Simon Lelic: A Thousand Cuts

When she spoke, however, there was no trace of Elliot’s timidity. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Hi,’ Lucia replied. ‘You must be Sophie.’

The girl frowned. She turned to look at David and her frown deepened. ‘Who are you?’

‘This is David. My name’s Lucia. Is your father home, honey? Your mother?’

‘Are you reporters?’

Lucia shook her head. ‘No. We’re not reporters.’

The girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the password?’

Lucia looked at David. David looked at Lucia.

‘Password?’ Lucia said. ‘I don’t think we know the password. If you could just—’

The door closed. Lucia was left staring at the flaking mustard paintwork.

‘So,’ David said. ‘What now?’

Lucia hesitated, then knocked once more, louder than she had the first time. Even as she withdrew her hand, however, there was a rattle and the door was pulled wide. Elliot’s father stood just across the threshold. His daughter was seated at the bottom of the stairs in the hallway, her chin in her upturned palms, her eyes fixed on Lucia and David: intruders.

‘Detective Inspector May,’ Samson said. He seemed barely to notice David. Even as Lucia introduced her companion, Samson’s handshake was cursory, mechanical, uninterested. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Fetch your mother, Sophie. And clear away your things.’

There was a book lying face down to the side of one of the stairs. Sophie snatched it up and stomped her way to the landing.

‘Sorry about that,’ Samson muttered and gestured them into the lounge. David thanked him. Lucia led the way.

‘Have a seat,’ said Samson and they sat, side by side on the pale-green sofa Lucia had seen through the window from the porch. She found herself sinking back into the upholstery but resisted, shifting herself forwards until she was perched on the edge of the seat, her feet drawn in beneath her and her hands clasped together in her lap. David mimicked her pose.

‘Excuse the mess,’ Samson said but there was no mess. He was referring, Lucia assumed, to the boxes piled in the dining area at the far end of the room. Lucia could not tell what was packed inside them but the lounge itself had been stripped of adornments. Only the furniture, a few pictures and, tucked between cushion and arm on Lucia’s end of the sofa, a copy of that day’s Times remained. Lucia recalled the dishevelment she had spied the last time she had been in the house: the piles of books, the coats and shoes in the hall, Sophie’s bike, the remnants of breakfast scattered like crumbs; all the trappings, in short, of a family home straining to accommodate its occupants.

‘You’re moving?’ Lucia said but Samson shook his head.

‘Just having a clear-out. Getting rid of a few things. Junk. Kids’ stuff mainly. I should offer you tea. Or coffee?’

David looked to Lucia. Lucia shook her head. ‘We’re fine. Thank you.’

The room fell silent. Samson lingered by the door, one hand gripping the handle. He glanced at the chair opposite the sofa and moved towards it, reaching as he did so like a toddler wary of a fall. He lowered himself on to the arm, his knees still pointing towards the door.

They waited. David cleared his throat.

When Elliot’s mother entered the lounge, Lucia and David stood. Like her husband, Frances Samson looked tired. She looked, too, like she had been crying. There was a handkerchief barely concealed in one of her fists. Her hair was combed but bunched back in an unglamorous knot. She wore jeans and a shirt, untucked, that might once have belonged to her husband.

Lucia took a step forwards but Elliot’s mother merely nodded and slid away, until she was barricaded behind the armchair. Samson remained perched on the arm. To an observer, they would have seemed the reluctant callers, Lucia and David the uneasy hosts. Sophie remained out of sight but Lucia had the impression that she was lurking at the top of the stairs.

‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Lucia said. ‘I realise you’re probably both very busy.’

To Lucia’s surprise, Samson laughed. The sound was bitter, almost derisive. ‘Not that busy, Inspector. Not busy enough, if you want the truth.’

Samson’s wife put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Paul,’ she said. Samson did not turn around and her hand dropped away.

‘What do you want, Inspector? Why are you here? Forgive me for being so blunt but your call – it was somewhat unexpected. ’

Lucia nodded. ‘This is David Wells,’ she said, looking at Samson’s wife. ‘He’s a solicitor. A very good solicitor.’

David mumbled something. He tugged at one of his trouser legs, fiddled with a cufflink.

‘David’s firm was involved in a case some time back. It was several years ago now but it’s relevant. To your situation. To what happened to your son.’

Now Samson began to fidget. He said nothing.

‘There was a boy,’ Lucia continued, addressing Elliot’s father again. ‘He had problems at school, just like Elliot.’

‘Elliot didn’t have problems, Inspector. He was bullied. The problems weren’t his. They were forced upon him.’

Again Lucia nodded. ‘What I mean to say is, this boy was bullied too. He was persecuted, just like your son. In different ways perhaps. Through different means. But he suffered.’

‘That’s very sad, Inspector. What’s your point?’

‘Call me Lucia, please. This isn’t exactly an official visit.’

‘Lucia then. What’s your point?’

‘Perhaps it would be best if David explained.’

David coughed. He shuffled. ‘I should say,’ he began, ‘that I wasn’t involved in the case myself. This was before my time. Before my time at Blake, Henry and Lorne, I mean. But I’d heard about it. And after Lucia here came calling, I did some reading. So I’m pretty much up to speed.’

Samson frowned. His wife too.

‘Anyway,’ said David. ‘Basically what happened is this. There’s a boy, Leo Martin, he’s sixteen, he takes his GCSEs and he fails, I suppose, about half of them. Which no one expects him to do because he’s a bright kid. Very bright, as in he should be getting straight As or A stars or whatever it was in 2002. So his parents kick up a fuss, start by blaming the exam board, and there’s this whole hullabaloo, and after the parents and the school dig a little deeper, it turns out that the reason Leo failed is that the time his parents thought he was spending studying for his exams in the school library, he was actually doing coursework for a bunch of kids in the year below him. I mean, they’re younger but they’re bigger and they’re meaner. And for some time they’ve been tormenting this kid, terrorising him, threatening him. They threatened his sister too, who’s ten or eleven or younger anyway, and the only way Leo can get them to leave her alone is to play their little pet. You know, doing the dares they set, stealing the stuff they tell him to steal, putting up with their beatings and, eventually, doing their schoolwork for them when it looks like they’re about to fail themselves.’

Samson’s eyes drifted into the hallway, searching for his daughter, Lucia assumed. David noticed and paused. ‘I should say allegedly. I mean, all of this, it’s what the parents claimed. Later, in court. They sued, you see. They sued the school.’

‘Why?’

David turned to Elliot’s mother. ‘Pardon me?’

‘I said, why? Why did they sue the school? If they had to sue anyone, why not the parents of the kids who did this to him?’

‘Their argument – my firm’s argument – was that it was the school’s responsibility to protect the children under its charge. The bullying, for the most part, happened on school premises, during school hours, when the school, effectively, assumed the role of parent in monitoring the behaviour and the well-being of its students. Our position was, what could the parents of these kids have done, even if they had known what was going on? They weren’t there.’