be away for two days. And we’d been arguing, like we always did, and she’d refused to let me have anything to eat. And when I went into my room, she locked it – all the rooms in my dad’s house have keys because of valuables –’
‘Valuables?’
‘Because my dad works away lots.’
‘Ah, okay.’
‘Anyway, she said I could stay there till I stopped being horrible and I told her I’d scream out the window so the neighbours could hear me and she told me she’d tell them I was horrible and naughty and that I screamed to get attention, because that’s what she always said she’d say if I told her I’d tell on her. So I told her I’d kick the door in and tell my dad, but she didn’t take any notice, and in the end, after hours and hours, I must have fell asleep. And then when I woke up it was really dark – it was night-time by now, I think, and I woke up and I was wet and I could smell something funny and at first I thought I must have peed the bed. I’d never done that, not since I was really, really little, but I was warm and wet and then I saw her, sitting in my chair. Which was really frightening, and when I sat up she told me I’d better not move too much because I might go up in flames. I didn’t really know what she was on about at first, but then she showed me. She had my dad’s petrol can – you know those green plastic ones you get in petrol stations? One of those. And she had this lighter. And she kept flicking the flame on in front of me, and she told me I was wet because she’d soaked me in dad’s emergency petrol and that she’d woken me up so that I would have a chance to say a prayer before she burned me to death.’
To say I couldn’t believe what I was hearing was wrong, because, for reasons that had no basis in evidence, I did believe it. But, even so, a part of me still couldn’t believe it – how could anyone inflict such cruelty on a child?
In years to come I would have that question answered, and comprehensively, but right then I asked the question that seemed the only one to ask. ‘Love,’ I said gently, ‘did this actually happen? This wasn’t just part of some horrible dream?’
‘Yes, Miss!’ she said immediately. ‘I mean she didn’t actually burn me. And it wasn’t even petrol. She’d just poured water over me. That’s why I thought I’d peed, because it was warm, but she told me it was petrol. And I could smell it. She’d put some on a hankie, so I could smell it …’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ I rushed to reassure her. ‘Of course I believe you. So what happened next?’
‘I was terrified. She kept flicking the lighter on and off. So I begged her not to burn me and she started laughing and telling me I was pathetic and telling me I had to beg some more. I had to say, Please, I’m so ugly, but please don’t set fire to me, and she kept doing that for ages and then burst out laughing again and telling me it was all a big joke. That’s when she told me about the water and said how silly I was for believing it, and said that if I told dad she really would burn me, and that it was just to show me how she would do it if she had to. That now I knew just how easy it would be, and that I should be very careful not to annoy her.’
Which was when a half-remembered thought suddenly came to me. What had the woman said to me that day, about winning all those trophies? That was it. That it was all about attention to the little details.
I took Imogen into my arms then and tried to soothe her racking sobs. No wonder she’d been stunned into silence, I thought. She must have been scared half to death by such wickedness.
Attention to detail. How easy it would be. This was a monster, and I was speechless myself.
With Kelly already looking after my kids, I used the internal phone to call Jim Dawson, and while we waited for him to arrive I impressed upon Imogen that she was not in any trouble whatsoever. And that, actually, what she’d done had been very brave and very important and that once her nan and grandad knew (I was careful not to mention her father) they would make sure she was safe.
This had brought on another intense bout of sobbing as she revealed that her nan had given her a huge telling off for stomping off to her bedroom and spoiling their party, and how fed up they were getting of her living there.
Which made me wince, but, of course, that was exactly what would happen, her wicked stepmother having done such a brilliant job of painting this child – who she clearly hated, for whatever twisted reason – as some spoilt and odious kid set on trouble.
But it was trouble that was about to be heaped on her own head, and, boy, I thought, as I sped off to track Gary Clark down, would I love to see that happen.
Just as I’d hoped, Gary was indeed in a meeting with the head, and, hopefully, as a part of his doubtless long list of items, discussing the action the school should now take. And as the receptionist confirmed that there were only the two of them in there, I had little hesitation, despite the Meeting in progress sign hanging on it, in rapping sharply on the door.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ I said, as both men looked up at me in surprise, ‘but there’s been something of a development with Imogen Hinchcliffe.’
Gary gave me a ‘What the hell?’ look as Jim stood to greet me. ‘Come on in, Casey. How are you? Rested after half-term, I hope? Come and grab a chair, and let’s hear what you’ve got for us. Gary’s already filled me in on where we’re at with her written disclosures, but you’ve something else now?’
‘I have,’ I said. ‘She’s been talking to me. Properly talking,’ I added. ‘About the first thing she told us.’ I glanced at Gary. ‘About thinking her stepmother was going to burn her? Well, now she’s told me the full circumstances and it’s shocking, it really is.’
‘Which are?’ Gary asked.
So I told them. Both men listened in the same shocked silence that I had, and when I’d finished Mike Moore spread his hands. ‘I’m at a loss for words,’ he said. ‘And I’m not trying to be funny. Where’s she now?’
‘In Gary’s office with Jim Dawson, currently,’ I told him. ‘In no fit state to stay in school but, well, where do we go now? Can we really just send her home, now, to nan and grandad, business as usual?’
He turned to Gary. ‘As CPO, what are your thoughts?’ he asked him. ‘What’s the next step we should take at this point?’
‘Well,’ said Gary, ‘it’s both complicated and made easier by the fact that she’s already living with her grandparents. Complicated because it makes intervention more complex as there is another layer of family involved, but easier in that, as far as we know, she’s already in a place of safety, so there will hopefully be no need for an emergency intervention – picking her up and placing her in care; that sort of thing.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ I agreed, thinking just what a trauma it would be for Imogen to be taken away and placed in the care of strangers. The implications for her mutism could be potentially catastrophic. ‘So what would happen?’
‘Well, the key thing is probably the dad here. We’ve yet to speak to him, so we don’t yet know what part he’s played. On the face of it, all this has been going on in his absence, and, from what Imogen herself says, without his knowledge.’
Mike tutted, and I knew exactly what he was wondering: just how foolish or, indeed, hands-off a parent had to be not to see what was happening right underneath their nose. But it was unfair to prejudge him, I supposed, not without getting all the facts. ‘And what a shock he’s going to get,’ I said.
Gary shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Odds are he is, but there are lots of abuse cases where the uninvolved parent has known what’s going on – in some cases, exactly what’s been going on – but, for whatever reason, has chosen to ignore it. Sometimes it’s coercion, or fear of retaliation, but sometimes it’s just plain expediency.