False Witness

by Michelle Davies

  Once they were next door, Maggie resumed her questions.

  ‘Are you saying you did bully Julia Hepworth then?’ she asked.

  ‘As I said, I don’t remember her specifically. She doesn’t stand out in my memory,’ said Imogen apologetically. ‘We didn’t share the same group of friends. She was one of the quiet ones. Julia could say that I bullied her and I wouldn’t be able to say if it was true or not, because I don’t remember.’

  ‘Why are you worried there might be some truth in your mum’s theory?’

  Imogen let out a long, deep sigh.

  ‘I’m not, not really. It’s just that when Mum brought it up yesterday she was so convinced it wasn’t a coincidence that Poppy was Julia’s daughter that she got me thinking the same. I’m sorry, you must think we’re wasting your time here.’

  ‘You’re not. It’s important I gather every bit of information I can about Benji’s relationship with Poppy and for that reason it’s good for me to know any history between your families. Me and my colleagues can work out what’s relevant and what’s not.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Imogen. She glanced towards the hallway. ‘How much longer do you think he’ll be in Benji’s room?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can see how he’s getting on if you want.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go? I just feel a bit weird about a stranger going through Benji’s stuff.’

  ‘That’s fine, but Jamie will need you to wait outside on the landing while he finishes.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Maggie slipped into the kitchen while Imogen went upstairs. Grace had gone to sit outside on the terrace but Ed was leaning against the sink unit, his face desolate.

  ‘I don’t know how Im’s going to cope without Benji,’ he said, choking back tears.

  ‘I know it’ll be harder because she’s on her own, having already lost her husband so young, but there’s so much help out there for her,’ Maggie reassured him. ‘We’ll make sure she gets it.’

  Ed’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not sure “lost” is the right word.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. I meant him dying.’

  ‘Dying? Stephen isn’t dead,’ Ed exclaimed. ‘When I said “lost” wasn’t the right word it’s because “abandoned” would be more accurate. He walked out on my sister when Benji was two months old.’ He clocked the expression of surprise on Maggie’s face. ‘Ah, I get it. She told you he was dead. She prefers telling people that rather than saying he left.’

  ‘What she did tell Benji?’

  ‘The same: that Stephen died just after he was born. I didn’t agree at all – I felt Benji deserved to know the truth – but Im thought it would be too confusing for him and that he wouldn’t understand why Stephen didn’t want to see him.’

  ‘Bit of a risky strategy – what if Stephen turned up one day asking to see him?’

  ‘True, but by the time Im told Benji it was pretty clear Stephen was long gone. He hasn’t been in touch since the day he left and none of us have a clue where he is.’

  Maggie started to wonder what else Imogen might’ve revised for the sake of appearances. What if Benji wasn’t quite the little angel she was painting him to be? She said he was too timid to dare climb the wall by his own volition, but he did sneak out of the house to get there . . . Then again, she of all people could sympathize with Imogen wanting to spin a different story about her ex-husband – she’d spent the past decade revising her own past to cover up her affair with Lou’s fiancé.

  ‘So where do you stand on the theory of Julia Hepworth taking revenge?’ she asked.

  She expected Ed to dismiss it as Imogen had done out of Grace’s earshot, but to her surprise he said he thought there might be something in it.

  ‘There’s got to be a reason why my nephew fell off that wall and you and your colleagues haven’t come up with anything else to explain it.’

  ‘We deal in facts and evidence and proof, not wild supposition,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Fine. Then prove to us that Mum’s theory isn’t true.’

  24

  The high street felt claustrophobically muggy after the cool confines of the police station. Wednesday was market day and the stalls lining the pavement brought with them the bustle of shoppers browsing their wares.

  Ewan led the way through the throng with Poppy clinging to his hand and Julia bringing up the rear. She was surprised the police had agreed to his suggestion they take Poppy outside to get some lunch: she thought they would be obliged to stay put until she’d answered all their questions. But after her earlier outburst Poppy had reverted to one-word answers and, with the process becoming painstakingly slow again, the detectives needed a break as much as they did.

