”

  13

  RAYMOND MAYNARD sat at the table in the centre of the airless subterranean room, a pen and paper before him, his hands on his thighs and his head bowed. A maroon, baggy jumper hung off his skinny frame. One eye, just visible beneath his unkempt hair, was red-rimmed and swollen. He did not move when the two women entered, or give any sign of acknowledging their presence.

  Judith nodded to Constance, who removed her coat and hung it lightly over the back of one of the two vacant wooden chairs, sitting herself down opposite him. Judith remained standing a little longer, staring keenly at Raymond, eventually dragging her chair backwards a metre or so, its legs scraping the floor. Then she sat down. Only once the operation was complete did Constance begin to speak.

  “Ray. I came a couple of days ago. I’m Constance Lamb. Do you remember?”

  There was no response.

  “Your mother sent me. She has asked me to represent you in place of Mr Johnson.”

  Nothing.

  Constance smiled warmly and gestured towards Judith.

  “This is Judith Burton. She’s a famous criminal barrister. I have told her about your case and she’s going to take it on. She’s agreed to defend you at your trial.”

  Ray raised his head with apparent effort and gazed emptily at Judith, revealing a pinched nose, mauve, tight lips and a leaden complexion. He didn’t blink for a full minute. His one good eye was bloodshot, the iris the grey of a rainy morning in London. The court artists would have a field day sketching him, Judith reflected with annoyance and concern. Ray returned to contemplating the floor disinterestedly, and Constance, taking advantage of Judith’s silence, ploughed on.

  “Ray. We, Judith and I, we’ve identified some inconsistencies in the evidence given by other witnesses and we are hoping it will help to show that Mr Davis was killed 20 minutes or so before you found his body. That’s great news, don’t you think?”

  Ray remained motionless without registering any response.

  “But even with that good news, we do need help from you as well.”

  The two women exchanged enquiring glances. After a moment, Judith stepped in.

  “Yesterday we went to your school. We saw Mrs Taylor, the headmaster’s secretary. She said she found you in Mr Davis’ rooms. Clearly that’s not good. However, you were the one who called the police and you stayed there until they arrived. That is not usual for a murderer; I am sure you can see that.” Judith paused.

  “And Mrs Taylor heard noises, possibly shouting, around 20 minutes before she found you. That’s what I was talking about before. So that’s helpful too,” Constance added.

  Ray remained still, his breathing quiet. In fact, from time to time, Judith wondered if he was breathing at all.

  “We know you didn’t go to the rugby match, Jamie Benson confirmed that. Did you see anything or hear anything unusual before you went to Mr Davis’ rooms?” Judith continued.

  Silence.

  “Ray, you will have to give evidence, you know, at the trial. It’s the law now. And it might be easier to talk to us first, rather than the judge.”

  The minutes ticked away; Ray stared at the floor, frozen stiff. A fly landed on the tip of his right forefinger, its wings flicking together once, twice. Judith, frowning madly, bent forward to flick it away, unable to stomach its jerky taunting, but stopped herself at the last minute. Ray remained silent and still. Constance reached for her mobile and checked it for messages, returning it to her pocket with a sigh. The movement disturbed the insect which disappeared to the upper reaches of the gloomy room.

  “Ray. I am good,” Judith continued. “I have defended many people like you – well, in your position. I will get you out of here, I will – don’t give up, but I need you to answer these questions. I need you to help me out.”

  More silence.

  Judith stood up abruptly and motioned to Constance to join her in the corner of the room.

  “Is this what he was like when you saw him last time?” She spoke in an undertone.

  “Yes,” Constance nodded
. “Only I think he looks even worse now. And he smells too. I wonder if he’s washing.”

  “I think we should get a doctor to see him,” Judith advised earnestly, “a psychiatrist. I have one in mind, Dr Gattley. She’s very good. He may be suffering from some kind of shock, not that surprising, or she may come up with something else useful for us; depression, or even if she confirms Asperger’s or that kind of diagnosis. Something we can use by way of mitigation. Frankly, anything would help if this is all we’ve got.”

