Hardy got to his feet and crossed to his window. It looked out over part of the school playground. He could see children out there now, some standing around in groups talking, others running about. Some boys were kicking a football against the wall opposite.
There were a number of houseplants on the window sill and, as he stood there, Hardy gently stroked the smooth leaves of a spider plant.
‘You say you’ve seen injuries on another pupil too?’ the Headmaster said, quietly.
‘I haven’t but, like I said, Judith Nelson said she had. Call her in if you want to.’
Hardy shook his head slowly, his back still to Reed. ‘There are serious ramifications for everyone concerned if your allegations are right or wrong, Frank’ he said, still gently stroking the plant leaves.
‘I realise that. But I’m prepared to take that chance.’ Hardy turned to face him. ‘Yes, you’re prepared,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not sure I am. As I said, perhaps, if we had more proof.’
‘Come on, for Christ’s sake! What are you going to do? Wait until a child is killed? Will that be proof enough for you?’ Reed pushed the phone angrily towards his colleague. ‘Call the police, Noel.’
Hardy held up a hand as if to silence Reed. ‘Assuming you’re right’ he said, returning to his desk. ‘What will the police do? Visit the boy’s family? Ask a
few questions? If they find nothing to support your allegations then you could make it worse not just for the school but for the boy himself. Perhaps you haven’t considered him, Frank.’
‘He’s my only bloody consideration’ Reed snapped.
‘We’re not responsible for those children once they’re outside our care’ Hardy said, defensively.
‘So what do we do? Turn our backs on them when they need help?’ Reed demanded.
‘That boy needs help. You know that. We’re the only ones who can give it to him.’
The two men stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
It was Reed who finally spoke again.
‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, pushing the phone nearer to the Headmaster.
The older man glanced at the phone.
Reed kept his gaze fixed upon him.
Hardy looked at him, his face pale.
‘And if you’re wrong?’ he said, the words hanging in the air.
Reed pushed the phone a little closer.
‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, quietly.
Forty-eight
All Phillip Cross saw when he answered the door of his flat was the bottle of Moet et Chandon dangling before him, gripped by two slender fingers.
The photographer smiled even more broadly as Catherine Reed stepped into view, clasping the bottle to her as if it were a child.
‘Peace offering,’ she said, indicating the champagne.
Cross ran appraising eyes over her, over the long dark hair, which he could smell: freshly washed. There was a vibrance to her features which he’d not seen for a while. If he’d harboured any thoughts of giving her a hard time they vanished quickly. She remained before him in the doorway and crossed one shapely leg in front of the other, the split in her skirt opening to reveal the smooth skin beneath. She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
‘Come in’ Cross said, chuckling, stepping aside as he ushered her into the flat.
Cath put down the bottle and wrapped her arms around him, feeling his lips press urgently against hers, his tongue probing beyond the hard edges of her teeth. She responded fiercely, pulling him more tightly to her.
When they finally separated, it was Cross who spoke first.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’
She shrugged and sat down on the sofa, kicking off her shoes, drawing her legs up beneath her, watching as he retreated to the kitchen to fetch a couple of glasses. He returned a moment later with two large tumblers, blowing in one to remove the dust.
Cath watched him as he uncorked the champagne and poured some into each of the tumblers. She smiled.
‘That’s really classy, Phil’ she chuckled as he passed her the glass.
He raised his own glass and tapped it gently against hers. They both drank.
‘You still haven’t told me why,’ Cross said, sitting beside her, snaking one arm around her shoulder.
Cath shrugged. ‘I’ve been working hard lately. I think I’ve been a bit of a bitch to you.’
‘I’d like to argue with you but I can’t’ he said, smiling as she punched him playfully on the arm.
‘I haven’t meant to be,’ she persisted. ‘But this story I’m working on is big.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘It’s important to me, Phil.’
‘You didn’t come round here to tell me how much your career means to you, did you? I already know that. I’ve never wanted you to change the way you think about your work; I know how much it means to you. I just don’t see why I have to be separate from it. We are in the same business, after all.’
‘Feeling left out, were you?’ she chided, pulling at his cheek.
His smile faded and he caught her face in his hand, holding her there, gazing
into her eyes.
‘I miss you when I can’t see you’ Cross said, quietly. ‘I like being around you, Cath.’
He ran his hand through her hair, then gently stroked the back of her neck, kneading the flesh there between his thumb and forefinger.
‘I don’t want to talk about work tonight’ she said, softly, sliding closer to him.
‘Good, that makes a change. What do you want to talk about?’
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk’ she murmured, leaning forward, kissing him hard on the lips, one hand fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
He felt her slim fingers gliding across his chest, his own hand slipping down to her thigh, stroking gently, pushing up beneath the material of her skirt, moving higher.
His fingers brushed something smooth, soft.
Cross realised with delight that it was her gently curled pubic hair.
He pulled back slightly, smiling.
Cath grinned at his reaction.
‘So,’ he said, his breathing now more rapid. ‘What time are you leaving me tonight?’
She leaned back, fumbling inside her handbag, pulling something free that she held up before him.
They both began to laugh.
Cath was brandishing a toothbrush between her fingers.
Talbot slumped wearily in the chair, head back, eyes closed.
The silence inside the house was, as usual, oppressive, and he thought about switching on the television just to shatter the solitude but, finally, he decided against it.
The DI poured himself a whiskey, then sat back down, rolling the tumbler between his palms, gazing down into the soothing fluid as if seeking some answers in the bottom of the glass.
Fucking bitch.
He’d tried the Grosvenor House, The Dorchester and the Hilton. He’d even wandered around to the Park Lane Hotel, taking a drink in each of their bars before driving to number 23 Queens Gardens.
There had been no answer there either from Flat 5b.
Gina Bishop was nowhere to be found.
Bitch.
He snatched up the phone and tried her number.
It rang twice, then the metallic whine of her answering machine began: ‘Hi.
I’m not here now, but if…’
Talbot pressed down on the cradle, waited a moment then dialled another number.
Her mobile.
Ringing.
‘Come on,’ he whispered.
