by TM Logan
‘So, in light of all this,’ he gestured at the computer monitor, ‘I’ve talked to the head this morning. He’s really rather exercised about the whole thing.’
He let it hang there for a minute, seeming to relish the moment.
‘And?’ I said finally.
‘And as of now you’re suspended from teaching duties until further notice.’
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.
‘You’re suspending me?’
‘That’s right. Effective immediately.’
‘On the basis of a picture on Facebook?’
‘On the basis of you being embroiled in a police investigation.’
‘Embroiled? What does that mean?’
‘You’re part of a police investigation. The school has to be seen to have acted responsibly if this leaks to the media. Which, as we both know, is pretty much inevitable in this day and age.’
What he was saying finally registered with me.
‘You’re actually serious, aren’t you?’
‘Deadly serious. There will also be an internal investigation overseen by the chair of governors, as per school regs.’
‘Whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty?’
‘This is not a court of law, Joe.’ He spread his hands wide as if indicating the world around us. ‘This is the court of public opinion, which is much more fickle and likely to judge by appearances.’
‘A kangaroo court, you mean.’
‘It’s reality. It’s how the world is, how people are.’
‘The rule of the mob, more like.’
‘The decision has been taken.’
‘You can’t do this.’
‘I’m doing it. With the head’s full sanction.’
I felt the blood pounding in my head, and swallowed hard on a dry throat.
‘This is crazy, it’s not fair. It’s wrong.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ve got enough years of service here, so you’ll be on full pay. At least for the time being.’
‘The pay’s not the point. People will assume there’s no smoke without fire.’ I was suddenly furious at the unfairness of it all, shaking with anger. ‘It’s my reputation we’re talking about here.’
‘No.’ He pointed a stubby index finger at me. ‘It’s the school’s reputation we’re talking about. And as we both know, no teacher here is bigger than the school. No one is more important than the school. You seem to have forgotten that.’
I shook my head.
‘I haven’t forgotten anything. I haven’t forgotten the nine years’ good service I’ve given this place.’
‘Every so often we have to take one for the team, my friend. Today just happens to be your turn.’
I thought for a moment how satisfying it would be to lean over his desk, grab the front of his shirt and pound my fist into his smug, self-satisfied face. See if he’d like to take one for the team. I looked away from him and put my clenched fists on my knees, trying to get my emotions back in check.
‘How long am I suspended for?’
‘Until this has run its course. Until your business with the police is resolved.’
‘I haven’t got any business with the police! They just wanted to talk to me!’
Draper sat back in his chair.
‘Shouting at me won’t help your cause.’
I took a couple of deep breaths, feeling my heart thumping against my ribcage.
‘How do you expect me to react? This is complete bullshit.’
‘Using inappropriate language won’t help you either.’
‘Right. Whatever. I’ve got to talk to my union rep.’
‘Of course. Have him call Jane and we’ll get an appointment in the diary.’
‘Are we finished?’
‘I think so.’ He gave me a thin smile. ‘For now, at least.’
I stood up and headed for the door.
‘Oh, and by the way, Joe?’
‘What?’
‘Would you do something for me?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
He had already returned his attention to the computer monitor on his desk.
‘Stay off school property while you’re suspended. There’s a good chap.’
I slammed his office door on the way out.
38
It seemed as if everyone in school was staring at me as I walked, head down, back to my car. Registration was over and a thousand kids were heading to their first lesson of the day, in pairs and threes, in groups, in packs, and I found myself right in the middle of them. Every pupil I passed gave me a look of recognition. Before, I had just been a member of the teaching staff, known to some, semi-anonymous to the rest. Now I was that teacher who got arrested on Facebook, and it seemed everyone knew me. My progress through the crowd of navy blazers was accompanied by whispered conversations and pictures snapped as I passed by.
How long will it take before this is forgotten? Weeks? Months? Never?
Back in my car, I synced my mobile to my Facebook account and found the picture of me being led into Kilburn Police Station. I couldn’t delete it – or the copies that had been made by others who had shared it – but by untagging myself I could at least reduce its visibility just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
A thought came to me. I clicked on David Bramley’s account and checked through his profile. His avatar picture was Hulk’s snarling face from the latest Avengers movie. No information about school, or home town, or relationship status. He had eleven friends, a few of whom I recognised, and had set up his account this year. He had only ever posted once: the picture of me being led into the police station. There was almost nothing that looked genuine about the account, but I needed to know who my enemies were – even though I had a pretty good idea who ‘David Bramley’ would turn out to be. I sent him a friend request.
I drove home and sat in the kitchen, talking on the phone to my union representative. It turned out there wasn’t much that could be done, in the short term, about being suspended. An appeal would take several weeks before the process even got going, for appointments to be made, meetings to be had, second opinions to be given on whether my suspension was legitimate in the circumstances. If there was no further action taken on the suspension, it would be expunged from my record and would not count against me. But that was the best I could hope for.
