‘It was great having her with me for the weekend, but now she’s gone again it
hurts even more.’ He lowered his gaze momentarily.
‘Is it going to be a regular thing?’
‘Ellen and I haven’t discussed it yet but, God, I hope so.’ He began picking distractedly at the arm of the chair, pulling away loose pieces of thread.
‘Perhaps she’s come to her senses at last,’ Judith offered. ‘She probably realises she can’t keep Becky away from you forever.’
‘I don’t know what she’s thinking anymore, I…’
Judith leaned forward and touched his arm gently. ‘It’ll be OK, Frank’ she reassured him. ‘You haven’t lost Becky.’
He smiled at her.
Reed got to his feet and picked up his briefcase.
‘I’m going home’ he said, smiling, glancing around the staff room.
Judith took another drag on her cigarette and nodded, watching him as he made for the exit.
The playground was empty as Reed crossed it, heading for his car which was parked behind one of the newer blocks. There were a number of vehicles still parked there including a large Triumph 750 which he knew belonged to one of the sixth-formers. The lad made a point of parking it close to Noel Hardy’s car because he knew it irritated the Headmaster. The fact that the owner of the bike was also going out with a fifth-year girl seemed to annoy Hardy even more.
Reed crossed to his own car, fumbling in his jacket for the keys, whistling happily to himself as he slid the key into the door lock.
Perhaps Becky’s visits would become a regular thing.
Even the thought of her cheered him.
Two days a week was better than nothing.
He never even heard the footsteps from behind him.
Just the voice.
‘Mr Reed?’
He turned and saw the two uniformed policemen no more than three feet from him.
‘Frank Reed?’ the one on the left said.
The teacher nodded.
He looked past the two men, saw the marked car sitting there, engine idling.
There was a third man behind the wheel.
His first thought was of Becky.
An accident?
‘What’s happened?’ he asked anxiously.
‘We need to ask you some questions, Mr Reed,’ said one of the policemen, a tall man with reddish hair. ‘About your daughter.’
‘Oh God, what’s happened?’ he demanded, the colour draining from his cheeks.
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ said the red-haired PC.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We’d like you to follow us to Theobald’s Road Police Station. My colleague will sit with you.’
‘Not until you tell me what the hell is going on’ Reed said, his anxiety rapidly turning to annoyance. ‘Is my daughter hurt?’
‘No, sir,’ said the red-haired man.
‘Then what are you going on about?’
‘As I said, we need to ask you some questions. If you’d just get in your car it would save a lot of time and aggravation.’
Reed held up both hands.
‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, wearily.
‘A complaint has been filed against you, Mr Reed. There may be charges.’
‘For what?’ he said, angrily.
‘Assaulting your daughter.’
Sixty-nine
In the dull half-light of the warehouse, Talbot had no doubt what the marks in the thick dust were.
He moved forward a foot or so, the carpet of grime so thick it deadened his footfalls.
Finally he kneeled, motes of dust spinning all around him in the dimly lit silence.
Footprints.
Some five-toed, indicating bare feet. Others from shoes of various sizes.
The carpet of dust was old. These footprints were not.
In places, the dust had been disturbed so badly that the dirty floor beneath the filth was visible.
Elsewhere, the footprints seemed to lead deeper into the cavernous building, towards the rear of it.
Talbot moved on, glancing around him.
There were high metal shelves on either side of him, some rising up to ten or fifteen feet into the air. What had once been stacked on them he could only guess. To his right lay several dust-sheathed wooden pallets, broken and splintered.
He saw what appeared to be a toolbox on one of the shelves. Like everything else inside the building it was covered by the same noxious blanket of grime.
Talbot flipped open the lid.
There was an old screwdriver inside.
He moved on, glancing down at the footprints.
The DI could only guess at how many feet had made these marks and over what period of time but, as he stopped again and kneeled over a particularly well-defined print, he saw that the covering of dust on what would have been the sole was very thin. This print looked no more than a week old.
He straightened up, scanning the area ahead of him.
The shelves continued practically to the back of the warehouse: beyond them he saw a door.
The only sound inside the warehouse was the rushing of the blood in his ears.
The silence seemed to crush him, closing around him like an invisible fist which tightened by the second.
He reached the office door and twisted the handle.
Locked.
Talbot took a step back and thought about kicking it open, but then realised that he might destroy any fingerprints or other physical signs which might be on the partition. He spun round and headed back to where he’d seen the discarded toolbox.
He scooped out the screwdriver and returned to the door, cupping a hand over his eyes, trying to see through the small window in the centre of the door.
Whatever lay inside was in pitch blackness.
No windows to give him even the kind of paltry light currently battling through the thick grime of the skylight openings.
The DI steadied himself and slid the top of the screwdriver into the grooved head of a screw which secured the handle to the door.
He twisted, surprised at how stiff the screw was.
Again he tried, cursing when the implement slipped and gouged a lump from the door.
‘Shit,’ the DI hissed, even his low exhalation echoing in the thunderous stillness around him.
The sound seemed to bounce back off the walls, echoing like some brief sibilant rattle before dying, smothered by the carpet of dust.
He jammed all his weight behind the screwdriver this time, pushing hard against it with the heel of one hand, turning with the other.
The screw started to give.
Talbot grinned triumphantly and removed it, dropping it into his pocket.
