Dying Truth Page 10

  ‘What do you think of this?’ Kim asked. ‘Knowing her writings as you did.’

  Kim knew Sadie had not committed suicide, so why was there a suicide note?

  Joanna read the letter, paused and then read it again. She nodded, despite the frown that touched her features.

  ‘Definitely something Sadie would have written.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s something not quite right about that letter.’ She looked at Kim. ‘But I honestly don’t know what.’

  Kim had felt the same way when she’d read it at the Winters’ home and when she’d read it again in the car.

  Joanna continued to study it as Bryant appeared bearing two mugs of coffee.

  Joanna’s frown deepened, as she placed her hand across the top of the page, covering the words ‘Dear Mummy and Daddy’ that Kim had found jarring.

  ‘Read it now,’ Joanna suggested.

  Kim read the words aloud.

  ‘“I can’t find the words to explain how I feel. Every day my mind is like a tropical jungle overgrown with foliage, dense plantation. A mist rises every now and again and blocks out the sunlight. I try to wade through it. I try to reach you, but the jungle gets in my way.

  ‘“I try so hard to meet expectation, but I drop through the cracks of reality because I also want to be me. I don’t know who that is yet. I don’t know how much longer I can stay in this foggy existence waiting to see what I become. It’s too hard. I can’t bear it any more. I have to make it stop.”’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Joanna asked.

  Kim nodded her understanding.

  ‘You’re gonna have to enlighten me,’ Bryant said.

  ‘It’s not a suicide letter at all,’ she explained, to her colleague. ‘Remove the salutation at the top and this is nothing more than a cry for help made to look like a suicide letter.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Shaun Coffee-Todd realised he was last to leave the locker room again. He folded his towel and placed it into the plastic bag before putting it back into his sports bag. Although the bell had gone to signal the start of the next lesson he didn’t want to rush and just wedge his damp towel against his school books. He’d done that once before and had been forced to try and read out his essay on King Henry VIII that had become an ink-run, damp mess in his exercise book. His mistake in reading out a word that should have been ‘hunt’ had reduced the class of his fourteen-year-old peers to hysterics for the remainder of the lesson. Miss Wade wouldn’t thank him if he did it again.

  He lifted his bag and threw it over his shoulder. The momentum almost threw him off balance. He often forgot just how much he was carrying around. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the bench, allowing the bag to slip from his shoulder on to the wooden slats.

  He unzipped the side pocket and felt inside. His fingers curled reassuringly around the EpiPen. He always checked after his bag had been left unattended in his locker. Fourteen-year-old boys didn’t always think and, since a close call where he’d used a knife that hadn’t been cleaned of nut oil properly, he intended never to be without it again.

  As he lifted the bag back onto his shoulder he stumbled forward as the force of something hit him between the shoulder blades. The fixed bench went nowhere, so he found himself doubled over the slatted seat.

  His head was swimming at the force of the blow. He tried to throw himself backwards to get back to a standing position, when he felt a presence behind him. He tried to turn, but a line of fabric was being tied around his head, covering his eyes. He recognised the woolly texture of a scarf of some type.

  ‘Knock it off, lads,’ he called out, trying to call back over his shoulder.

  There was no response.

  ‘Guys?’ he said, feeling the uncertainty settle in his stomach.

  A few of his classmates had bundled him into the shower one time, fully clothed, and soaked him on his birthday. There’d been no ill will or malice. It had just been a bit of fun. He’d heard them baying and laughing in the background as they’d gathered behind him and pushed him towards the shower. They had been guffawing and nudging each other as they marched him across the tiles and into the cubicle.

  But there was no noise now.

  ‘Wh-who is this?’ he asked, trying to stay calm as he was lifted up by his blazer.

  There was no response.

  ‘What are you…’

  His words trailed away as he was turned and turned and turned in a circle silently until he thought he was going to throw up. Again he wondered if this was some kind of prank. His friends trying to make him vomit but, other than the sound of his own rubber soles on the white tiles, he was surrounded by silence.

  The anxiety began to build in his stomach as he felt his head spinning with motion sickness. Who was doing this to him, and why?

  ‘Please stop,’ he pleaded as the nausea began to rise over the anxiety.

  And suddenly he was lowered to the ground.

  ‘What… Why…’

  Two fingers pinched at his nose, forcing his mouth to fall open. Even though he knew his body was still, his head appeared to be moving as though watching a slow motion washing machine.

  Something landed on his tongue. Instantly he recoiled and stuck out his tongue at the smooth saltiness that tanged. More alien objects landed in his mouth. The saliva in his mouth tried to do its job and encouraged him to chew.

  But what??

  He suddenly realised what was floating around in his mouth, touching his tongue, his gums, resting behind his teeth.

  Nuts. Salted peanuts.

  He felt the heat enter his body as the fear engulfed him.

  He tried to spit them out, but a hand on his head and one beneath his chin had clamped his mouth closed.

  ‘Please…’ he tried so say. He had to make them understand what could happen if he didn’t get these nuts out of his mouth immediately.

