withered but it was strangely lifeless. She had hard, ice-cold eyes and cheekbones that formed two slashes across her face. It was hard to imagine her pale lips ever smiling. She was smartly dressed in a grey skirt and matching jacket with a shirt buttoned to her neck. She wore a silver necklace and, on her lapel, a silver brooch shaped like a lizard.
Her progress from Holborn station had been observed.
Mrs Deverill was unaware that she was being followed as she made her way down Kingsway, heading for the offices behind Lincoln’s Inn, but the man in the hooded anorak was never more than ten steps behind. He was twenty years old, with greasy blond hair and a thin, unhealthy-looking face. He had recognized the woman as an out-of-towner the moment he had spotted her coming through the ticket barrier. He didn’t know who she was and he didn’t care. Just two things about her had interested him: the handbag and the jewellery.
He didn’t know where she was going but hoped that she would leave the main road with its many pedestrians and occasional policemen and follow one of the quieter streets that twisted away behind. Anyway, it was worth a few minutes of his time to see. He was still with her as she paused at a corner and turned left next to a pub. He smiled. It couldn’t have worked out better. Now there were just the two of them, walking down an alleyway that cut through to the legal offices – solicitors’ firms and council buildings – which existed in their own quite separate world. He took one quick look around, checking there was nobody in sight, then dug into the pocket of the dirty anorak he was wearing. He took out a jagged knife and turned it in his hand, enjoying the sense of power that it gave him. Then he ran forward.
“You!” he shouted.
The woman stopped, her back towards him.
“Give me the bag, bitch. Now! And I want the necklace…”
There was a pause.
Jayne Deverill turned round.
Ten minutes later Jayne Deverill was sitting, a little breathless, holding a cup of tea that she had been offered. She was in the office of the Family Proceedings and Youth Court, which was where Matt was being held.
“I’m very sorry I’m late,” she was saying. She had a deep, rather throaty voice, like someone who had smoked too many cigarettes. “It’s very rude of me – and I deplore rudeness. Punctuality is the first sign of good breeding. That’s what I always say.”
“You had trouble getting here?” Mallory asked.
“The coach was late. I would have called you from the bus station but I’m afraid I don’t carry a mobile. We’re not as up to date in the Yorkshire countryside as you are down here in London. In fact, there’s no signal where I live, so a mobile telephone would be something of a waste of time.” She turned to Matt. “I’m very glad to meet you, my dear. I have, of course, heard so much about you.”
Matt looked at the woman who had volunteered to be his foster parent in the LEAF Project. He didn’t like what he saw.
Jayne Deverill could have stepped out of another century: a time when teachers were allowed to beat children and there were Bible readings before breakfast and tea. He had never met anyone more severe-looking. Jill Hughes had greeted the woman like an old friend, although it turned out that the two had never met – they had only spoken on the phone. Stephen Mallory looked more uncomfortable. He was also meeting Mrs Deverill for the first time, and although he had shaken her hand, he had lapsed into silence and seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. The magistrate was more interested in the paperwork than anything else, in a hurry to get this whole thing over with. Matt examined Mrs Deverill again. She was sipping her tea but her eyes never left him. They were devouring him.
“Do you know Yorkshire at all?” she asked.
It took a moment for Matt to realize that she was talking to him. “No,” he said. “I’ve never been there.”
“Lesser Malling is the name of the village. It’s a bit out of the way. The nearest town is Greater Malling and nobody’s heard of that either. And why should they have? There’s nothing there. We’re very down-to-earth in Yorkshire. We look after the land and the land looks after us. I’m sure you’ll find it very quiet after the city. But you’ll get used to it in time.” She glanced at the magistrate. “I can really take him with me today?”
The magistrate nodded.
Mrs Deverill smiled. “And when will you make your first visit?”
“Six weeks from now. We want to give Matthew time to settle in.”
“Well, after six weeks with me, I can assure you, you won’t recognize him.” She turned to Gwenda Davis. “You won’t need to worry about him, Ms Davis. You can telephone him any time you want and, of course, we’ll both look forward to you coming up to visit.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” Gwenda was still worried. “It’s a long way, and I’m not sure my partner…” She fell silent.
“There are some final forms you have to fill in, Mrs Deverill,” the magistrate said. “But then the two of you can be on your way. Ms Davis brought in a suitcase with some of Matthew’s clothes and things.” She turned to Matt. “I expect you’d like a few minutes on your own to say goodbye to your aunt.”
“No. I’ve got nothing to say to her.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Gwenda said, and suddenly she was angry. “I was never anything to do with your family. I was never anything to do with you. I didn’t even want to take you in after what happened to your parents. But I did and you were nothing but trouble. You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.”
“There’s no need for this,” Mallory said. “Good luck, Matt, I really hope this works out for you.” He held out a hand. Matt hesitated, then shook it. This wasn’t Mallory’s fault. That much he knew.
“Time to go!” Mrs Deverill said. “We don’t want to miss the coach!”
Matt stood up. Mallory watched him with thoughtful, anxious eyes as he left the room.
Two hours later Matt walked across Victoria coach station carrying the suitcase that Gwenda had packed for him. He looked around him at the coaches thundering in and out, the crowds of travellers and the snack and magazine stalls behind the plate-glass windows. It was an unpleasant place: cold and damp with air that smelled of diesel. He could hardly believe he was here. He was free… Finally out of police custody. No. Not free, he reminded himself. He had been handed over to this woman who called herself his foster mother.
“That’s our bus.” Mrs Deverill pointed to a coach with YORK written across the front.
Matt handed his case to a man, who stowed it in the luggage compartment, then climbed on board. They had reserved seats at the very back. Mrs Deverill allowed Matt to slide in next to the window and then sat down next to him. Soon the coach was full. At one o’clock exactly, the doors hissed shut, the engine started up and they began to move. Matt sat with his forehead pressed against the glass and he watched as they emerged from the coach station and out into the streets of Victoria. It was still raining. The raindrops chased in front of his eyes. Next to him Mrs Deverill sat with her eyes half-closed, breathing heavily.
He tried to concentrate, tried to work out what he was feeling. But then he realized: he felt nothing. He had been sucked into the system. Evaluated. Approved for the LEAF Project. And sent on his way. At least he wasn’t going back to Ipswich. That was something to be thankful for. It was the end of six years with Gwenda and Brian. Whatever lay ahead couldn’t possibly be worse.
Meanwhile, about five miles away, an alleyway in Holborn was being sealed off by two police cars and an ambulance. A dead body had been found – a young man in a hooded anorak.
The forensic team had only just arrived, but already the photographers and police scientists knew they had stumbled on to something completely bizarre. The man was well known to them. His name was Will Scott and he was a drug addict who had been involved in many muggings in central London. There was a kitchen knife clutched in his hand and it was this that had killed him. But nobody had attacked him. There were no fingerprints. No sign that anyone had come close.
The dead man’s mouth was stretched in a hideous smile and there was a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He was holding the knife very tightly. He had taken it and pushed it, inch by inch, into his own heart. It was unclear how he had done it – or why – but the forensic people had no doubt at all.
For some reason, Will Scott had killed himself.
