A Thousand Cuts

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At the gate, Lucia paused. David had already stepped through and was several paces closer to the door. He turned when he realised Lucia was no longer at his shoulder.

‘What is it?’ he said.

Lucia looked up at the house. It seemed empty. Abandoned almost. There was no movement at any of the windows. All the upstairs curtains were drawn, in fact, including those in Elliot’s room. Through the bay window downstairs Lucia could see an empty sofa, a coffee table bearing a stack of coasters and nothing else, a carpet devoid of toys, magazines, rogue shoes or slippers: anything that would suggest the house was still inhabited. The television in the corner was switched off.

She stepped through the gate and refastened the latch. She sensed David watching her as she passed him. ‘Second thoughts?’ he said but she ignored him.

A freesheet protruded from the letterbox. From its pages, a clutch of flyers had fallen on to the doormat. Lucia looked for a doorbell but could not find one. She glanced at David, then turned back to the door and twice tapped her knuckles against one of the frosted-glass panels.

‘No one’s going to hear that,’ David said.

But a moment later they registered footsteps. Someone was coming down the stairs, in a hurry it seemed. The steps ended with a thump and for a second or two there was silence. Then a chain rattled and a lock clicked and the door unstuck itself from its frame as whoever was inside tugged it inwards. A girl’s face appeared, level with Lucia’s midriff.

She did not look like Elliot. Her hair was so blonde it might almost have been bleached. If she had freckles, they would have been the kind that only came out in the sun. And her eyes were blue, whereas Elliot’s had been a muddy grey. Her nose, slightly squashed, may have resembled her brother’s; the worry lines on her forehead too. It was the girl’s expression, though, that most reminded Lucia of Elliot. In the set of her features she seemed apprehensive, almost fearful.

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.’

Elliot’s mother shook her head. ‘I don’t agree. The parents are responsible. The parents are always responsible.’

‘I think,’ said Lucia, ‘I think the point David’s firm was making is that the school had a duty of care. Just like businesses have a duty to their employees, to their customers, but all the more so because schools are in a unique position of trust.’

Elliot’s mother did not respond. Her lips drew tight. She looked down at her hands and poked a protruding corner of handkerchief back behind her knuckles.

‘Right,’ said David. ‘That’s right. So that’s what we said. The school was neglectful. The school was negligent. The school, through its inaction, directly contributed to the physical and mental distress suffered by Leo Martin, and to the otherwise unaccountable dip in his academic performance. Which, needless to say, would have a tangible impact on his future earning potential.’

‘So it was about money?’ said Elliot’s mother. ‘For this boy’s parents, it was about money?’

David held her eye. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Essentially.’

‘In this case,’ Lucia added. ‘In this case it was about money.’

‘And in our case?’ said Elliot’s father. ‘In our case, what would it be about? I mean, I assume that’s why you’re here. You, you’re touting for business. And you.’ He glowered at Lucia. ‘You’re working on commission, am I right?’

‘Now wait a minute—’ David said but Lucia, returning Samson’s gaze, put a hand on David’s arm.

‘That’s not why we’re here, Mr Samson. I promise you that’s not why we’re here.’

‘But you just said—’

‘I said in Leo Martin’s case, money came into it. The important thing – the reason we’re telling you this – is because of the precedent.’

Samson was shaking his head. ‘I don’t buy that. What else is this about, if it’s not about the money?’

Lucia sighed. ‘The school,’ she said. ‘It’s not as innocent as you think. It’s not innocent full stop. The bullying there is endemic. It’s not just Elliot. It’s not even just the pupils. And the school ignores it. The school averts its eyes like it was some obscenity scrawled on a wall.’ She was leaning forwards now. Her knees were pressed against the coffee table. ‘You told me yourself, Mr Samson. They’re in the process of arranging private funding. What do you think would happen to that funding if the truth were to come out?’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Elliot’s mother. ‘The school’s been good to us. The school’s been supportive. They sent us flowers. The headmaster, he wrote a letter.’ She was close to tears, Lucia realised. Her handkerchief was unfurled. ‘And what about Sophie?’ Frances Samson continued. ‘Sophie’s due to start there the September after next. What kind of parents would we be to put the prospect of a financial settlement above the education of our daughter?’

