‘He’s changed his story?’ queried Maggie.
‘Yep. Donnelly’s saying Benji slipped and he denies telling PC Talbot that Poppy was to blame. We pressed him on it and he’s sticking to the version that the fall was an accident.’
‘Could Talbot have been mistaken? I saw him at the scene and he was in a bit of a state. Maybe he misheard him,’ said Maggie.
‘Yeah, I thought that too, but I’ve spoken to him again and he’s certain that’s what Donnelly said.’
‘What’s Mal’s take?’ asked Maggie.
‘His prelim report says Benji landed with force, like he was propelled to the ground, but that could also be because he was small and slight and went down harder. It doesn’t necessarily translate as him being helped on his way,’ said Renshaw.
‘Benji’s mum says he was risk averse and wouldn’t try anything remotely scary,’ said Maggie. ‘She’s certain it wouldn’t have been his idea to climb the wall.’
Renshaw was thoughtful for a moment.
‘Let’s just say it was an accident and he slipped,’ she said. ‘If we can prove Poppy coerced him into climbing onto the wall, and that led to him dying, we could go after an involuntary manslaughter charge for death caused by reckless behaviour.’
‘You’d really be happy to prosecute an eleven-year-old for that?’ Maggie asked. ‘She should be blamed for him slipping?’
‘If Poppy’s reckless actions caused Benji’s death she should be held accountable regardless of her age,’ said Renshaw. ‘No?’
Maggie hesitated. She always believed no criminal deed should go unpunished but with this one she found she couldn’t be so sure. Even if Poppy had forced Benji up on the wall against his better judgement, should she be punished for him losing his footing? Scotty was the same age and Maggie knew she would hate for him to be tried for a death he probably never meant to happen. His whole life destroyed because of a mistake? But the answer came to her as an image of Imogen crying popped into her head.
‘Benji’s mum would be devastated if the person directly or indirectly responsible for his death didn’t answer for their actions in some way,’ she said reluctantly. ‘There needs to be some kind of resolution for her sake.’
‘Even if we make a case for involuntary manslaughter, the CPS could decide it’s not in the public interest to prosecute because of Poppy’s age,’ Nathan said. ‘Plenty of cases with minors where that’s happened.’
Renshaw glared at him.
‘Before we decide to roll over and give up, let’s gather that evidence, shall we? Then we can decide what case there is to answer and whether it was deliberate or not. First and foremost I want to know about the dynamic between Benji and Poppy – were they friends, was there any bad blood between them, any reported incidents of bullying, was she the class mean girl? I want to know why she and Benji were on that wall in the first place and whose idea it was.’
‘Imogen and I have talked a little bit about it already,’ said Maggie. ‘She described the kids as best friends who socialized out of school.’
Renshaw frowned. ‘That’s odd. Julia Hepworth said she hadn’t seen Imogen for years until this morning. You know the mums went to Rushbrooke together?’
‘No, Imogen hasn’t mentioned it.’
‘If Julia didn’t even know Imogen was living back in Mansell, who was organizing the play dates with the kids?’
‘I don’t think they call them play dates when they’re eleven,’ Maggie grinned.
‘You know what I mean. But I’m right, aren’t I? Parents usually arrange for their kids to get together.’
‘It must be Poppy’s dad then,’ said Nathan.
‘The way Julia reacted to Imogen I don’t think they were friends at school,’ said Maggie. ‘Did you see her face?’
‘I did. Like she was chewing a wasp,’ said Renshaw.
‘So I’m going to hazard a guess that Mr Hepworth hasn’t told his wife he’s been organizing play dates with Imogen,’ said Maggie.
‘That’s going to make for an interesting line of questioning tomorrow,’ said Renshaw with a smirk. ‘What’s the story with Benji’s dad?’
‘He died when Benji was a baby.’
‘Shit, Imogen’s young to be a widow,’ said Renshaw. ‘She’s only forty, isn’t she?’
‘Thirty-nine,’ Maggie corrected.
