‘For one thing it was hidden away inside a piece of scenery.’
‘But you explained about that. Someone found it lying about and tidied up. That German oven was a useful place to tuck some papers out of sight.’
‘Why would Denise leave her suicide note lying about?’ he said.
‘Come on, Peter. To be noticed. It’s a theatre. Where do you put something you want people to find? Centre stage isn’t a bad idea, is it? She was about to hurl herself off the gallery and hit the stage floor. I know she didn’t fall all the way, but that was clearly the intention. They’d find the body and see the note nearby.’
Put like that, it made sense.
‘Denise killed herself. It’s over, Peter. You can relax.’
How he wished he could. He’d been debating with himself whether to tell Paloma what he’d learned from Mike Glaze-brook. There was a powerful instinct to stay tight-lipped and battle with his own demons. Innocent as he must have been at eight years old, he still felt tainted. On the other hand, he’d told Paloma about the panic attacks he’d been getting at the theatre. She was sure to ask at some point soon if he’d worked out why they happened.
Would he have confided in Steph, his wife?
Certainly.
Then why not Paloma?
‘I met someone I was at school with today.’ When he’d finished telling her, he felt some relief. It hadn’t been good to bottle it up.
Paloma had listened in silence, only her eyes expressing concern. ‘You don’t know for certain that the art teacher abused you,’ she pointed out.
‘I won’t unless I can let the memories in. My brain is acting as a censor. It doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to work out that something deeply upsetting is locked in there. White was a convicted paedophile and he recruited us for that play I was in. My theatre phobia – or whatever we choose to call it – kicked in immediately after that weekend.’
‘But do you really want to remember?’
‘It’s more than a want. It’s a need. I have to overcome this, not have it forever as a no-go area.’
‘The school friend…?’
‘Mike Glazebrook.’
‘He told you Flakey White didn’t abuse him. Do you believe him?’
‘Yes, he convinced me.’
‘Yet you feel sure you were taken advantage of? Why you?’
‘I’ve thought about this. Paedophiles are devious. If I was the kid he set out to entrap, he may have used Mike as a cover, so that it wasn’t obvious, to let me feel safe knowing there was another boy. Our parents would also be more confident if there were two kids, not one.’
‘Where do you think the abuse happened?’
‘Don’t know. His car? The changing room at the hall? I can’t – or won’t let myself – remember.’
‘But you’re sure it took place?’
‘It’s the only explanation. I don’t scare easily, Paloma. This has undermined me.’
‘Is White still alive?’
The question unsettled him. Up to now he’d been focusing on the past. ‘No idea. He’d be over seventy.’
‘Plenty of people are. You’re in the police. They keep track of sex offenders, don’t they? You could find out. You could meet him.’
She was pushing him to the limit and he wished he hadn’t started this. ‘I don’t know if I could trust myself. He’d deny it, anyway.’
‘Some way, you need to know the truth. It’s a festering wound, Peter. If you can find him, it’s the best chance you’ve got. Do you know his real name?’
‘It was something fancy. Morgan O. White, I think.’
‘That should make him easier to find.’
‘I expect he changed his identity. Most of them do.’ He was putting obstacles in the way and it did him no credit.
‘But the Sex Offenders Register would list all the names he’s used.’
‘You have a touching faith in the system,’ he said. ‘He was convicted in the sixties, thirty years before the register was started and it isn’t retroactive.’
‘There must be criminal records.’
‘You’re right. They’re kept at Scotland Yard by the National Identification Service.’ Keen to bring this conversation to an end, he added, ‘I’ll call them from work tomorrow and get them to run a check. Let’s go for a meal and talk about other things.’
‘You’ve got your mobile. Why not do it now?’
She could have been Steph talking. After a moment’s hesitation he reached into his pocket.