  Constance nodded again. “All right. I’ll organise it. Will we need a report?”

  “Yes. And I want to see it before she signs it.”

  The two women stole a glance back at Raymond, who had not moved since they left him. Judith sighed.

  “I was hoping we might get some kind of statement,” she whispered to Constance, “so we knew what happened from his side of things.”

  Constance folded her arms across her chest. “I know,” she replied.

  “Are you sure he didn’t do it?” Judith persisted. “I mean the only thing going for him, at the moment, is that the killer probably used his left hand.”

  Constance stared hard at Raymond, all the time considering if this mild and inconsequential boy could have done something so brutal and intense.

  “I have an idea,” she mouthed to Judith, crossing the room nimbly and seating herself down facing Raymond again.

  “Ray?” Constance’s earnest tones rang out in the darkened room. “Is there something you need, something we can get for you that would help you to talk to us?”

  Ray shuffled in his seat for the first time, his eyes blinking lazily once. Then he lifted his right arm sluggishly, to apply the pen before him to the paper. He wrote two words before hunching over once more. Constance grinned at Judith, reached over and took the paper from him and swivelled it around so that both she and Judith could read his message.

  “iPhone, mirror,” she read aloud.

  Judith sat down again too and surveyed Ray with considerable impatience, crossing her legs and re-crossing them and finally leaning in towards him.

  “You want these things,” she declared coldly, “you have to help us.”

  Ray picked up the pen again and painstakingly wrote “3 questions”, his writing spidery and childlike.

  Judith eyed him gravely and nodded once.

  “OK. I will ask you three questions and at the end Constance will do her utmost to procure for you an iPhone and a mirror. I cannot promise you it will happen, but we will do our very best. And, on top of that, you must agree that you will allow Constance to prepare you for trial, to make sure you have a shower, a smart suit and a haircut. That’s the deal. Agreed?”

  Ray nodded stiffly once, the two women taken aback by his first normal response to their questions. Judith looked searchingly at Constance; she had never encountered this before. Usually, she couldn’t shut her clients up, so keen were they to proclaim their innocence. She sat bolt upright, raised her hands to her face, brought them together and then lowered them, inhaling deeply and then exhaling.

  “Do you know who killed Mr Davis?” she enquired, gazing hard at the top of Ray’s head.

  Ray shuffled his feet, picked up the paper and made to write but Judith snatched it away and scrunched it up into a tight ball within her fist. Constance flinched at the abruptness of her action.

  “Oh no. I ask, you answer,” Judith ordered, her eyes blazing. “You tell me the answer. I want to hear it from you.”

  Ray’s top lip trembled, but only for a moment. The rest of his body remained absolutely still. He allowed his writing hand to return slowly to his side, where it hung limply, and then tilted his head so far backwards that he had the air of looking down his nose at the two women.

  “No.” He uttered the syllable in a reedy, rusty voice.

  “Thank you. Was Mr Davis dead when you found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why won’t you help us help you?”

  Ray paused before replying, even longer than previously. He remained incredibly still. When he finally spoke, it was casual and relaxed.

  “You’re the experts,” he said simply, and then folded his arms to indicate that there was no more information to come.

  PART TWO

  SIX YEARS EARLIER

  14

  “TODAY’S LECTURE is about lying. Yes, that’s right, lying. We all do it. Sometimes just tiny fibs – ‘I didn’t finish the orange juice’ – sometimes huge ones – ‘No phone hacking ever went on at News Group newspapers’ – but most often somewhere in between. I think you all get the message.”

  A low hum settled over the auditorium. For the last five minutes, whilst awaiting the arrival of the stragglers, there had been shuffling, scrambling and small talk. Now the background noises abated, every back was straight and all eyes were fixed on Dr Gregory Winter, guest speaker on the UCL third year psychology course. He was a tall man with a deep, resonant voice, black, wavy hair and an informal mien, galvanised by his foray into his favourite subject of the moment. And, as he spoke, he strolled calmly across the front of the stage and back again, maintaining his hands constantly at chest level, the tips of his fingers making contact periodically, drumming against each other in time to his words.