For the time being at least, I was suspended, and that was that.
It felt weird to be sitting at home on a Tuesday morning during term time, the house quiet, watching the clock tick by. First period, second period. It was just after 10 a.m. and I should have been discussing Coral Island with the children of 7D. Instead I was sitting at the breakfast bar in my kitchen, drinking tea, wondering how everything had got messed up so badly.
A few days ago my life had been pretty good. I just hadn’t realised it. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. It was a cliché for a good reason: because it was true. Now I had to put my family back together again, and it seemed that meeting Ben might not be a bad place to start. Not only to tell him to stay away from Mel – and ensure he got the message loud and clear – but to get a picture of him. Give the picture to the police, get them off my back.
My phone buzzed twice on the kitchen table: two notifications. David Bramley had accepted my friend request, and then messaged me straight away.
How’s work, big fella?
I stared at the message. Could he be so brazen about it? Wondering how he had found out so fast about my suspension, I hit reply.
Who is this?
The reply was almost instant.
Who do you think?
There was only one person it could be. Ben, you bastard.
You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?
The reply was a single emoticon.
He had been two steps ahead of me since the beginning, and it seemed he still was. It was time to end this. He had made his point, had his fun with me. Now it was time to get
on with our lives: him with his wife, and me with mine. Frankly if I never saw him again after that, it would be just fine with me.
I typed another message.
Let’s meet up. Properly this time
The reply was just three letters.
Lol
The anger came again then, the blood pounding in my ears. He was enjoying tormenting me, dropping me in it with the police and with school. He was doing what he said he’d do – ruining my life – and laughing at me while I squirmed on the hook.
The phone rang in my hand before I could send another reply. A mobile number I didn’t recognise.
‘Hello?’
‘Joe, it’s Peter Larssen. Can you talk?’
‘Sure.’
‘I was going to leave a message, didn’t think you’d be free before lunch.’
I told him about the Facebook picture and my suspension from school.
‘Surely that’s harassment?’ I said. ‘We can do something about it legally, right?’
‘We could look into that, yes. Take a screenshot of the post and email it to me.’
‘It’s proof that he’s hounding me, trying to sabotage my career.’
‘Hmm.’ Larssen didn’t sound convinced. ‘The truth is, Joe, things have been moving rather fast on the police side. That was actually why I was calling.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Things may be more serious than we previously thought.’
My stomach lurched.
‘More serious?’
‘They’re starting to focus on the theory that something bad may have happened to Ben Delaney.’
I sat down in a kitchen chair.
‘That’s exactly what he wants them to think. But I thought the police were finding proof that he was alive? Proof-of-life investigation, Naylor said?’
‘They’re looking, but if they can’t find proof – and soon – they’ll start to go down different avenues. Like an accident, or the possibility that foul play might be involved.’
‘Foul play,’ I repeated. It was a phrase from the TV news, from newspapers, but not one that was supposed to feature in your day-to-day life. ‘Involving me?’
‘Possibly.’
‘But that’s crazy! He’s harassing me on social media, he’s posting things trying to get me in trouble, trying to drive a wedge between me and Mel. I saw him yesterday, we spoke to him on the phone the day before that. I was talking to him literally a minute before you called.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘On Messenger.’
‘Ah. From his account?’
‘No, he’s using a fake account under the name David Bramley. The point is, he’s taking potshots at me so he’s obviously alive and well and hiding away somewhere.’
‘Why would he have disappeared?’
‘He hasn’t disappeared, he just doesn’t want to go back to his wife. He wants mine instead. That’s why we need to find him, put a stop to this.’
Larssen paused for a moment, his voice slow and measured.
‘You could have posted those updates yourself.’
‘That’s insane.’
‘You could be posting as Ben, or David Bramley, or whatever his name is. Harassing yourself, in effect. Stranger things have been known.’
My chest felt tight, as if there was something pressing down on it.
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘Of course not. But Naylor might. It doesn’t help that Ben’s not been seen for several days.’
‘I’ve seen him.’
‘You don’t count, Joe.’
‘What, so I’m a suspect?’
‘That’s one of their lines of inquiry.’
I thought for a moment, trying to take all of it in. This had to stop.
‘What are you doing in the next hour?’ I said.
‘My diary’s clear until 1.30 p.m.’
‘Good. Meet me at Kilburn Police Station in twenty minutes.’
39
‘I’m being set up,’ I said.
Naylor looked at me across the pockmarked table, frowning slightly.
‘Explain,’ he said.
And so I did. About the Facebook post, my suspension at work, my conversations on Messenger with ‘David Bramley’. About his message on my computer at home and his obsession with Mel.