  Julia had wanted them to go for a walk in the town park, next to the stretch of water known colloquially as The Puddle. The fresh air and sunshine would do them all good and there was a Tesco Express on the way where they could buy sandwiches. But Ewan said they should let Poppy decide and she’d promptly asked to go to McDonald’s, knowing Julia would never let her eat there under normal circumstances. Ewan had pretended not to notice his wife’s look of disapproval.

  As they joined one of the queues snaking back from the counter, Julia tried to engage her husband in speculation about what else the police might ask Poppy next – in her mind they had covered a lot of ground already; what else could they possibly want to know?

  ‘Can you please give it a rest,’ he said tightly. ‘Let’s just get our food.’

  She tried to lighten the mood. ‘Does McDonald’s even count as real food?’

  The young woman in front of them shot Julia a filthy look over her shoulder.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Ewan in an angry whisper. ‘You’re embarrassing Poppy and yourself.’

  ‘But I was joking –’ Julia protested.

  Poppy pressed herself closer into her dad’s side, a hostile barrier between husband and wife. Julia shrank away from them.

  A couple of minutes later it was their turn to order.

  ‘What do you want, darling?’ Ewan asked Poppy.

  ‘Um, cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate milkshake, please.’

  Poppy looked warily at Julia as if waiting for a rebuke and the sight of her big blue eyes filled with apprehension brought a lump to Julia’s throat.

  ‘Have what you want, darling.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Poppy delightedly. ‘Can I have a McFlurry too?’

  To anyone watching they were an ordinary family having lunch together, albeit without Dylan, who was being looked after by their neighbour, Cath. Julia went through the pretence of trying to be excited about the chicken salad she’d ordered – she was sure she’d read somewhere that the McDonald’s version had more calories than a bowl of carbonara pasta – when really she wanted to rail against the awfulness of the situation they were in. But if she did that, Poppy might think she was blaming her and as she watched her daughter and husband banter over their lunch and pretend to steal each other’s fries, she didn’t want to be the one to spoil the mood.

  But she needed someone to blame and as she picked at her salad her thoughts returned to Imogen again.

  Julia still bore a scar from one of her attacks – a thin, silvery line running vertically down her shin from where Imogen had pushed her over in the playground. When she went to tell the teacher what had happened, Imogen persuaded her friends to say they all saw Julia trip and the teacher had once again believed the chorus of voices over Julia’s lone protest.

  Given how devious and manipulative Imogen herself had been at that age, it wasn’t a stretch to assume her son might’ve been the same. Poppy wouldn’t have risked being punished for sneaking out of the house unless she was more fearful of what might happen if she didn’t. Julia was becoming more and more convinced that Imogen’s son must’ve threatened her in order for her to meet him.

  She pulsed with anger as more memories of the cruel treatment Imogen doled out came flooding back.
One of the worst occasions was the Christmas when Julia was given the part of Archangel Gabriel in the school nativity. She was minutes from going on stage, wearing the costume her mum had lovingly handmade, when Imogen threw red paint down her front. The costume was in such a state and her face so drenched in paint that there was no way she could go on, so their teacher ripped off Julia’s halo and promoted one of the angels from the chorus into the role. When Imogen was quizzed about it, she claimed Julia poured the paint over herself and blamed her because she didn’t want to perform in front of an audience. Everyone believed Imogen because, well, Julia was so timid that of course she had stage fright.

  Ultimately her time at Rushbrooke was one long cycle of humiliation and distress because of Imogen. Complaining made no difference: the school’s stance was that she should make an effort to get along with her and their classmates, as though it was Julia’s fault for not being more likeable.