  “I’m not going to talk about whether a person should ever lie; that’s a topic for another time and, probably, for a different speaker.” He smiled broadly, as if at some private joke, opening his hands wide this time before continuing. “Today I am going to talk about how to detect when someone is lying.” He stopped suddenly and stood erect, drawing his shoulders back, a fervent intensity temporarily overwhelming his usually soft features, rendering them sharp and jagged. Then, a chesty cough in the second row helped him return to his customary easy-going demeanour. He began to pace again.

  “So, first of all, lie detector tests. Where do we use them? Hands up, any ideas? Yes, you on the back row. What do you think?”

  “In court.”

  “Good answer – absolutely. In court. Just the accused, do you think? Yes – you with the blue jumper.”

  “You could use it for all the witnesses.”

  “Very good. In court, for witnesses or defendants. Or when you see those police dramas on TV and everyone is watching through the glass, wondering if what they’re being told is a pack of lies. OK, moving away from the courtroom and the police, any other ideas?”

  Dr Winter was walking faster now, his eyes bright and alert, his entire body applauding each answer.

  “In a public enquiry?”

  “Yes. Thank you to the young man on the back row. To get to the truth when people are covering things up – no one wants to break ranks. Mr Assange thought that was important, didn’t he? But you’re all still thinking about formal uses. Think closer to home. Come on. You’re psychology students. Where’s your imagination?”

  Dr Winter hesitated centre-stage, his eyes wide, his palms facing the ceiling. It was all for effect, the hand motions, the pauses, the smiles to engage the audience; he had practised them endlessly before the mirror and his quiet and attentive audience confirmed their effectiveness.

  But, on this occasion, despite his carefully-crafted appearance of expectancy, he was not anticipating the correct answer. On the three occasions he had given this particular lecture before, no one had even come close, although there had been some curious suggestions. Of course, once you put them out of their misery, they couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of it before. It was so simple. That was what was so brilliant about it.

  “Am I going to have to tell you?” Dr Winter’s momentary lapse into self-importance indicated that this would not pain him as much as his words suggested.

  “I believe you are directing us to think along the lines of a test of whether one’s partner replies truthfully when you ask where he has been till 4am and why he emits the pungent odour of someone else’s perfume. Although I’m not sure one really needs a lie detector to answer that questi
on.”

  It was a woman who had spoken, her rich, sumptuous voice a missile tipped with cynicism; an invisible woman, sitting low down in her seat and concealed by a large youth, sporting an oversize parka, positioned on the row in front.

  The feedback of the audience was mixed but along consistent lines; about half laughed aloud, the majority of the other half (well, pretty much everyone else except Dr Winter) only smiled, wondering what the lecturer would make of this part answer, part critique, awaiting his reaction before committing themselves either way.

  With a tightly knit brow, Dr Winter’s eyes searched for the face of his antagonist for a full 20 seconds, but as his students began to fidget, he withdrew them, lowered his hands to his sides for the first time and nodded repeatedly and reassuringly. Certainly, he had been taken by surprise, but he wanted to keep the momentum going.

  “Well. You have, despite your mocking – I’m sorry, I didn’t see who spoke – you have, our anonymous heckler, come up with the right answer. Friends, family, loved ones. Aren’t there times when you wonder if they’re telling you the complete story? How did the car get that dent in the wing? What time did they come home last night? Or what about a new date? You are dying to know everything about the person sitting opposite you and you want to make sure it’s reliable. He says he’s single; this way you make sure. This tool could revolutionise the way we relate to each other.”

  The auditorium was absolutely silent now; no one dared breathe whilst Dr Winter’s words began to sink in. The unidentified woman had been right. He wanted them to use lie detection on their nearest and dearest. He was going to make it easy to determine who was cheating on whom.

  Dr Winter saw their faces, the potential of his gift to the world slowly dawning on them. This was generally his favourite bit of the talk, that second where darkness was defeated and light streamed in to reign in its place. And he imagined, in that second, how their fingers would shortly (after his lecture had finished of course) be sending out his message to their contacts all over the planet. He contained his exhilaration and ploughed on.