‘It doesn’t have a door.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
I can imagine her eyes rolling towards the ceiling in a well-worn expression of un-surprise.
‘One more thing - I’m going away tomorrow. Just for the day. I won’t be back in time to pick up Emma.’
‘I’ll get one of the other mothers to take her home.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Fifteen minutes later, I let myself into the cottage. Breakfast dishes are rinsed in the kitchen sink. Julianne’s car keys are on the mantelpiece. I’m about to leave when I remember that I wanted a photograph of Sienna. Charlie used to have one pinned to the corkboard above her desk. I hope she won’t mind me borrowing it.
I climb the stairs and open her bedroom door, which has a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign with a note written underneath: ‘That means you, Emma!’ Given that Emma can’t read yet, it seems rather superfluous, but I’m sure the message has been passed on orally.
Charlie’s pyjamas are pooled on her unmade bed. Her desk is near the window. Her laptop is open. I scan the corkboard and spy a strip of passport-sized photographs taken at a photo-booth. Charlie and Sienna are sitting on each other’s laps, pulling funny faces. The last picture is of Sienna leaning towards the lens as though reading the instructions, unsure if the camera is going to flash again.
Elsewhere the noticeboard is decorated with Post-it notes, pictures, newspaper clippings and reminders. One snapshot shows Charlie and Sienna on a Ferris wheel at the Wessex Show. It was published on the front page of the
Charlie’s laptop is ‘sleeping’. I press the spacebar and the hard drive begins spinning. The screen illuminates. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I should respect her privacy. At the same time, I keep thinking of Sienna and her secrets and of Charlie crying at school and of our post-game conversation on Saturday.
Clicking open the history directory, I scan through the websites Charlie has been ‘surfing’. Most of them I recognise: her Facebook page, iTunes, YouTube, Twitter . . .
She has set up a profile on MSN, a message application that allows her to communicate with friends online. There are no text conversations recorded. Charlie must have ticked a box in the settings to delete old messages.
I look at her Facebook page - the photo albums. There are shots of her last school camp, a friend’s party, our weekend in the Lake District, chasing Gunsmoke through the garden after he stole one of her trainers. Some of the photographs make me smile. Others tug at unseen strings in my chest.
Opening a new ‘album’ I discover two photographs where I don’t recognise the context. Charlie is lying on a large bed, playing with a young boy. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, she is lying on her front, resting on her elbows. The collar of the T-shirt dips open at her neck, revealing little yet I still find it disconcerting.
The next image shows her lying on her back with the little boy balanced on her knees. I wonder who took the shots. Someone she felt comfortable with. Someone she trusted.
Looking at them, I can imagine Charlie as a young woman, a mother, married with a family. It’s strange because, normally, I still picture her as being a little girl in her Dalmatian pyjamas and red cowboy boots, putting on ‘shows’ in the garden.
Clicking off the site, I close the lid of the laptop, sending it back to sleep.
Shepparton Park School. Mid-morning. The headmaster Derek Stozer is a tall, slope-shouldered man with a lumpy body and the makings of a comb-over. I’ve only met him twice - including at a prize-giving day when he mumbled through his formal welcome speech and made fifteen minutes last longer than a wet weekend in Truro.
His secretary, Mrs Summers, is like an over-protective wife who dotes on him.
‘You should have called for an appointment,’ she says. ‘He’s a very busy man.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry.’
‘What’s the nature of your inquiry?’
‘It’s personal.’
She blinks at me, expecting more. I smile. She’s not happy. Leaning across her desk, she whispers into an intercom. Eventually, I am escorted down a carpeted corridor, past honour boards and trophy cabinets.
Derek Stozer rises from his chair and hitches his trousers before shaking my hand.
‘Professor O’Loughlin, how can I help you? Is this about Charlotte?’
‘No.’
‘Oh?’ He gazes at me along his nose.
As soon as I mention Sienna Hegarty his mood changes and he mumbles something that might be ‘terrible business’ or could be ‘ermine fizziness’. He points to a chair and resumes his own.
‘I’ve been asked to examine Sienna and to prepare a psych report for the court. In the course of interviewing her family, I became aware that Ray Hegarty made a complaint to the school a week before he died. I believe it related to a member of your staff. I’ve since learned that this same member of staff has complained about harassing phone calls from Sienna.’
The headmaster doesn’t react immediately. After a moment of reflection, he clears his throat. ‘From time to time parents and students have issues with teachers. It’s not uncommon.’
‘Mr Hegarty claimed he saw this particular member of staff kissing his daughter.’
There is a longer silence. Mr Stozer stands and stretches his legs, wandering between the window and his desk, clasping his hands behind his back.
‘Mr Hegarty was mistaken. I have talked to the member of staff involved, who assures me that nothing untoward occurred. This member of staff admitted failing to appreciate that a student had developed a crush on him. It was a harmless infatuation. The member of staff immediately distanced himself from the girl and submitted a report.’
‘Did he kiss her?’
‘No, that’s not what happened.’
‘What
‘I am led to believe that the girl tried to kiss him. He spurned her advances and reported the matter immediately. I was aware of the incident before Mr Hegarty raised it with me.’
‘Sienna was his babysitter.’
‘And he should never have allowed this. It was a mistake. He admitted as much. It was a failure of judgement.’
‘You investigated?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you talk to Sienna?’
‘I organised an internal review of the staff member’s actions and performance. I delegated the task to a senior member of staff - the school counsellor.’
‘Miss Robinson?’
‘She’s trained to talk to students about delicate issues.’
Why didn’t Annie tell me any of this?
Mr Stozer continues: ‘Sienna denied anything had happened. She said her father was mistaken.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Yes, Mr O’Loughlin, I believed her. And I believed Mr Ellis and I believed Miss Robinson.’
The last statement is delivered with far more authority than I thought Stozer capable of.
‘I don’t see what relevance any of this has,’ he adds. ‘Sienna Hegarty was a model student. She wasn’t being bullied. She wasn’t struggling academically. She enjoyed coming to school. She was a healthy, happy teenager —’
‘If Sienna was so healthy and happy, why did Miss Robinson suggest she see a therapist?’
‘Many young girls experience problems when they go through adolescence - I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. I’m led to believe that Sienna Hegarty was having difficulties at home.’
‘But not at school?’
‘If you’re trying to suggest that her state of mind or her actions had anything to do with this school, I would