  His unfettered hands reached around him for his gym bag. If he could just get his pen. He heard the bag move along the floor as though being kicked out of reach.

  More nuts were forced into his mouth as he tried to writhe away from his captor.

  He could feel the nuts bobbing around in his mouth. His saliva was catching them like a tidal wave and trying to take them down his throat. His teeth switched to autopilot and began to chew automatically so that he didn’t choke. Smaller pieces of nut were being washed down his throat and into his intestines.

  Shaun had been lectured repeatedly about the sudden release of chemicals that could send his body into shock. He pictured the histamine being unleashed to get him.

  The facial swelling was immediate. He could feel the flesh on his lips and eyelids expand and stretch with each passing second.

  The panic was growing within him. He needed his pen. Without it he was going to die.

  He could feel his throat beginning to narrow, breathing was becoming harder. His breath rasped in his chest as he fought for each gulp of air, but someone had built a brick wall across his windpipe. He could no longer swallow, and the drool began to leak from his mouth.

  He lurched forward as the pain ripped through his abdomen. The nausea followed, and he prayed he would not vomit. The scarf covering his eyes had slipped and was now resting around his mouth, but he was blinded by the tears that had formed.

  There was no doubt in his mind.

  He knew he was going to die.

  As he fought to take just one breath into his lungs he saw a shadow cross the doorway. Someone was there. Someone had heard, and they had come to help.

  He reached out towards them, but they were gone.

  His arm fell back to the ground as he took his final breath.

  Thirty

  Dawson was hoping to find Tilly in the dorm room.

  Her head was bent studiously over a pile of books.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, quietly, from the doorway, so as not to startle her. It didn’t work as she jumped out of her skin anyway.

  ‘No l
esson?’ he asked. The end-of-lunch-break bell had sounded fifteen minutes ago. He stepped into the room, careful to leave the door open.

  ‘Free period, which I decided to spend with Mr Pythagoras here,’ she said, slapping the top book.

  ‘And, how is he?’ Dawson asked, sitting on Sadie’s bed.

  ‘Let’s just say our relationship is complicated’ she replied, seriously.

  Dawson smiled at her earnest expression.

  ‘Got a minute?’ he asked.

  She glanced at the books and then turned to face him.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I’ve been learning a bit about these groups here. The Hearts and Spades and all that. Can you explain a bit more about how they work?’

  He’d run out of time with Geoffrey, who had seemed to grow in discomfort talking about them. He suspected Tilly would have no such problem.

  She nodded. ‘You know they’re supposed to be secret, right?’

  Dawson nodded.

  ‘The playing cards are almost as old as the school. They are elite societies within an elite society,’ she said.

  ‘Do people aspire to be a member of these clubs?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Err… yeah. There’s no higher honour than being a playing card. It means you were chosen to join the most important club you’ll ever belong to.’

  Dawson smiled. ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration, surely?’

  ‘It’s not just while you’re here. You’re a member of that club for life. The other members of your club are closer than family. Other cards know all of your secrets.

  ‘Cards go on to become politicians, bankers, barristers, doctors and stuff. The last deputy prime minister used to be the Nine of Clubs,’ she said. ‘Cards are influential in the outside world. Cards help each other throughout life.’

  ‘As long as it’s the same suit?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, as though that was obvious.

  ‘And how are new cards chosen?’ he asked. ‘What’s the criteria for becoming a card?’ he asked, feeling ridiculous.

  She shrugged and wrinkled her nose. ‘Could be the kid excels in some academic subject or sport or something like that…’ She hesitated. ‘That’s it really.’

  ‘What is it, Tilly? You were going to say something more but stopped yourself.’

  She coloured, and he recalled what she’d been saying.

  ‘Is there another way to get chosen?’ he asked.

  ‘Not officially,’ she said.

  ‘How about unofficially?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you can get a calling card because of family.’

  ‘“Family”?’ he asked.

  ‘Like, if your parents hit the rich list or they get a huge promotion or become famous for something.’

  ‘So, the kids themselves don’t have to be gifted as long as their parents are influential?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m just saying. It happens.’

  The more Dawson learned about these exclusive clubs the more he grew uncomfortable with their existence.

  ‘What if you refuse the invitation?’ he asked. ‘Say you don’t want to be in one of these clubs?’

  ‘No one refuses an invitation to be a card,’ she guffawed as though he’d lost his mind. ‘Unless you’ve got a couple of screws loose.’

  ‘Tilly, did Sadie receive a calling card?’ he asked.

  She reddened slightly before shrugging.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. It’s secret.’

  ‘Could Sadie have refused the invitation to join one of the girls’ exclusive clubs?’

  The idea of the Sadie he’d come to know gleefully receiving and accepting a red ace on her bed was not a picture that would form in his mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, officer,’ she said, turning back to her books. ‘But I really must get on with my work.’

  Dawson knew that the girl hadn’t answered his question either way.

  Thirty-One

  ‘So, who do you think tampered with the letter?’ Bryant asked, as they awaited the arrival of their next interviewee.

