The Pinocchio Brief

by Silver Abi

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “I asked him not to.”

  “Because Partram is one of your best players.”

  “Well, there is that, of course. And I’ve never had an issue with the boy. But it’s not just that. If a maths teacher has a problem with a boy he should give him the punishment there and then, something to do with maths. There was no reason why the detention had to be that afternoon. And I don’t think it’s right to punish the boys by taking away sport. It’s bad enough they’re cooped up together indoors for hours on end, they need an outlet.”

  “I see. So, did you explain your feelings to Mr Davis?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he still thought the boy was not setting a good example. Then, well, he said he would be discussing the issue at the next staff meeting but in the meantime the boy could play.”

  “So, just so I am clear. Mr Davis told you that Partram could play in the match.”

  “Yes.”

  “But that he wanted to think about future sanctions against Partram.”

  “Yes, and generally for other boys. Yes.”

  “What kind of sanctions?”

  “Detentions, getting their parents involved, extra lessons, that kind of thing.”

  “And who was going to tell Partram that he could play after all?”

  “I said I would.”

  “And did you?”

  Mr Simpson paused and his eyes searched the courtroom. Andrew Partram sat with two other boys only today, more towards the centre of row two, so clearly visible to Mr Simpson. Constance had identified the other boys to Judith as Jones and Evans, both also in the team. Judith had resisted the temptation to look up during her examination of Mr Simpson till now but had, instead, instructed Constance to watch the boys carefully throughout. Now she did so, she saw the three boys sitting very still, their expressions grave.

  “Yes.”

  Judith sensed Mr Simpson’s reticence and knew she was on to something here.

  “When did you tell Partram that he could play in the match?”

  Mr Simpson looked around again, clearly making eye contact with Partram.

  “Mr Simpson, please would you answer the question.”

  Mr Simpson shrugged, bit his lip and re-focussed on Judith.

  “The Friday morning.”

  “The Friday morning?” Judith’s tone was harsh and searching. She was on the attack.

  “Yes.”

  “The morning of the match?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when was your conversation with Mr Davis?”

  “Earlier in the week, I think it was Monday.”

  “So this boy, Partram, and perhaps the rest of the team also, was under the impression for the entire week that he, your star player, was not going to be able to play in the big match, the pinnacle of the year’s work, a match which rugby scouts from some big clubs were going to attend.”

  Mr Arkwright, who had been hovering somewhere between standing and sitting for the best part of the last five minutes, rose to his feet with a clatter.

  “Your Honour. Where is this all leading? I am concerned we are on yet another wild goose chase in a desperate attempt by Miss Burton to discredit the staff of this fine establishment, in order to divert attention from the real culprit, who is seated over there.” He pointed a fat, quivering finger at Raymond.

  The judge stared hard at Raymond whose face remained a blank canvas. Then he allowed his gaze to alight on the three Richmond Year 11 boys. Finally, his line of vision took in Mr Simpson, whose colour had risen noticeably as a result of Judith’s last question.

  “Mr Arkwright. This is a serious crime and this questioning does appear to have some relevance. I will allow Miss Burton to develop this line further. Miss Burton, get to the point soon please.”

  “Thank you, Your Honour. I will. Mr Simpson. Why did you not tell Partram that he could play, for the whole week?”

  “Well, at first I assumed Davis had told him. He kept coming to practices. It was only when he came and asked me that I realised.”

  “You just said you agreed with Mr Davis that you would tell the boy?”

  “Yes. No. Well, I’m not sure now. I thought at first that he was going to tell him, then I wondered if I had agreed. But then, well, Partram came and asked me.”

  “He came and asked you?”

  “Yes, on the morning of the match. He said, had I managed to speak to Mr Davis and was he playing?”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said of course he was playing, hadn’t Mr Davis told him? And he said no, that Mr Davis hated him.”

  “He said Mr Davis hated him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Mr Simpson?”

  “I said Mr Davis just wanted him to do well in his studies.”

  The answer, if truthful, should not have embarrassed Simpson, so why was he squirming so awkwardly in his seat? Judith decided to probe further.

  “Did you tell Partram the other things Mr Davis had said?”

  Mr Simpson stared up at the boys again. Evans nudged Partram who nudged him back. Mr Simpson swallowed.

  “Yes.”

  “And can I just remind the court what it was that Mr Davis had told you, that he was going to impose sanctions on Partram and the other boys whose studies were falling behind, more lessons, detention, bringing their parents into school, ‘that sort of thing’.”

  “Yes.”

  “You told him that too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I needed him and the others in the team, and if Davis pulled them out it was no good for them or for the team. And I didn’t say it quite the way Davis had said it.”

  “I see. So, you told him for altruistic reasons?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You told him for his own good?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the good of the team.”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “And it all worked out fine for everyone in the end?”

  “Well yeah, except for Davis of course.”

  “Yes, except for Mr Davis.”

