A Good Liar

On the face of it, the grand opening was a blistering success, although very few of Sedgefield’s townspeople could attest to this fact, given that the celebrity-packed variety show had been priced beyond their means. Phillipa responded to accusations of elitism by inviting the local dance school to put on a mid-week run, and all three nights of Hilary Clarke’s adaptation of Alice in Wonderland had sold out in days.

When the show had opened on the evening of 21st October, the house had been packed, and it should have been cheers that filled the rafters instead of smoke. I’m certain that the performers would have received a standing ovation, but the curtain had come down after only half an hour, and it was the show’s originator who took her final bow. Hilary was counted amongst the twelve fatalities that night, although arguably there were only eleven victims.

The body of Declan Gallagher, employed by Ronson Construction as site supervisor for the restoration, was found amongst the smouldering rubble close to his seriously injured sister, who would remain in hospital for weeks. A tragedy for the family perhaps, but also a conundrum. What was Declan doing there?

Evidential hearings took place within months of the fire, but this fact-gathering exercise is yet to produce any answers. We are told we have to wait for the investigators to complete the public inquiry and issue their findings, but we can make our own deductions. The likely cause of the fire was an electrical fault, and it isn’t much of a leap to assume that Declan will bear some responsibility for what happened. He was an electrician by trade after all.

His murderous role has to remain under the spotlight if justice is to be served. It’s understood that he had given his sister two tickets for the Empress’s last ever show, and she had gone with a friend. There was no reason for Declan to be inside the theatre that night and, so far, his sister is refusing to explain his presence.

What we do know is that the first police officer was on the scene within six minutes, and the ambulance service arrived a minute later, but these first responders weren’t cleared to enter the building until the fire service deemed it safe. When two fire crews arrived eleven minutes after the fire alarm had sounded, they were significantly under-equipped to tackle the inferno that would require twenty appliances and most of the night to bring under control. Not one of those appliances came from Sedgefield’s fire station, which had been sold to a property developer the year before. The closure was part of a wider rationalisation of the service that, according to the hype, would not compromise the safety of residents.

So where did it all go wrong? Should we blame the brave fire crews, or does the fault lie with the councillors who were forced to cut budgets? Should our government be held to account for cutting public funding, or does the blame lie closer to home? Did Declan Gallagher choose to cut corners in order to deliver the project to Phillipa Montgomery’s demanding schedule? Or was it his incompetence that cost the town eleven lives? Did he know the risks he was taking? Did Phillipa?

Reportedly, it will be months before the findings of the public inquiry are edited and published, but the town cannot and will not wait. The community is doing its best to pull together, but as we face the first anniversary of the Sedgefield’s darkest hour, we need answers.

Why was the theatre opened when it was clearly unsafe to do so?

Had the contractors been appointed on a wink and a nod, along with the approvals for the various planning consents and building inspections?

How did the fire spread through the roof space unchecked, and why didn’t the smoke detectors pick up a warning sooner?

Was it a spark from a shorted circuit that started the fire, or was it ignited by the flash of Phillipa Montgomery’s smile when the authorities gave her the go-ahead for her vanity project?

Should we put our faith in the public inquiry? Can we trust that this tragedy will be investigated fully and without bias?

When will the people of Sedgefield receive justice?

1

‘I can’t publish this!’

If it weren’t for the digital age, Leanne’s editor would be tearing her copy to shreds right now, but Mal Smithson had to settle for glaring at his computer screen.

‘You asked me to do a personal piece, and this is it.’

Mal spun around to face her. ‘A personal piece, yes. Not a personal vendetta.’

Leanne slumped back onto the faded sofa shoved against the wall opposite Mal’s desk. The cushions sagged. ‘I’ll admit it needs some work and maybe I got a bit carried away towards the end, but it’s only a first draft.’

‘I couldn’t care less. Even the tabloids look restrained compared to this,’ he said, crossing his arms over the straining buttons of his denim shirt. His cuffs were frayed, as was his patience.

‘I won’t allow this scandal to be kicked into the long grass,’ Leanne warned. ‘I’m the only reporter on this paper who actually lives in Sedgefield, and it’s my duty to be the voice of the people.’

‘What you’ve written is inflammatory and libellous, and you know it is,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice level. ‘No amount of editing will make it fit for print.’

Mal’s deepening wrinkles made him appear much older than when Leanne had first met him less than four years ago. She had been working as a freelancer at the time, but her move from Leeds to the north-west had felt permanent, and the job at the Cheshire Courier meant she could stay in Sedgefield. She had thought they would get on well and, despite their current locking of horns, they did.