‘So she had Benji at, what, twenty-eight? That’s younger than we are now,’ said Renshaw. ‘Christ, I’d best get a move on. You too, Maggie.’
Maggie shifted awkwardly in her seat. Renshaw made no secret about wanting children now she was in a serious relationship; her partner, who she lived with, was also a higher rank in their force – Assistant Chief Constable Marcus Bailey. But having children was not a topic Maggie and Umpire had addressed. For all she knew he might not even want more.
She didn’t need reminding how old she was either – in three days she would be turning thirty. Maggie hadn’t told anyone at work it was her birthday and she planned to mark the milestone with a low-key dinner with Umpire on the day, then at the weekend nipping off to a hotel in Brighton overnight, just the two of them. She didn’t want anything more elaborate: it would be the first birthday she’d ever spent without seeing Lou at some point during the day or evening, and without her and the kids, what was the point of a big celebration?
‘Right, let’s reconvene in the morning,’ said Renshaw. ‘Hopefully we can get something out of Poppy when she comes in.’
‘For argument’s sake, what happens if we get her to admit she pushed him on purpose, knowing he’d most likely be killed?’ asked Nathan.
Renshaw grimaced. ‘Then tomorrow we’ll be charging an eleven-year-old with murder.’
13
Dinner was beans on toast washed down with a glass of rosé and accompanied by the latest period-drama. Even with every window flung open the flat was uncomfortably hot and Maggie lay stretched out on the sofa in a futile bid to stay cool.
Her mobile was cradled in her lap, ostensibly in case Imogen called. But part of her hoped, as it did every evening, that Lou might ring or text. Maggie knew her sister had changed her number because the last time she tried to call there was a message saying the old one was unobtainable. Now every time an unknown number came up on the screen her heart leapt into her mouth.
She tried to concentrate but the TV couldn’t hold her interest. She sat up and opened her laptop, moving her phone aside to make way for it. Opening Facebook, she went straight to the search box and typed in Lou’s name. Her sister’s profile came up but there was nothing to see apart from her profile picture: the rest of the page had been blocked from Maggie’s view since Lou unfriended her.
Fortunately, their mum, Jeanette – who along with their dad, Graeme, had taken Lou’s side in the row – was less strict with her privacy settings. Her cover photo was a picture of Jude, Scotty and Mae on a picnic blanket in the back garden of the Nevilles’ house near Portsmouth. It was impossible for Maggie not to be rankled by it – her parents had done little to support Lou over the years, disapproving of her having three children by three different men, yet all of a sudden they were happy to do the dutiful grandparents bit. Their hypocrisy made it easier for her to not miss them since they’d cut her off too.
Sighing, Maggie clicked off her mum’s profile. She had no idea whether Lou and the kids were staying with her parents or if they had a place of their own by now. It made her miserable to think they could be carving out a new life that she knew nothing about. Would Mae, a two-year-old, even remember who she was if she saw her now?
But she knew she only had herself to blame. Twelve years previously, when she was seventeen, she’d had an affair with Lou’s fiancé, an unemployed twenty-year-old called Jerome. Lou was pregnant with Jude at the time. When Jerome was killed in a road traffic accident while the affair was ongoing, Maggie, grief-stricken and wracked with guilt, had vowed her sister must never find out.
But Lou had, seven months ago, by chance. And on
discovering the betrayal she had moved away from Mansell with the kids, saying she could no longer bear to live in the same town as Maggie, much less have anything to do with her. It didn’t matter how long ago the affair took place, it was the fact that it had, and the fact that Maggie had continuously lied to her.
Feeling shaky just thinking about it and in need of comfort, Maggie called Umpire. He was still in his office.
‘I’m glad you called. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Sarah’s changed her mind about this weekend.’
‘Are you serious? What about Brighton?’
Sarah was Umpire’s ex-wife and the mother of Flora and Jack. This weekend should’ve been his turn to have the children, but he’d asked to swap as a one-off because it was Maggie’s thirtieth and Sarah had agreed. Umpire would then have them two weekends in a row.