  She did tell her parents but they were too caught up in their own problems to appreciate how bad it was. Her mum, Ruth, had gone back to work full time after Julia started school but her dad, Malcolm, wasn’t happy about the long hours she worked. At one point they even separated and her mum went to stay with her sister for a bit. Then one day, just as suddenly, she came back.

  Twenty minutes later the three of them headed back down the high street in the direction of the police station. They’d just drawn level with the taxi rank when the sound of someone yelling made them turn round.

  ‘How have you got the nerve to show your faces in public?’

  Marching across the road towards them, her face contorted by a look of disgust, was a mum Julia recognized from drop-offs. She was one of the scarier-looking ones to frequent the playground, with an abundance of tattoos, dyed purple hair and a ripe vocabulary that needed moderating around children but never was. Neither of her children was in the same class or year as Poppy or Dylan, and Julia had never exchanged so much as a ‘hello’ with her.

  ‘She should be locked up!’ the mum yelled, pointing at Poppy.

  Julia was horrified. ‘Don’t say that, she’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘She killed that poor little lad. Everyone knows it.’

  Julia went to say something but Ewan got there first. Purpling with anger, he strode over to where the woman was and stood so close they were toe to toe.

  ‘Don’t you dare say that about my child.’

  ‘Why? I’m only saying what’s true,’ the woman spat.

  Every muscle in Julia’s body was primed to run away from the confrontation.

  ‘Come on, Ewan, let’s go.’

  He shot her a look of disgust. ‘Just because you’re too weak to stand up for our daughter.’

  Tears pricked Julia’s eyes. Why did he always have to make her feel like such a failure?

  He turned back to the woman. ‘You say one more lie about my daughter and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’

  He said it in such a blithe, matter-of-fact way that the woman laughed. So he said it again, this time more menacingly.

  The mum stepped backwards, stunned into muteness. It was clearly an alien sensation for her, lips moving but no sound coming out.

  ‘Ewan, come on, leave it,’ said Julia, who was now trying to shield a sobbing Poppy from rubberneckers. ‘She’s not worth it.’

  The mum’s voice was hoarse when she spoke again.

  ‘You need to take a long, hard look at yourself,’ she said, but the fire had gone out of her and her delivery was as feeble as her insult was weak.

  Ewan spat out a last retort as he walked away.

  ‘I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of and neither has my daughter.’

  25

  Arranging for Imogen to view Benji’s body had been the easy part; it was getting her there that was proving impossible.

  ‘Why can’t I see my grandson?’ Grace asked for what felt like the twentieth time.

  ‘I’ve told you, I want to see Benji on my own,’ Imogen replied in a tight, clipped tone that suggested she was about one answer away from blowing her top.

  The stand-off was happening in the cramped hallway. Maggie was pinned against the front door, trying to calm the two women down, while Ed hovered on the stairs and Byford stood in the doorway leading back into the lounge. His search of Benji’s room had been fruitless – no diary, notes, or anything else relating to Poppy.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Grace retaliated.

  ‘I want to be on my own with him for a bit. Why can’t you accept that?’

  ‘Because you’re being selfish.’

  ‘He’s my son!’ Imogen yelled. ‘Not yours, mine!’

  Grace went puce and began to cry. Ed swore loudly.

  ‘Right, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘Mum, I’m sorry, but you need to let Im do this alone. He’s her son and she needs to say goodbye. I’ll take you to see Benji when he’s moved to the funeral director’s.’

  Grace seemed stunned to have been spoken to with such firmness by her son and nodded meekly.

  Relieved, Imogen turned to Maggie.

  ‘You don’t have to come either. Jamie’s offered to take me.’

  Imogen didn’t need the two of them to accompany her and Maggie had little desire to see Benji on a mortuary slab, let alone bear witness to Imogen seeing him, but she didn’t appreciate being frozen out by Byford, who at that moment was staring at his feet. He’d overstepped the mark by excluding her without a discussion first but Maggie smoothed over her annoyance with a smile.

