Chapter 5

The atmosphere was thick with tension, a chaotic scene reminiscent of a terror attack. Police swarmed everywhere, their presence suffocating. What began as a mere accident had escalated into something far more sinister. The first floor was cordoned off, police tape stretching like a warning, and soon the ground floor followed suit. We were herded into an adjoining building, our belongings trapped behind locked doors.

In the midst of the confusion, my gaze darted around the room, taking in the terrified faces of my peers. Everyone was gripped by fear, except for George and Glen. They stood apart, an unsettling calm about them, as if they were more excited about the next meal or the upcoming football match than the chaos surrounding us.

From across the street, I watched as forensics in white jumpsuits carried Mr. Davis’s lifeless body out, placing it into a silver Mercedes van. “Forensics? That’s never a good sign,” one kid whispered. “They only show up when it’s murder,” another chimed in. The room fell silent, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Then, a booming voice shattered our reverie. A detective stormed in, bellowing George’s name with an authority that made everyone flinch. George stood, his expression unreadable, and followed the detective out. Moments later, another detective ushered Glen away, leaving me alone in a haze of confusion and dread. How did they identify George and Glen so quickly? My mind raced, but I clung to my oath—keep stum.

Hours stretched into an agonizing evening, the uncertainty gnawing at me. I couldn’t shake the image of Mr. Davis hitting the floor, and I prayed it was a heart attack rather than a murder. But my thoughts drifted back to George and Glen. Were they at the police station being questioned, or were they still here?

As dawn broke, I awoke to the sound of a bell, signaling the start of another day. Outside, police continued to swarm, and the tape still barricaded the street. Two imposing detectives approached the building, their demeanor heavy with purpose. My heart raced when they locked eyes with me, the gruff voice of one cutting through the air, “Peter *****the.”

“Yes?” I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

“Come with us.”

Before I knew it, I was being ushered into the back of a police car. The young driver navigated the twisting lanes with reckless enthusiasm, while the detectives in the back exchanged glances that hinted at something ominous. We arrived at the old bridewell police station, a place steeped in shadows and unpleasant odors.

Marched to the detention desk, I was met with a towering sergeant who leaned down, his eyes narrowing as he read my name. “What have we got here then?” he asked, and I barely registered the words that followed—”suspicion of murder.” My mind went numb. Did he really just say that about me?

I was led to a cell by a young female officer, who ordered me to remove my shoes or laces—my choice. The heavy door clanged shut behind me, leaving me in suffocating solitude. My thoughts spiraled. How could I be suspected of murder? Then it hit me—my loyalty to George and Glen. I had witnessed something horrific. Mr. Davis had walked in on us, confronting us in a moment of reckless mischief. In a panic, George and Glen had lashed out, and I had stood frozen in shock and horror, an unwilling witness to their desperate act.

Hours passed in isolation until the door swung open. A young man strolled in, introducing himself as my solicitor. “Hello, Pete. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m Steve Lemon from Stannard & Hope Solicitors. The detectives want to question you about the alleged murder of Mr. Davis, the night man at St. George’s School. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but I don’t know what they want from me,” I stammered, trying to sound convincing.

“Well, they’re going to ask about the night in question. If you were involved, you can tell me, and I won’t share that with the police.” His earnestness felt misplaced, and I couldn’t fathom why he thought I’d confide in a stranger.

Before I could respond, the cell door swung open again, and a detective stepped in. “Right, we’re ready for you now.” With that, I was marched into the interrogation room, the weight of loyalty and fear pressing heavily on my shoulders as I prepared to face the truth of that night.

Detective Sergeant Shaun Conway flicked on the tape recorder, his expression serious. “I’m Detective Sergeant Shaun Conway, based at the main Bridewell in Liverpool. In the room with me is,” he paused, glancing at me, “for the benefit of the tape, please confirm your full name.”