‘She’s saying she’s had a think about it and thinks for the kids’ sake we should stick to the agreed custody plan.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I had to say yes. It’s the kids. Look, I know it’s disappointing, but we’ll still have the dinner on Friday on your actual birthday, then we’ll rearrange Brighton for another weekend.’
‘But it won’t be my birthday weekend then.’ Maggie knew she was being petulant but the thought of not seeing him all weekend filled her with dread. She didn’t want to be sitting at home alone obsessing over her family and why they hadn’t sent a single card between them.
‘I know, and I’m sorry. I did try but I couldn’t talk her round.’
Maggie bit down the angry retort about to escape her lips. It wasn’t Umpire’s fault his ex-wife was being a bitch. But is this what it was going to be like, at least until the kids were older, her always coming second to them?
‘Maggie? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said sulkily.
‘I am sorry. Really I am.’
His conciliatory tone had the effect of softening hers. ‘I know. I was just looking forward to going away,’ she said with a sigh.
‘So was I.’
They chatted for a few more minutes, then said goodnight.
Maggie went back to scrolling through her news feed. She clicked ‘like’ on a picture posted by her friend Belmar Small, who she’d met when he partnered her as FLO on the Rosie Kinnock abduction case a year ago and who was part of Umpire’s unit. The picture was of him and his wife, Allie, clinking glasses in a bar on the Caribbean island of Saint Vincent, where they were visiting his relatives. She was pleased to see how relaxed they looked after a difficult few months undergoing IVF for the first time with no success. They were due back on Saturday and had promised to celebrate her birthday belatedly. At least that was something to look forward to.
She was about to close down Facebook when curiosity got the better of her and she typed ‘Imogen Tyler’ into the search box.
Imogen’s profile page was like Lou’s – set to private and giving nothing away. The profile picture was a blurry shot of Imogen taken at a distance. Typing Julia Hepworth’s name into the search box yielded more than just a profile page, though – other mentions of her name appeared on screen too.
Maggie clicked on the first one and her heart sank. A woman called Iris Sharp had posted a gossipy, semi-illiterate item on a community group for Mansell residents that named Poppy as the pupil present when Benji died – and had tagged Julia in it.
It was bad enough that Poppy was named but Maggie couldn’t understand what had motivated Iris to tag her mother as well. Was it so Julia would be compelled to reply? To set trolls on to her? The replies to the post made Maggie even angrier – adults playing judge and jury by deciding Poppy must’ve killed Benji if the police had spoken to her. Why else would they question her?
Despite the late hour, Maggie called Renshaw.
‘Poppy’s been named on a local Facebook group,’ she said. ‘People are writing all kinds of crap.’
‘Shit. That’s all we need.’
‘Can we ask Facebook to take it down?’
‘I can try, but technically they aren’t obliged to. There are no reporting restrictions in place yet because we’re still treating her as a witness. Right now there’s nothing to stop her being named.’
‘No, but she is a minor and they have a responsibility not to allow the witch-hunt of an eleven-year-old,’ said Maggie tetchily.
‘Given some of the stuff Facebook lets people post I wouldn’t bet on them taking the moral high ground,’ said Renshaw. ‘I’ll apply to have the mentions of her removed on the grounds that she’s a witness who’s a minor and see what they say. I wonder if the Hepworths have seen it.’
‘Probably – the person who wrote the post tagged Julia.’
‘Nice of them,’ said Renshaw sarcastically.
Maggie was scrolling through the comments again when one jumped out at her.
‘Hey, listen to this comment,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit inarticulate but you get the gist . . . “Police should look at whole family, not just girl – if she’s violent it’s ’cause she’s learned it.”’
‘Could be nonsense, someone trying to make themselves seem knowledgeable?’
‘Maybe, but the rest of the message is pretty emphatic. They even used caps.’
‘What’s it say?’
‘“Trust me – I KNOW.”’