  34

  MR SIMPSON. You told some lies today. I think Judith could see them but who knows? Marnie was always explaining to me. “Raymond, just because you can work something out, doesn’t mean everyone can.” I know she was talking about maths stuff but this is the same, I think.

  I actually don’t think you’re a bad person, Mr Simpson, just a misguided one. Because you say “it’s all about effort” and you say it so often I think you believe that you believe it yourself. But, in fact, you don’t. The way, when you come across Jones or Evans or Partram in the corridor, you give them a smile or a pat on the arm and deliver a comradely “All right Jones” to which “All right Sir” is the usual reply but when I walk past you sniff and turn your head away. The way you don’t bother recording anyone’s times past 14 seconds in the hundred metres. The way that once the first three finish in the swimming you leave to check the showers.

  And why you didn’t tell Partram till the morning of the match that he could play?

  I know that too. Because you told us all in our lesson only the week before. “This match is huge,” you said and, “I don’t care if you wake up paralysed from the waist down,” you said and, “if I pick you for the team you will play.” It wasn’t any kind of mistake or forgetfulness. You were cross with him for getting into trouble after you’d picked him. I think everyone got that point, they just don’t get the significance, not yet.

  And you didn’t only find out about Mr Davis at the end of the match. You chose your words carefully but you gave that impression. Mr Glover called you. I heard him call you from outside the window, when Mr Bailey was busy with the police. “Dan, don’t speak, just listen,” he said to you, “and try not to react too much to what I say.”
Then he cupped his free hand around his mouth just in case anyone was listening, but that didn’t keep me out and he told you then, “Listen, Davis is dead, stabbed. The police are here.”

  I don’t know what you said in reply, Mr Simpson. My hearing isn’t that good. Perhaps you asked if you should abandon the match. You might have done that. You were in the army once, Jamie said. So, I think you would have seen the life of a man as more important than a rugby match, even this grudge match, probably, but I’m not sure. Or perhaps you asked how it happened, was anyone else hurt, the kind of things a concerned person might have said about a work colleague, even one “who saw the world through different glasses”. But all I heard was Mr Glover asking you what the score was and then he said to pretend he’d never called you. He would come by after the match.

  Mr Davis, my maths teacher, my house master. No one has said much about you, have they? Well, except how you looked afterwards, once you were dead. I suppose that’s because it’s my trial and not yours.

  The thing is, Mr Davis, I thought you would have understood me better, given you were the way you were. You know, always insisting that things were done perfectly. I thought you might have felt like me when you were at school, had people say nasty things to you, tease you because you were a bit different, do things to you that you didn’t like. But when I told you, what they said, what they did, when Jamie finally persuaded me to speak to you, you were just like the rest. Said it would “get better”. Said that you could talk to them if I really wanted.

  But Jones’ dad was a big benefactor of the school. You mentioned that too. That he had dedicated the new computer block. So your advice was it would “be preferable to grin and bear it” and that “it was character building”. That’s when I knew it had happened to you too but you were not interested in helping me. Some people are funny like that. They want other people to suffer the way they have, even when they could do something to prevent it. And from then on you tried to avoid speaking to me one on one, just in case I asked you again to do it, to speak to them, to intervene, or, worse still, I tried to confide in you again.

  “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference”. I read that the other day and I thought it was very profound. I don’t know much about love but I know a lot about indifference.

  Maybe if you hadn’t been so indifferent, Mr Davis, you wouldn’t be dead now.

  35

  JUDITH WAS sitting in the pub, opposite the back entrance to the court, when Constance hurried in, considerably out of breath but with a determined look on her face. Judith had deliberately sought out this hole-in-the-wall so as not to be disturbed by anyone, including Constance, whilst she tried to put behind her the session with Mr Simpson and re-focus on Raymond, who would be giving evidence next.

  She was cross that whilst she had certainly obtained admissions from Mr Simpson that Raymond had been bullied and that he had taken Davis to task over a detention for one of his rugby team, this had not succeeded in providing any real assistance. First of all, it was just possible that the jury, especially after they had heard Jamie Benson’s reluctant outlining of the hockey incident, would conclude that the bullying had driven Raymond to retaliate and that, for some still unknown reason, Mr Davis had been his target. And second, as Arkwright had pointed out, gleefully, there was still no evidence to link Mr Simpson or any of the other boys to the murder.

  Could Simpson be the killer? Judith mused. He had crossed swords with Davis enough times and she found it hard to believe that their exchange had been as civil as Simpson made out. And all the things he had said about the boy in his team, Partram, he could’ve stopped short. Saying that Partram thought Davis “hated him”. That seemed rather self-serving, an attempt to deflect the questions away from himself without providing anything really useful. Perhaps Mr Simpson was cleverer than Judith had thought. But he had corroborated Mr Bailey’s evidence about the argument with Davis. Simpson had a motive but no opportunity and Bailey the reverse.

  Constance pushed her way past the occupants of two tables, pulled up a stool and sat down across from Judith, her chest heaving, a broad grin developing as she recovered her composure. Judith could not return it; she was too preoccupied with the prospect of Ray giving evidence and how this might pan out.