Her editor reminded her of a jaded teacher who was too set in his ways to consider retirement, and twenty-nine-year-old Leanne could pass easily as his student, with her dark clothes, lilac hair, and Doc Martens. In many ways, a student was exactly what she was. Mal had learned his craft back when newspapers were the main source of public information and, although times had changed, he continued to take that responsibility seriously, and expected his staff to do the same.

‘We cannot and will not speculate on the wider causes of the fire until the findings of the public inquiry are published. The evidential hearings provided some, but not all of the information the investigators will be privy to. You’re doing the town no favours by spreading false rumours. We have to be patient, Leanne.’

‘And meanwhile, this paper is doing all it can to protect those individuals who don’t deserve our patience and understanding,’ Leanne hit back. ‘I don’t suppose your decision has anything to do with the fact that Phillipa Montgomery is friends with the Courier’s owners?’

‘Phillipa is friends with a lot of people, and I take exception to any suggestion that I would be party to a cover-up. If it’s found that Phillipa was in any way responsible for what happened, I won’t hesitate in putting it on the front page, but until then, we report the facts as and when we know them.’

The room darkened as the glimpse of September sky through the window turned slate grey. The Courier’s offices were in the centre of Chester, renowned for its stunning architecture and most notably the black and white Rows and the Eastgate Clock. The view behind Mal’s desk comprised largely of a red-brick wall and a close-up of an air-conditioning unit. The Courier had hit upon hard times in recent years, transitioning from a daily to a weekly publication, while developing its online service to keep readers engaged between its Saturday morning print-runs.

Leanne had been aware that opportunities would be limited when she joined, but her intention was to use her time at the Courier to strengthen her CV by finding those meaty stories that could propel her career in a new direction. The theatre fire might have been one such story, but this wasn’t about personal ambition. It was simply personal. She lived in Sedgefield. She walked past the empty shell of the theatre that had been boarded up since the fire, and she suffered the effects of the devastation it had caused. She wouldn’t let this go without a fight.

‘If it’s not a matter of protecting Phillipa’s good name, what exactly is the issue with my article?’

‘You want to go through this line by line?’ Mal asked, twisting in his seat to glare at his screen again. ‘Where shall I start?’ He shook his head as he scanned the page. ‘OK, here. You say the Alice in Wonderland show was put on in response to criticism about elitism. Really, Leanne? You seem to have conveniently forgotten there was a provision for community-led events in the original proposal.’

‘Fine, cut it,’ Leanne said. It was a matter of opinion whether Phillipa had supported or simply tolerated the inclusion of the community in her project, but it wasn’t the hill Leanne wanted to die on. ‘What else?’

Mal’s ruddy cheeks glowed as he examined another paragraph. ‘How about this? You say Karin Gallagher has refused to explain why her brother was in the theatre.’

Leanne huffed. ‘And?’

‘She was on life support for three weeks and woke up with amnesia. She can’t explain something she can’t remember.’

‘And you believe that? I don’t think it’s any coincidence that she decided not to return to work at the Bridgewater Inn. She couldn’t face the town, Mal. Everyone blames Declan, it’s not just me. She’s protecting him.’

‘From what?’

‘She was one of the last to be pulled out of the building alive. She must have seen what he was up to in there.’

‘What he was up to was looking for his sister! As interesting as it might be to create some kind of conspiracy theory, the simple fact is that Declan lived on the high street. He had received an automated message when the alarm went off. Hell, he was close enough to have heard it. He would have reached the theatre easily before the first responders, plus we have anecdotal reports of a man pushing his way through to get inside. He went in there for Karin.’

‘In that case, why didn’t he find her until it was too late? What if he’d decided to go to the back office first to destroy evidence? He was in charge of the installations and all the safety checks. When he saw the fire, he would have known it was his fault.’ She leant forward when she added, ‘And his death is the only one that the coroner hasn’t been able to fully determine yet.’

A coroner’s inquest had been opened for each of the twelve people who had died in the disaster, but because there was an ongoing public inquiry, all of the inquests had been opened and immediately suspended pending the outcome of the broader investigation. Despite these limitations, the coroner had indicated that eleven of the fatalities were consistent with death caused by either the fire itself, the subsequent collapse of the roof, or as a result of the crush as people tried to escape. Only the death of the man who had been responsible for the restoration works remained ambiguous. Declan Gallagher had suffered internal injuries, but the coroner had been reluctant to suggest how those injuries might have been sustained until all investigations were complete. That was too much of a coincidence.