‘Right,’ said her husband. ‘Quite right. And what about you?’ He turned to David. ‘What’s in it for you? I mean, you’re a solicitor, right? Why are you here if not for your twenty per cent?’

David’s back straightened. ‘I’m here because Lucia asked me to be here. I can leave. If you want me to, I can leave. Believe me, there are other things I could be doing with my time.’ He stood. Lucia rose too.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘David, please sit down. Mr Samson, Mrs Samson: this was my idea, not David’s. David is here as a courtesy. He doesn’t stand to gain from this at all.’

Elliot’s father scoffed.

‘My firm doesn’t even know I’m here,’ said David, still standing. ‘Probably they wouldn’t want to get involved. I don’t know. If you decided to go ahead, I’d have to talk to them. Possibly they would see an upside in the publicity. It never hurts being on the victim’s side. Even if it is a losing side.’

Lucia’s head sank. She found herself unable to watch the Samsons’ reactions.

‘A losing side?’ said Elliot’s father. ‘You mean we wouldn’t win? Even if we agreed to this, you’re saying we wouldn’t win?’

‘It’s unlikely,’ Lucia conceded.

‘It’s a virtual certainty, I’m afraid, that you would lose.’

Lucia raised her head. ‘Sit down, David, for Christ’s sake.’ She looked across at Elliot’s father. He was smiling an incredulous smile.

‘So this boy,’ he said. ‘This boy whose parents sued. He lost. He lost and the school won.’

David finally sat back down, so far forward on the seat that he was in danger of sliding off. He regarded Samson for a moment, then he nodded.

‘So the jury—’

‘The judge.’

‘The judge, then. Whatever. The judge agreed with us. He said what we said.’

David did not answer. He glanced at Lucia, ceding the floor to her.

‘It wasn’t entirely straightforward,’ Lucia said. ‘Things came out in the hearing. Not about the boy, not about the school – as far as we know, everything happened just as David said it did. But the parents. There were question marks. They’d spent some time in the States and brought back with them a certain ... That is, they had a tendency… ’

‘They liked to sue,’ David said. ‘It didn’t reflect well.’

‘So what would be the point? Why bother? My wife and I, my family, we’re moving on.’ Samson noticed Lucia’s eyes dart to the pile of boxes and his expression became rigid. ‘We’re trying. All right? We’re doing our best. Why would we want to jeopardise that?’

‘Mr Samson,’ Lucia replied, ‘the last thing I would ask you to do is jeopardise your family’s welfare. What I’m asking is that you do just the opposite. I’m asking you to protect your daughter, your daughter’s friends. I’m asking you to create such a stink that the school has to do something. It has to accept responsibility and act to make sure that what happened to Elliot doesn’t happen to anyone else’s child.’

Now Samson stood. ‘Listen to me, Inspector. We’ve said this before but clearly you need it repeated. What happened to Elliot, what happened to our son – it wasn’t the school’s fault. What the hell could they have done? If you have some scheme that would allow us to punish the idiots – the animals – who are responsible for Elliot’s death, then maybe we’ll listen. If not, if this is the best that you can come up with, then, well. I suggest you and your friend here show yourselves out.’

Samson took a step forwards. He was not a big man but he loomed over Lucia where she sat. Lucia, though, did not move. ‘Remind me, Mr Samson,’ she said. ‘Why was it that nothing was done after Elliot was attacked? Why were the boys who beat him – the boys who bit him and cut him – why were they allowed to walk free?’

‘Because no one saw, Inspector. No one saw them do it. That’s what you told us, remember? That’s what your colleagues told us.’

‘That’s right. That’s what we said. We spoke to everyone we could and everyone told us the same thing. Elliot’s friends. Elliot’s teachers. Even Elliot’s headmaster. They all told us that no one saw.’ Lucia reached down to her ankles and into her bag.

‘What’s that?’ said Samson. ‘What have you got there? Is that a tape recorder? You’re not recording this, are you?’

Lucia placed the tape recorder on the table in front of her. ‘Just listen,’ she said. ‘Please.’

Samson hesitated. He turned to his wife, who shrugged. Lucia waited until he had lowered himself again on to the arm of the chair. She pressed play.