  ‘Could have been anyone,’ she said. ‘In all the chaos the murderer could have gone to Sadie’s dorm room, rifled through her things and changed the letter. It could have been Saffie. It could have been the parents who are convinced Sadie took her own life.’

  ‘Do you think they’ve held the diary back from us?’ Bryant asked.

  Kim thought for a minute and shook her head. ‘I’ve got a feeling that anything in a diary of Sadie’s would support the suicide they’re so desperate to believe. I think the diary was in her missing backpack. Where else would you keep something that held your most intimate thoughts?’

  ‘Jesus, guv, you think the killer has her diary?’

  Kim was prevented from answering by a knock on the door.

  * * *

  Bryant called out for their interviewee to enter.

  Kim recognised the man that came into view as the one who had been sitting on the ground beside Saffie two days before. Kim guessed him to be around six feet tall, with a skinny frame. His smart black trousers were topped with a plain white shirt and red tie.

  ‘Mr Steele,’ Bryant said, standing to greet the psychologist who worked as a counsellor for the school.

  ‘Please call me Graham,’ he said, pleasantly.

  ‘Graham, please take a seat,’ Bryant said, pointing to the other side of the desk.

  ‘And thank you for making time to see us today,’ Kim said, pointedly. ‘I hope your personal business was not too harrowing.’

  He smiled politely. ‘My aunt was taken into hospital with a suspected heart attack.’

  Bryant leaned forward. ‘Sorry to hear—’

  ‘It was a bad case of indigestion, officer. Tomato seeds do not agree with her.’

  Bryant nodded his understanding.

  Kim sat forward. ‘As you know we’re here investigating the circumstances of Sadie’s—’

  ‘Suicide,’ Graham offered.

  ‘Death,’ she clarified. ‘And I see here you’ve been at Heathcrest for seven years now,’ she asked.

  ‘I have indeed, officer.’

  ‘And as the school counsellor you’ve probably dealt with all kinds of minor grievances from the pupils?’

  ‘And major ones too,’ he defended.

  ‘And what about Sadie Winters?’ Bryant asked. ‘Was she a minor or a major problem?’

  ‘Aah, poor Sadie. She was a troubled young lady,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Kim felt that if she heard that word used one more time to describe the child she might scream. It was as though a memo had been circulated listing key words and phrases.

  ‘When did you first meet with her?’ she asked.

  ‘It was just a few weeks ago. I met with her a total of three times.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, directly.

  ‘I’m sorry, what…’

  ‘There are almost a thousand students here and you can’t chat with them all, so what was the reason for the sessions with Sadie?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘If I recall correctly, it was Mr Campbell, her physics teacher. She’d become withdrawn and sometimes obstructive in science lessons.’

  ‘Do you remember why?’

  He shook his head. ‘I met with her only a few times. She was not the most communicative pupil I’ve spoken to.’

  ‘So, she didn’t open up to you?’

  ‘No, but I have my own theory, which I tried to discuss with her.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I think that she felt inadequate beside her sibling and began to rebel to get attention for herself. I think she tries to meet her parents’ expectations for greatness and falls short.’

  The picture was becoming a little clearer for Kim. After reading that letter from the girl it seemed she was searching for her own identity. The kid had probably had Saffie rammed down her throat. No wonder she hadn’t opened up to him. He had laid his own opinion at her feet and even he had wanted t
o talk about her sister.

  ‘But hasn’t Saffie been a musical star for years?’ Kim asked. ‘Why would she suddenly begin acting up about that now?’

  He shrugged. ‘Add a few teenage hormones into the mix and it becomes a bit more likely that—’

  ‘You don’t think it’s something more recent than that?’ Kim asked. ‘Something that happened just in the last few weeks that caused her to rebel?’

  Although her behaviour was hardly what Kim would call rebellious. Quiet, morose, withdrawn and obstructive was how she herself spent most days of her life.

  ‘Were you surprised when you heard the news of her… death?’ Bryant asked.

  He hesitated and then shook his head.

  ‘No, not really. She was an unhappy child.’

  ‘Did she ever speak to you of enemies? Was there someone she was having any trouble with?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So, you logged and recorded your concerns with…’ Bryant asked.

  Kim hid her satisfaction. Like her, Bryant was feeling that this kid had been let down on just about every level.

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t actually log…’ his words trailed away as he seemed to realise his own contradiction.

  ‘Sir, I’d like you to—’

  ‘What the hell is going on out there?’ Kim asked as the sound of footsteps and raised voices increased outside the door. She was sure they’d have heard a fire alarm.

  Steele stood and opened the door as Dawson’s flushed face appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Fourteen-year-old boy, boss,’ he gasped. ‘Suddenly collapsed and is being rushed to hospital.’

  All three of them ran for the door.

  Thirty-Two

  Dawson arrived at the A&E department of Russells Hall Hospital two minutes after the ambulance. The boss had told him to go, and he had driven in the slipstream of the ambulance until two motorcycles had got in his way.

  He hurried through the waiting area, filled to overflowing with sick and injured, to stand behind a woman holding a coughing child complaining about the wait.