and drew her in, a pale, worried-looking girl of about seven with fine blonde hair, presumably Tabitha. She had thick plastic glasses fastened with a band around the back of her head like a tennis player's. She had scarcely taken a step into the room when Miss Musgrave remarked to the other teacher, 'She needs changing. Do you mind?'
Tabitha was recalled and Naomi was ushered forward in her place. Diamond had seen the child briefly that night in Harrods, and remembered how impassive she had looked, surrounded by security guards. This morning she had the same preoccupied expression, as if her eyes saw nobody. There was clearly a level at which her mind was functioning efficiently, because she moved normally, straight to a chair and sat down, composed, indifferent to Clive's screaming and Rajinder's rocking, or to the presence of the adults. Someone had fastened a white ribbon in her hair and she was in a red corduroy dress, black tights and trainers. 'She'll stay like that for as long as I let her,' said Miss Musgrave. 'I can get through to the others. Outwardly they appear more disturbed than Naomi, but she's inaccessible, and it isn't just the problem of language. It must be some form of autism.'
Diamond had seen television programs about autistic children who appeared physically normal, but tantalizingly locked in their inner worlds. They exhibited a range of behavior that could include tantrums, grimacing, avoidance of all human contact, inappropriate emotional reactions such as laughing when someone else was hurt and, in rare cases, strange feats of memory enabling them to play music they had heard only once before, or doing complex drawings of scenes and buildings only briefly visited. From what he remembered, there was controversy about how autism should be treated. He'd watched a disturbing film of mothers forcibly embracing their struggling children until they stopped resisting, which could take hours. In some cases, the results had been encouraging.
Miss Musgrave closed the door and took a pencil and worksheet to the howling Clive. To Diamond's surprise the boy took it, went silent and started to write or draw, still in his cramped position under the bookshelves. Rajinder, also, was persuaded to take a worksheet and give it his attention, though he needed a patient explanation of what was required.
'Now see what happens with Naomi.' Miss Musgrave held out a pencil. Naomi stared ahead and didn't move. Gently, Miss Musgrave took the child's right hand and positioned the small fingers around the pencil.
Diamond said, 'It's not for me to interfere, but do the Japanese hold pencils like that?' He took a pen from his pocket and demonstrated. 'I thought they held them upright, like this.'
Miss Musgrave's first reaction was a cool stare. Then she accepted the validity of the information.
The child allowed her fingers to be repositioned. A clean sheet of paper was placed on the table in front of her. Miss Musgrave stood behind Naomi and guided the pencil, making a mark on the paper. 'Now prove me totally wrong, Naomi, and draw a picture.' But Naomi's eyes weren't on the paper, and as soon as Miss Musgrave stepped back, the hand was still.
'I've had mutes before,' Miss Musgrave said, 'and they can usually be persuaded to use a pencil.'
'She's mute?'
'Silent, anyway. Not dumb. She makes little sounds if she's surprised in any way.'
'That's something.'
'Some autistics never learn to speak.'
Rajinder seemed to take this as a challenge and started repeatedly saying, 'Miss,' until Miss Musgrave examined his drawing, praised it and provided him with more paper. From the bookshelves came a new sound. Clive, tiring of paperwork, had taken a toy car from his pocket and was spinning the wheels with his finger, watching them intently.
'He'll do that for the rest of the lesson if he's left. It becomes obsessive,' Miss Musgrave said. 'He fits the stereotype of the autistic child.'
'Meaning what?'
'He shuns the company of others. Doesn't use eye contact. Refuses to be cuddled. Throws these tantrums if he feels his privacy is being invaded.'
'And is Naomi like that?'
'She's the aloof type. The muteness is a symptom.'
'Have you tried cuddling her?'
'She's indifferent to it. Passive. That's another kind of abnormality in these kids.'
'The others, Rajinder and Tabitha-are they autistic?'
'Yes.'
'Does Clive speak?'
She nodded. 'But he tends to repeat things parrot fashion.'
'Does he progress at all?'
'A little. Listen,' she said, 'if you want to try and get through to Naomi, please feel free.'
The invitation was tempting, but he knew better than to accept. On first acquaintance a man his size terrified any kid if he went close. 'At this stage,' he told Miss Musgrave candidly, 'I'd rather get through to you. That's my game plan for today.'
She tensed. 'What exactly do you mean?'
'I want to convince you that I won't be a nuisance. I want to come here again. And again. I can sit here and observe, or I can make myself useful, but I want to be here. I don't kid myself that I can work a miracle for Naomi. I sense that if she's going to give me any clues at all, it's going to be slow progress. How would you feel about having me here on a regular basis?'
She didn't answer at once. She went over to attend to Clive, who started screaming again at her approach. For a moment she wrestled with him for the toy car. In the struggle he bit her hand and she cried out in pain. 'If I don't do this,' she told Diamond, 'the entire lesson is wasted. Now
Massaging her hand, Miss Musgrave returned to Diamond. 'Before I say anything about this suggestion of yours, would you tell me something about yourself?'
'Whatever you want to know.'
'All right, then. Why did you leave the police?'
He hesitated. 'I resigned. I blew my top in front of the Assistant Chief Constable.'
'What about?'
'A kid. A boy of twelve. I was accused of hitting his head against a wall.'
She stared. After an interval, she said, 'At least you're honest.'
'Okay,' he added, 'I'm hardly a suitable person to invite again. Forget it.' He picked up his hat.
'Sit down, Mr. Diamond,' she told him firmly. 'Did you do it?'
'Do what?'
'Hit the boy?'
'No, but it's academic now. He came at me and I pushed him aside. He knocked his head on the wall. I wasn't believed, so I said some things I lived to regret'
'Have you got kids of your own?'
He shook his head.
'You're married?'
'Yes.'
'But you like them?'
'Kids?' He nodded.
She held out a hand. 'My name is Julia.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
'Any idea how this happened?'
David Flexner gazed at two blackened pillars rising some ten feet above the rabble that had once been Manflex Italia's Milan plant. Immense heat had melted those pillars into stark, Daliesque images in the ashen landscape. All this, and a perfect, cloudless sky. What a location for a film, he found himself thinking.
He had been driven there by Rico Villa, the plant manager, whose Zegna suit and D'Anzini shoes weren't the