14
Wednesday
At 4 a.m. Julia gave up any pretence of sleeping and got up. Ewan stirred as she let herself out of the bedroom but didn’t wake. On the landing she stalled for a moment outside Poppy’s room and with her fingertip traced the pink, sparkly nameplate Ewan had fixed to the door when they moved in. It was worn around the edges now and faded from where sunlight hit it as it streamed through the landing window.
A few weeks ago she and Poppy had rowed about taking it down. Poppy said it was babyish and stupid and her friends had ‘Keep Out’ signs on their doors, so why couldn’t she? Julia wasn’t comfortable allowing such a combative message to be visible inside the house and said no – but now it seemed such a trivial thing for them to have argued over.
Poppy had kept up her wall of silence when they got back from the school and Julia had been unable to fight the creeping unease that Ewan knew something she didn’t. He rebuffed her attempts to talk to him in private, telling her she was making Poppy feel worse. That in turn made Julia feel wretched, so while he and the kids watched a film – they’d collected Dylan from Siobhan’s on their way home – she sat alone in the kitchen.
She couldn’t sit still, though, so had cleared out the food cupboard instead, a chore she’d been putting off for weeks. Systematically checking the ‘use by’ dates on tins did distract her for a bit, but then her thoughts resumed their torture: what if the police decided it wasn’t an accident and charged Poppy? What if she went to court and was found guilty even though she wasn’t? What if the court took her away from them?
It wasn’t until the children were in bed that she was able to corner Ewan, when he came into the kitchen to get a drink.
‘Not that again,’ he’d grumbled.
‘But something happened. You came out of that office looking as white as a sheet.’
He’d made her wait before he answered, deliberately taking his time as he poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down.
‘Why does it bother you so much that me and Poppy are close?’ he’d said, setting the glass down on the side.
Her stomach had clenched. It was a subject he’d raised before and she’d come out of the conversation looking rather pathetic.
‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ she’d said quickly.
‘But it is, Julia,’ he’d sighed. ‘I wish you weren’t so jealous. It’s not an attractive trait.’
‘I’m not jealous; I’m concerned. Please tell me what happened. What did she say to you?’
Ewan had rolled his eyes. ‘All that happened was that I hugged Poppy and told her everything will be fine, like a goo
d parent should. That’s what she needs to hear right now, not hysteria like this.’
That had stopped Julia in her tracks. Was she being hysterical? She didn’t think she was.
‘You’re being a bit selfish, darling,’ Ewan had added, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her. She’d wanted to protest that she wasn’t, that her only concern was for Poppy, but let it go and relaxed into his embrace. Ewan could argue his way out of a paper bag and after the day they’d had she was too exhausted to take him on again.
Downstairs was in darkness. Julia tiptoed through the kitchen without bothering to switch on the lights. The room was stuffy, the warmth of the day still lingering, so she threw open the back door to let the cooler night-time air flood in.
It was a clear night, the sky an inky expanse peppered with stars. At the bottom of the garden loomed the kids’ trampoline and the sight of it prompted an unexpected wave of sorrow that sent her sinking to the doorstep.
She silently wept with her face buried in her hands, but after a minute or so forced herself to stop. How would it help Poppy if she fell apart now? Her job was to hold the family together. However awful the circumstances were, she needed to stay strong for her daughter.
Gazing up at the stars, Julia wondered if Imogen was managing to get any sleep. She couldn’t begin to fathom what she must be going through. Devastated probably didn’t come close. But as an image of Imogen took root in Julia’s mind it was not as she’d seen her today, but a younger version, the one she’d known at school – and a familiar sick feeling began snowballing in the pit of her stomach. With a start Julia realized the passing of time had done nothing to dilute her body’s physical response to her former classmate, nor had her mental reaction softened: she hated her just as much now as she had done then.
She was eight when the bullying began. It started with teasing and name-calling, then rapidly escalated to shoving and pinching and hitting when no one was looking. For a while Imogen acted alone but then she realized there was more fun to be had in a crowd and roped in the rest of the class to ape her behaviour. Pretty soon it was twenty-odd kids pitched against Julia, friendless and defenceless.
False Witness Page 6