Page 41 of Dying Truth
Laurence nodded and walked them to the door.
Kim promised they’d be in touch soon.
For a minute she stood against the car.
‘The answer is no before you even think about it,’ Bryant said, opening the car door.
‘You don’t even know what I’m thinking,’ she countered.
‘Oh yes I do,’ he said as she got in beside him. ‘Clearly the Winters have friends in high places. Now, those friends have already prompted a call from the top of the food chain. For whatever reason they’re determined to believe their daughter killed herself. If you go back in there and try to force them to believe she was murdered, what then? You don’t think we’re being watched closely enough as it is? Their well-placed friends are gonna want this thing wrapped up within the hour, and right now we have nothing.’
‘So, you’re saying we should just continue to allow them to believe a lie?’ she asked.
‘I’m saying we take the opportunity to find out who killed her so we can give them some real answers.’
‘Damn it, Bryant. I know you’re right, but I know I’m right too,’ she said, exasperated.
He started the car and turned it towards the drive.
‘Great, I can’t even have one right on my own.’
She sighed as they crunched across the gravel. ‘Bryant, you think Sadie would have written a letter to Mummy and Daddy?’
‘Not a bloody chance,’ he said, reaching the road.
No, strangely enough, neither did she.
Twenty-Six
Dawson checked his watch as he approached the recreation area; at his school it had been called the playground. The area was the size of a small housing estate and appeared to be shared by the whole school.
He heard a bell in the distance before the sound of voices and chatter filled his ears. Kids streamed from the doorways as though a tap had been turned on. Immediately the groups formed: girl groups, boy groups, a few mixed but the majority were gender-specific. A group of eight lads headed for the centre of the space and threw down their jumpers to be used as goalposts.
Some things were universal, Dawson thought, regardless of the school you attended. And young boys playing football between classes was one of them.
He searched the crowd for Geoffrey, and when he couldn’t see him, he took a second to recall his own experience. Where does the fat kid go when they’re forced outside for fresh air in between lessons but doesn’t really want to be noticed?
He started walking the periphery of the recreation area. A few benches hid beneath a row of elm trees, shielded from the emerging sun. Most had groups sitting on the bench, on the wooden arms and on the backrest with their feet on the seats. All except one.
On the bench at the furthest point away from the school building, barely noticeable behind hanging branches of elm, was a kid chomping on a packet of crisps.
Oh how he understood the cycle. He’d been a bit weighty, been picked on, made miserable, eaten, been picked on, made miserable… Well just stop eating crisps and cakes onlookers might think. And if only it was as easy as that.
‘Hey,’ Geoffrey said, looking at Dawson and then guiltily at his packet of crisps.
Dawson understood. He too had felt the shame every time he was seen eating anything that wasn’t an apple or stick of carrot. Average-sized kids could eat whatever they wanted without judgement or attention. The fat kid received stares and head shakes as though they were doing something wrong.
‘Mmm… chicken flavour, my favourite,’ Dawson said.
Geoffrey proffered the packet, and Dawson took one.
Geoffrey left the packet hanging between them.
‘Got a minute for a chat?’ Dawson asked.
He nodded towards the group playing football.
‘Best be quick. They’ll be wanting me back any minute.’