‘He already hacked my Facebook account on Thursday night, like I told you yesterday. He’s hacked my home PC, he’s basically trying to wreck my career and he’s taunting me on social media using a pseudonym. I just want all of it to stop now. Enough’s enough.’
We were back in interview room 3 at the station, Larssen by my side. Naylor had given me the standard police caution at the start of our conversation and now he scrolled up the exchange of messages between me and ‘Bramley’, studying a few longer than others, before handing the phone back to me.
‘Well?’ I said.
The detective shrugged.
‘You could have sent those messages yourself.’
‘What possible reason would I have to do that?’
‘To put a different slant on things.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘So it looks like you’re the victim, not him.’
‘The victim of what?’
‘A smear campaign. Or whatever it is you claim Mr Delaney is doing.’ He crossed his arms. ‘We’ll run down this Bramley account on Facebook anyway, that should tell us one way or another.’
‘Why would I post something that would get me in trouble at work? With handcuffs Photoshopped onto a picture so it looks like I got arrested?’
‘I don’t know, Joe. Why would you do that?’
‘You must be able to see that Ben is behind this, surely? The spurned lover? He’s trying to break me down, get me out of the picture so he can have Mel for himself. He has to win, at everything, that’s just who he is. Whatever the cost.’ I leaned forward, fists on the table. ‘He’s trying to destroy my family.’
Larssen put a hand on my arm.
‘Calm down, Joe.’
Naylor sat back in his chair.
‘My problem with all of this, Joe, is that you’re the only one who’s allegedly seen Mr Delaney. Corresponded with him. Spoken to him.’
‘Mel was there too when we spoke to him. She can back that up.’
‘OK, we’ll talk to your wife again. But it’s all coming through you, Joe. Do you see? Everything seems to revolve around you. Why is that?’
‘Because Ben is a very clever guy. Smarter than me. Smarter than most.’
‘That may well be true. But the proof-of-life investigation has come back with absolutely zero for the last twenty-four hours, and unless that changes soon and we get a sniff that he’s safe and well, we’ll have to start working on the basis that he might not be.’
‘Proof? What about Beth Delaney? She was there when her husband came home on Thursday night, hours after I supposedly beat him up in that hotel car park.’
Naylor shook his head.
‘She didn’t see him. She heard someone moving about in her house. Through a closed door, a floor below her. She heard someone.’
‘What about the texts he sent me? The post on Facebook? The meeting at the country park? Surely that’s all proof?’
Naylor looked from me to DS Redford by his side, and back to me again.
‘I wasn’t planning on doing this just yet, but since you’re here, we might as well.’ He opened a black A4 ring binder in front of him on the table and flipped a few sheets until he found what he was looking for.
‘So you have found something?’ I said.
‘Yes and no.’
‘What does that mean?’
Larssen shifted uncomfortably in his seat next to me.
‘My client would certainly appreciate it if you can give us a heads-up, Marcus.’
‘Sure, OK. So: the texts first. We pulled the records from your network provider and from Ben’s. You received three texts from Ben De
laney’s mobile phone on Sunday evening, two on Monday morning. Correct?’
‘Yes. The first ones arranging the meeting, then when we were at the country park in the morning.’
‘When we interrogate mobile phone records, we get more information than just the number dialled or the duration of the call. We can also establish which mobile mast your phone was ‘talking to’ at any point during that call. Which means we can work out with a high degree of accuracy where you were – or at least where your phone was – when a call was made or a text was sent.’
‘I was at home on Sunday evening and at Fryent Country Park on Monday morning. So that’s what my phone records will tell you. Or they should do.’
‘Here’s the thing, Joe.’ He turned another page in his file, ran his finger down a column of figures. ‘When you sent those texts on Sunday, the records show they went via a mobile phone mast with the location designator A180Y2992073. Which is a mast in the steeple of St Michael’s Church, at the end of your road. It’s the nearest transmitter to your house.’
‘Well . . . that’s right, isn’t it?’
‘The texts sent from Ben Delaney’s phone also went via mast A180Y2992073.’
I looked from one detective to the other.
‘I’m confused. What does that mean?’
Naylor frowned, as if he was having to explain something very simple to someone very slow.
‘Rachel, can you elaborate for Mr Lynch?’
DS Redford took up the explanation.
‘Twenty years ago,’ she said, ‘each phone mast covered quite a large geographical area because there weren’t many of them. Since then, more and more masts have been put up to cope with the increase in mobile phone traffic. Now there are tens of thousands of them, they’re everywhere, and hence each one will cover quite a small area – particularly in cities with lots of people using their mobiles.’
‘Right, right. I get that.’
‘In this instance, both phones – yours and his – were within the narrowly defined range of the same mobile phone mast when those texts were sent and received. It means both phones were in very close proximity to each other.’