  ‘No problem. I’ll wait here until you get back,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t stay on my account: I’m driving back to Frome in a bit,’ said Ed. ‘Our youngest is only six weeks old so my wife needs me. But I’ll be back in a few days.’

  ‘I don’t need to be babysat by a police officer either,’ said Grace witheringly.

  ‘Fine, I’ll head back to the station, see if there are any updates.’

  Suddenly the doorbell chimed. Maggie was closest and squeezed round to open it. When she saw who was on the doorstep she stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her, telling the others she’d be a minute.

  ‘Why am I not surprised to find you here, DC Neville?’ said Jennifer Jones. ‘You get all the juicy ones.’

  Maggie made no effort to hide her contempt. Jennifer was Chief Reporter for the local paper, the Mansell Echo, and had demonstrated on previous cases an appalling lack of sensitivity for someone sent out to speak to grieving relatives. She’d also provoked Maggie’s ire when she covered a fire at Lou’s house and had written a horribly speculative piece about why an investigation was being carried out, flagging up Maggie’s status as a police officer. That story was published on the front page but when the inquiry cleared Lou of any fault, the follow-up was buried on page 21 and only a paragraph long, pissing Maggie off no end because hardly anyone would see it.

  ‘I don’t think that’s how the families see it,’ she said. ‘Keep your voice down or I’ll force you off the property.’

  Jennifer had the sense not to push her luck and walked down the path away from the house, gesturing for Maggie to follow her.

  ‘I came to see if Benji’s mum was in,’ she said, once they were out of earshot. ‘I was hoping she might give me a few quotes for the obit.’

  ‘How did you get his name? We haven’t released it yet.’

  ‘Oh, you know, sources,’ Jennifer smirked. ‘So, is she in? I only need a few minutes. It’ll be a lovely way for her to pay tribute to her son.’

  ‘I would respect you so much more if you didn’t come out with such bollocks,’ said Maggie scathingly. ‘Why don’t you be honest and say why you’re really here? You don’t want to write a nice tribute, you want all the juicy details and you don’t give a toss about how that will make his mum feel.’

  Jennifer was visibly taken aback. ‘That’s a bit harsh. I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘Well, you’re not doing it here, not today.’

  ‘Can
you give her my number then?’ said Jennifer, proffering a business card. ‘If today’s too soon she might feel differently tomorrow.’

  Maggie snatched the card from her hand.

  ‘All requests go through the press office as you well know and they won’t agree to any interviews that might prejudice the case.’

  ‘I don’t see how me getting a few quotes about Benji being a lovely boy is a problem when no arrests have been made or charges brought or even a warrant issued. Proceedings aren’t active yet.’ Jennifer wagged her finger at Maggie. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know contempt law, DC Neville.’

  Maggie hated that she was right. Had Poppy, or anyone else for that matter, been arrested already, the media would be bound by a set of reporting restrictions that ruled out an interview with Imogen discussing Benji’s death in case it harmed future court proceedings. Until then, there was nothing to stop her granting the Echo or any other media outlet an interview about him.

  ‘It happened inside a school so there are other minors involved who can’t be named,’ Maggie pointed out.

  ‘The Echo isn’t an irresponsible newspaper. We wouldn’t name the girl allegedly involved.’ Jennifer hooked her fingers in the air as she said ‘allegedly’. Maggie glared at her. ‘Fine. In the interests of not upsetting anyone, I’ll go through the press office. But can you at least mention to Benji’s mum that I came round?’

  It was a compromise Maggie knew she’d be foolish to reject if it meant Jennifer would stop badgering the Tylers.

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell her.’

  Maggie tapped on the front door to be let in and Grace opened it. The others had gone back into the lounge.

  ‘Was that a reporter?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Yes, for the Echo. I told her she has to go through our press office, so don’t worry, she won’t be back.’

  Grace caught sight of the card in Maggie’s hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Her business card. I’ll hold on to it for now.’