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Back False Witness Save as PDF
Chapters (100)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. Acknowledgements
  97. DEAD GUILTY
  98. 1
  99. FALSE WITNESS
  100. Also by Michelle Davies

‘Imogen’s child is a pupil at Rushbrooke? Since when? I mean, they moved away, didn’t they? Imogen and her family. They left in the summer holidays after we left Rushbrooke. Isn’t that right?’

The staccato of questions brought a frown to Renshaw’s face.

‘Mrs Tyler moved back to Mansell at Christmas. Her son was in Poppy’s class,’ she said.

Julia swayed on the spot. Imogen was living in Mansell again? Walking the same streets, breathing the same air as her? She couldn’t bear the thought.

‘Are you ready to see Poppy now?’ Renshaw repeated.

Julia was suddenly overcome with guilt. What was she thinking, not going straight to her? Poppy needed her.

‘Yes, I am. Please, take me to her.’

Julia’s mind was in turmoil as she followed Renshaw back to the head’s office.

What on earth had Poppy got herself caught up in?

What was she thinking climbing the wall in the first place?

And why did the child who died have to be the son of the one person Julia hated more than anyone else she’d ever met?

8

The house that until a few hours ago Imogen had shared with her son was a terraced cottage set back from a busy road, ten minutes from Rushbrooke on foot, three by car. The downstairs was open plan but small, a lounge-cum-dining room leading into a galley kitchen, with everything wedged in its place. The decor was tasteful if a bit lacking in personality for Maggie’s taste: all muted tones and pale wood furniture. Imogen had said there were two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and Maggie imagined they were done out the same.

She offered to make tea as Imogen wandered numbly around the lounge area, picking up and putting down toys that obviously belonged to and had been left out by Benji, among them a hand-held games console. Eventually she sank down onto the sofa, a light grey three-seater set against the longest wall.

‘Benji’s usually waiting for me when I get home from work,’ she began, her voice hoarse from all the crying. ‘Sometimes he’ll be in his room but usually he’s here, watching telly.’ She stroked the seat beside her. ‘He gives me this soppy grin when I come in, like he’s really pleased to see me but he’s too self-conscious to give me a kiss.’ She looked up at Maggie beseechingly. ‘Are you sure it’s him? Maybe there’s been a mistake, and it’s another boy who looks like him? I wouldn’t be cross if it was a mix-up, I promise. You can tell me.’

Maggie’s heart ached for the woman. She would love nothing more than to be able to tell Imogen they’d got it wrong.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘But the birthmark . . . it matched.’

Imogen bit down hard on her bottom lip, nodding.