Closing down Leanne’s file, Mal faced front. ‘I don’t disagree that there are questions to be asked, but your article doesn’t get us any closer to the answers. I’m sorry, Leanne. You’re a good reporter. You can do better than this.’

Leanne picked up a single strand of lilac hair that had fallen onto her not-so-skinny jeans. Mal was right. She could do better, and she would. ‘Fine, delete it.’

‘There are other ways we can help Sedgefield,’ Mal said, not taking Leanne’s surrender at face value. ‘In the last eleven months, people have been torn apart by this sort of blame game. I appreciate you’re not alone in wanting those responsible to be marched in shackles down the high street so you can throw rotten veg at them.’

‘Or stones,’ Leanne interjected.

‘Or whatever,’ Mal said. ‘But that isn’t how it works. For a start, one of them is dead.’

‘So you do think Declan is to blame?’

Mal rested his elbows on his desk and sighed. ‘Only if I allow myself to be swayed by gossip. I’m praying the findings of the inquiry, whatever they may be, will help bring closure, but that’s going to be after the anniversary,’ he said. His eyes had softened with a heavy dose of sympathy that Leanne would prefer not to see. ‘I know I don’t have your perspective, but we could do worse than helping people focus on some of the positives. There were heroes that night; the first responders and the theatregoers who put aside their own safety for the sake of others.’

Leanne swallowed hard. ‘Not everyone was heroic.’

‘And not everyone was saved,’ Mal said softly. ‘I get that.’

She shook her head, warding off his kindness. ‘What is it you want?’

Mal took a moment, waiting for Leanne to compose herself despite the fact that she was refusing to show any feelings at all.

‘I’d like you and Frankie to work together on a series of features. In the coming weeks, I want the Courier to acknowledge those acts of bravery, as well as celebrate the lives lost.’

Leanne sat up, her focus remaining on the only mission that mattered. ‘In that case, we’ll need to interview the bereaved families.’

Declan was originally from Donegal, but had come over to England a few years ago. He had been following in the footsteps of his sister, Karin, who had settled in the town a decade earlier. She was one of the bereaved, and she was key to all of this.

‘We’ll only interview those who are willing to speak to us,’ Mal cautioned, ‘and I’ve asked Frankie to concentrate on the victim pieces.’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘I don’t think it would be wise. Do you?’ he said. ‘Unless there’s one you want to …’

‘No,’ Leanne said quickly. ‘I can’t.’

‘You’re bereaved too,’ Mal chose to remind her, ‘and maybe you don’t feel ready to put that on the page yet, but I need you to acknowledge that your interest in this story is driven in part by your personal connection. If you can’t keep that separation …’

‘I’m fine,’ Leanne insisted. ‘I can do professional detachment.’ She smiled a smile that was as false as her assurance.

Mal scowled at her. ‘I know you’re looking for something to grab the headlines, and that’s exactly what I’m giving you. Look for the heroes, Leanne. Look for the ordinary people who went on to do extraordinary things.’

‘Sure,’ she said, without enthusiasm.

Mal refused to give up. ‘There are untold stories out there, accounts of survivors being helped by strangers. There’s one that has real potential. Remember the young girl who was buried in the rubble – Amelia Parker? The family tracked down the man who carried her out, but someone else had passed her to him. A mystery woman covered in dust. She was the one who dug Amelia out of the rubble and saved her life, but so far, she hasn’t been recognised for her heroism.’

‘And you want me to find her?’

‘You’re a good journalist when you want to be. Tap into the emotion I know you feel behind all that anger.’

‘As you’ve just pointed out, my emotions are irrelevant,’ she replied. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘And neither was I, but I want you to write a piece that places the reader inside the theatre that night. Let us celebrate the best in humanity, not the worst. Hell, if you manage to find Amelia’s hero, I can guarantee it will make the front page, and not just in the Courier. You could make a name for yourself.’

‘Trying to get rid of me?’

‘No, I’m trying to make you a better journalist.’

Leanne rose to her feet without bothering with a response. She was heading for the door when Mal said, ‘Oh, and I want you to cover the plans for the memorial service.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You’ll need to speak to Claudia Rothwell. She’s the one whose charity is putting it all together. Do you need her details?’

‘I know who she is,’ Leanne said, making sure she had turned away fully before Mal could see the glint in her eyes. The battle for justice would go on, and if her editor wanted facts to substantiate her accusations, what better place to start than with one of Phillipa Montgomery’s sycophantic friends? Leanne would take down Phillipa’s tight network of supporters, one bored housewife at a time.

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