Three and a half weeks after the funeral, Siobhan Benson’s parents travelled from their home in Royal Leamington Spa to the coroner’s court for the inquest. They were still in shock. Margaret hadn’t slept for longer than a couple of hours at a time, not since the police had knocked on their door on that terrible Sunday afternoon nearly two months earlier, and the exhaustion had changed the shape of her face: it looked skull-like now, as if the flesh around her eyes had been prematurely gouged out by maggots. Derek stood tall and stiff, with a muted, sad air about him, and as they walked from their Audi past the waiting photographers he put an arm around his wife’s shoulder, but the contact didn’t comfort either of them. There was no comfort to be had.
The coroner felt for the Bensons (the most difficult inquests were always when it was somebody’s child involved) and he ushered them away from the throng into a private room and offered them coffee, as there was still half an hour to kill. No-one spoke. Largely to break the silence, the coroner went over what was about to happen, although the Bensons were already vaguely aware of it. He gently reiterated that they’d only be trying to establish the cause of death today, not who, if anyone, was responsible. He showed them the list of people he’d be calling as witnesses. Margaret Benson looked at the names, recognising many of them, and felt sad that her daughter had even been out with these women. Siobhan had been so hurt over the years at their various put-downs and slights, Margaret had tried on several occasions to suggest that maybe she shouldn’t see them so often, maybe even leave some of those relationships in the past – it was no good keep getting upset, dear, she’d said. But Siobhan hadn’t wanted to – they were her friends, she’d insisted, and besides, they all had so much shared history, accumulated like books over the years, and you never got rid of those, did you? Margaret knew that her daughter only really saw Camilla and Sissy by the end, she’d never failed to give Sissy support with those poor children. That was the thing about Siobhan, her mother thought, her throat constricting, she’d always wanted to help people. And now, following one of the most innocent activities you could hope to partake in – a picnic in the park with some old college friends – her only child was dead.
The inquest was underway but Margaret could barely follow it. She understood a few things. She understood that her beloved daughter, Siobhan Alice Benson, had died, aged forty-four, at approximately 22:35 on Thursday 7th July 2011 at The Serpentine Lake, Hyde Park, London. She understood that she had died through drowning – they were quite unfussy in the way they said that, there seemed to be no fancy medical term for that way of dying. But from this point onwards Margaret struggled to keep up with what was going on. Apparently, the pathologist said, there were marks on the side of the deceased’s head consistent with a heavy object, perhaps a polyamide something or other, but not necessarily so. (What did he say? How did she get the marks? Did someone hit her with the polya-whatever-it-was-called?) He said Siobhan might have been unconscious when she hit the water. (Is that why she didn’t scream?) A post-mortem analysis estimated that she had 164mg of alcohol per 100ml of blood at the time of her death. (Did that make her drunk? Is that why she drowned?)
Margaret’s head felt thick, as if she had a heavy cold, and the words were finding it hard to punch through to her brain. She was struggling to remember the meaning of quite basic expressions, let alone the technical ones. Eventually the pathologist finished and sat down, looking chipper, self-satisfied. He was small and geeky, and Margaret was dismally reminded of an excited little boy with a bucket of worms, one of those ghoulish types who’d been born to poke over dead rotting flesh, into unexplored cavities, her precious daughter’s body nothing but a macabre journey of discovery for him.
Through her bewilderment Margaret still started – even though she’d been expecting her – as the first of the witnesses took the stand: the shock of flaming hair, pulled back as if in penitence, the exquisite pale face. She listened more intently now, as Juliette explained her relationship with ‘the deceased’, described how the evening had somewhat disintegrated, with ‘the deceased’ running off into the night after what Juliette described as a ‘bit of an argument’. Margaret heard Juliette admit (quietly, her voice choking) that they’d all been drinking, were all rather drunk in fact, and that no-one had known where Siobhan had gone, they’d just assumed she’d gone home. And so, she said, when they’d heard a splash it hadn’t even occurred to them that it might be Siobhan, they’d thought it was just a bird or something – after all, there was no struggling or splashing afterwards – and so they’d left without going to check (Juliette looked ashamed at this point, like she might cry). Margaret watched the coroner nod and ask Juliette to take her seat, and apart from the deep screaming red of Juliette’s hair the scene felt blank, colourless, unreal to her.
The next bit Margaret couldn’t understand. She knew why everyone was gasping and covering their mouths with horror, it was clear Terry had said something dreadful (‘ “She can bloody drown for all I care,” I heard one of them say, Your Honour,’) but she struggled to understand the implications. Did Siobhan’s so-called friends know that the splash was her all along? Did they deliberately leave her to drown? No. Surely not. Margaret slumped suddenly in her chair and, as Derek stood up shouting for a doctor, the coroner hurriedly adjourned the inquest.
Fortunately, it turned out Margaret Benson had only fainted, and a shot of brandy that appeared from somewhere amidst the mayhem appeared to sort her out. Afterwards Derek explained to his wife what she’d failed to comprehend: that Terry had told the inquest the details of the conversation he’d overheard, which was that the women had agreed at the time to say they hadn’t heard the splash if it turned out Siobhan really had drowned – and how he, Terry, couldn’t be sure exactly which individuals had been involved in the conversation, it had been too dark to see. Derek told his wife how Terry had said he’d seen one of the women stride off into the night half a minute before the others, so she possibly really hadn’t heard anything, had left with a clear conscience at least. Amidst the chaos it seemed that no-one knew which woman it was though, and because of the disruption none of the rest of them gave evidence that day.