They were planning this. She and that bastard, Ward.’
Cath sat beside him and slid one arm around his shoulder. ‘Frank, if you didn’t do anything then they haven’t got a case against you’ she tried to assure him.
He glared at her. ‘What do you mean if? I didn’t do anything. Do you think I touched Becky? My God, Cath.’
‘I didn’t say that. I know you’d never hurt her. What did the police say?’
‘They said I touched her when I was drying her after she had a bath.’ ‘Did you?’
‘How can you even ask me that?’ When she looked into his eyes she saw tears there. ‘They can twist things, Frank,’ she said, touching his cheek. ‘Have you spoken to Becky?’
I’m not allowed anywhere near her until this … enquiry is over. If Ellen has her way, I’ll never see her again. That’s what she wanted from the beginning and it looks as if she’s going to achieve it.’ ‘When can you go back to the school?’ He shook his head. ‘The suspension is indefinite. Hardy was waiting for his chance too.’
‘Come on, Frank. You’ll be saying they’re in it together next. You know why Hardy had it in for you. You made him and his school look bad.’ ‘By telling
the truth?’ ‘Like they say, “the truth hurts”.’ Reed got to his feet and crossed to the window. ‘If I had touched Becky,’ he said, quietly. ‘They’d be able to prove it, wouldn’t they?’ Cath swallowed hard. What was he saying? She kept her gaze fixed on her brother.
‘There’d be physical signs’ he continued.
Cath felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise.
‘Frank’ she said, softly. ‘Did you touch her?’
‘I held her in the towel after she had a bath. She dried herself, she dressed herself.’
Cath regarded him intently.
T love her, Cath’ he said, his eyes misting over again. ‘I’d never hurt her.
But how am I going to convince people of that?’
She had no answer for him.
Only helpless silence.
She felt it kick.
Shanine Connor winced and clapped a hand to her belly. It was heavily swollen now.
Her breasts too felt uncomfortably large and conspicuous, straining against the threadbare material of the jumper she wore. It scarcely stretched over the lump in her belly.
She stood still for a moment, wincing at a sudden stab of pain, ignoring the fleeting stares of passers- by.
The sensations passed, and Shanine walked on along the Strand, one hand clutching the holdall close to her, the other gripping one of the bars of chocolate she’d stolen less than fifteen minutes ago from a small tobacconists’ at Charing Cross station.
The man had shouted at her.
She couldn’t understand his words. He was foreign -Pakistani or something.
She’d run as best she could and no one had tried to stop her.
Out into Craven Street, into the throng of people in the Strand.
Gone.
She took a bite of the chocolate and continued walking until the Strand merged, narrowed and became Fleet Street.
She slowed her pace now, eyes alert, despite the fact they had not closed for longer than six hours during the past two days.
Her condition and the sudden change in the weather had conspired to deprive her of the sleep she needed so badly.
Shanine passed a shop window and caught a glimpse of her own haggard reflection.
Another young woman, perhaps a year older, also chose that moment to inspect her own image in the polished glass.
For fleeting seconds Shanine saw how she might have been.
The other woman was smartly dressed in a charcoal grey jacket and skirt, her hair freshly washed, blowing in the breeze.
Shanine blinked and the image was gone, the woman swallowed by the crowd.
Only her own tortured features peered back.
She stuffed what was left of the chocolate into her mouth and kept walking.
The building she sought was just ahead.
She stood gazing at it, at its tinted windows and the figures she could see moving about inside the reception area: a huge, cavernous arena of concrete and marble.
Above the main entrance was a sign: the express.
She reached into the holdall and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper, unfolding it until she was looking at the face of Catherine Reed.
She knew every line and contour of that face now. As she slid the paper back into the bag her hand brushed against the handle of the kitchen knife. She waited.
Seventy-eight
Frank Reed was drunk.
Despite the amount he’d consumed, however, he found himself denied the stupor
he sought.
Reed had never been a big drinker and he’d thought that the consumption of three quarters of a bottle of Bacardi would at least bring him the numbness he wanted.
He’d been wrong.
Instead, the world swam before him and he had to steady himself against the furniture every time he stood up. But, as for oblivion, it was probably another six or seven glasses away.
He sat on the floor in the hallway, the phone by his feet, the receiver pressed to his ear as he dialled.
He could hear the ringing tone.
His head was spinning and he closed his eyes for a second, but that only made things worse.
The phone was still ringing at the other end.
Reed reached for his glass and took a sip of the last drop of liquor he’d been able to find in the house.
He hated the taste of Bacardi but it was all he’d been able to find.
It should do the job.
The phone was picked up at the other end.
‘Hello.’
Reed recognised the voice.
‘I want to speak to Ellen’ he slurred, then belched, tasting a bitter mixture of alcohol and bile in his throat.
‘I don’t think she wants to speak to you,’ Jonathan Ward told him.
Reed closed his eyes for a second.
‘Look, let me speak to her,’ he said, trying to remain calm.
Silence at the other end.
He heard muted voices briefly then Ellen’s voice.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ she said, angrily.
‘Just hear me out. About what happened the other day at your work: I’m sorry I caused a scene but-‘
‘I could have lost my job because of you.’
‘And I could lose my daughter because of you'
‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Don’t hang up, Ellen,’ he pleaded.
Silence.
‘Ellen?’
‘I’m still here. Make it quick.’
