‘No violence,’ Diamond kept repeating aloud while skirting Salisbury on the road to Wilton. The next hour would test him. The anger simmering for days was already threatening to boil over. He’d last felt pressure like this after Steph wasmurdered. Brute force had always lurked within him and he knew the signs, shallow breathing, gritted teeth, flexed muscles. Then the red mist came down and he was danger ous. No, he must keep reminding himself of the purpose of meeting Flakey White: to find out for certain what had hap pened when he was a child. Only by getting to the truth of it could he hope to remove the block his brain had put up and give himself the possibility of closure.
This was it: truth time.
He’d thought about phoning White to let him know he was coming. In most situations it was the civilised way to behave.
Turning up unannounced after dark wasn’t a good start. But in this case, surprise was essential. If White were tipped off that someone he’d once abused was coming, he’d quit the house, or refuse to come to the door.
As it was, there was no guarantee he’d be at home and no certainty he’d be willing to say anything. He could clam up or deny all knowledge of the abuse. The meeting was one extremely demanding obstacle course.
But it had to be attempted.
Without Sergeant Rogers in the passenger seat, Diamond navigated for himself. Part of his brain, at least, was com pelled to function normally. The map showed he didn’t need to drive into the city centre and he was helped by Wilton appearing regularly on the signboards. At a roundabout he swung left and past the huge arched entrance gate to Wilton House, ancestral home of the Earls of Pembroke, not a bad neighbourhood for a jailbird to end up in.
Obliged to stop at some traffic lights where the road narrowed for the village, he studied the map again and worked out where White lived. A right turn brought him into North Street. Forest Close was off to the left.
The house was a squat, stone structure with the look of a converted farm building, single storied with a tiled roof much covered in moss. Crucially, the lights were on inside, behind Venetian blinds.
Determined to stay calm, he took a deep breath, rang the bell and waited. He was relieved to hear movements inside.
The door opened a short way, on a chain. He couldn’t see much of the person inside.
‘Mr White?’
‘Yes.’ The voice was tentative, unwelcoming.
‘My name is Peter Diamond and you were once my art teacher.’ He’d been debating with himself how to begin. This wasn’t the moment to reveal he was a senior policeman.
‘Oh.’
‘It’s late to be calling, I know.’
It must have taken several seconds for Diamond’s first words to register. Without any more being said, White released the door chain and opened it fully. He was wearing a peaked eye shade. White haired and thin-faced, he had worry lines etched deeply. He was shorter than Diamond remembered, dressed in a thin cardigan, corduroys and carpet slippers. His shoulders sagged. ‘Do come in,’ he said.
Then he held out his hand.
There is only so much you can anticipate. The handshake was a pitfall Diamond hadn’t foreseen. Visiting the old paedophile was one thing. Touching his flesh was another. To refuse would expose the disgust Diamond was trying to conceal. He told himself it was only a formality, quickly over. How many hands have I shaken in my lifetime? How many of them were hands that had thieved, assaulted or even committed murder? A fair number.
He reached out and felt White’s palm against his own, limp, bony, lukewarm. After drawing away he couldn’t stop himself rubbing his hand against his hip to cleanse it of the contact.
White didn’t appear to notice. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
‘Please don’t,’ Diamond told him, civil to a fault. ‘I had some not long ago. I was visiting the hospital. That’s how I was in the area.’
The old man matched him for courtesy. ‘Whatever the reason, it’s an unexpected pleasure to meet a former pupil. Come through to the kitchen. I don’t have a living room as such. I use that as my studio. Still doing art, you see.’
To reach the kitchen they took a few steps through the studio. A high stool was in front of a desk on which a drawing board rested, lit by a powerful anglepoise lamp. An ink drawing of a city street was in progress, drawn in the exaggerated perspective of the modern graphic style. Beyond question, it was the work of a skilful artist.
‘I must have interrupted you.’
‘No, no.’ White pulled off the eyeshade. ‘Don’t be concerned about that. A visitor is a rare treat for me. I lead a hermit’s life these days. I’m going to insist that you have a drink.’
‘I’m driving. I won’t.’ The warmth of this welcome was disconcerting, the reverse of what he had expected.
In the small kitchen area, White fumbled between the fridge and the wall for a folding chair and tried to draw it open. He was not moving easily.
‘May I?’ Diamond offered.
‘Please do, and then use it.’
‘Where will you sit?’
He flapped his hand to dismiss the possibility. ‘I could use my stool if I wanted, but I won’t because it does me good to stand up. My back isn’t the best these days. Occupational hazard, bending over one’s work for many years. Draughtsman’s back, I call it. What did you say your name is?’