  “I thought I might find you hiding away in here,” Constance began amiably, albeit her words were tinged with excitement.

  “What is it?” Judith managed weakly, drinking the last dregs from her cup.

  “I have something to show you,” Constance announced.

  “Go on then,” Judith mumbled with little interest.

  “Not here.”

  Judith shrugged. She was tired and could not contemplate any change of scene before the walk back to court.

  “Judith, this place is crawling with reporters and informers. I have to show you something but I can’t possibly do it here.”

  Judith considered the situation carefully. She needed time sitting quietly in this darkened haven to marshal her thoughts, free from interference. But, if Constance was right, that the innocent-looking individuals seated around her were, indeed, journalists and stool pigeons, a fact she found difficult to believe but impossible to disprove, then the last thing she wanted was a scene, which would be all over the national press by the time she emerged from court.

  But before she had had time to weigh things up any further, Constance had grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She shrugged the younger woman off, not unkindly, but with a definite shake, at the same time allowing herself a guarded glance at Constance’s bright eyes.

  They braced the unseasonably cool breeze together, one eager, the other circumspect, Constance only stopping at a spot almost a hundred yards away where there was a conveniently positioned bench and no crowds. Constance rummaged in her bag and carefully extricated some orange and black rugby boots, rather war weary and missing one lace. Judith watched her turn the boots over to reveal their 13 studs and the word “Nazabe” emblazoned across each sole. She placed the boots one by one on Judith’s lap.

  “These aren’t…”

  “No, not the boots, of course not. But it would have been these boots which made the print outside Davis’ window, this colour and style, nothing else,” Constance explained.

  “How do you mean?” Judith was interested now, but dared not allow herself to hope.

  “I asked Dr Mainwaring for his contact at Nazabe yesterday lunch time and because of the time difference I only reached him very early this morning. Anyway, once I started asking him about the boots he was very chatty. He loves to talk about the history of their boots. I sent him through the print forensic had taken and he confirmed they only ever made one boot with the logo in that style. This one. And it was made in 1996.”

  “Now you’re not going to tell me he sent that boot from Sydney on an express courier?” Judith was trying to remain calm but her stomach had suddenly tightened and her pulse was starting to race.

  “No. I found them on eBay at about 5am this morning.”

  “On eBay?”

  “Yes. They were being sold by a guy in Luton. I called him and I sent a motorbike for them whilst we were in court. Of course, he had to withdraw them from the auction and risk the wrath of eBay but when I explained the circumstances he was happy to help.”

  Judith sat in silence running her fingers over the boots, her face motionless, her mind racing through everything they had seen and heard, trying to make sense of where this clue fitted into the puzzle of Mr Davis’ short life and violent death. Meanwhile, Constance was poring over her tablet again, expanding and contracting screens, listening on her earphones, tutting and huffing when her efforts were unrewarded.

  The wind gusted harder and Judith allowed her gaze to take in the street and all the people walking up and down, their clothes, their gait, their footwear, many of them drawing their coats and scarves around themselves in an attempt to stay warm. Most of the people braving the weather wore brown or black or
grey, all of it undistinguished. None of it was orange.

  “The future’s bright, the future’s orange,” she mumbled to herself once and then a second time. Constance ignored her on both occasions.

  “Connie. Orange stands out from the crowd. Orange never goes unnoticed. Whoever wore them that day, someone will have noticed him.” She checked her watch. She really needed to return to court and put on her robes.

  Constance nodded gravely. “I’ll head back to school straight away. Don’t let the case close tonight, whatever happens. Keep it going as it may take me a little time.”

  Judith thrust the boots back at Constance, stood up smartly and headed off to prepare for Raymond.

  36

  JUDITH REFRAINED from even sneaking a look at Arkwright as she set her papers out, methodically, on the desk. She sensed his over-confidence; he believed he had already done enough to put Raymond away for a long time. She rehearsed the first three questions she had planned to ask Raymond, over and over in her mind, to ensure she remained focussed.

  Raymond arrived quietly enough and sat in the dock, gazing off into the distance, as had been his habit throughout the trial, except at the moment at which he had stared sincerely at Mrs Taylor. That had unnerved Judith. His timing, and the manner in which he had addressed her with his eyes, had been textbook. How had he known what Judith was planning to say to Mrs Taylor and how she was hoping Mrs Taylor would respond?

  Judge Blake entered briskly and cast his eyes around the courtroom, including a fleeting visit to the public gallery. The Richmond boys remained, back to six of them this time. She knew who they were now; Evans and Jones to the left of Partram and Cartwright, Allen and Wadebridge to their right.

  “Miss Burton. Am I correct that, other than your medical expert, the accused is your second and last witness?”

  Judith looked up at the judge at the sound of her name. Why oh why had they been allocated such a proficient judge? It was all very tedious having to tell him in advance what her plans were. He must know, from his own time at the Bar, that things often evolved and that counsel should be given some rope to climb.