‘That’s not to say we had separate lives — we didn’t. What we had was a very comfortable combined existence where neither of us felt compromised.’ His eyes welled up and he struggled to keep his voice even: ‘Seeing her lying there on the floor — it wasn’t her. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t us.’
Carlyle waited for more but nothing was forthcoming. He glanced at the lawyer, who seemed to be confused by her client’s opening gambit. Was that a confession or not?
Switching off the tape-machine, Carlyle turned back to Henry Mills. ‘I want you to take a break,’ he said gently, ‘and then we can have another go. Talk to your lawyer here. She will know the kind of detailed questions that I’m going to ask. If you’ve basically given me your full statement, then it is going to take a while for us to go through the evidence. If you can think of anything — anything at all — that might help your case, now is the time to tell me. Then, if you want to change your story, we can get this thing sorted out quickly and you can have a rest.’
He had almost got back to his desk on the third floor when he felt his phone vibrating in the back pocket of his jeans. Seeing that it was his wife, he hit the receive button.
‘Hi.’
‘John. You have to get to the school.’ Helen’s tone was verging on fraught.
‘There’s been a bomb scare…’
NINE
By the time he got to the Barbican, the place looked like a scene out of some straight-to-video cop movie. The whole arts complex surrounding the school had been cordoned off. Outside the tape, tourists and office workers mingled, sharing a mixture of concern and curiosity, while resisting the best attempts of a dozen or so uniformed officers to move them along. As he approached the Silk Street entrance, Carlyle counted more than a dozen police vehicles, including two large Bomb Squad vans. He wondered how long it would take them to search the entire site — several hours at least. There would certainly be no more chance of school today. He pulled up Alice’s number on his mobile, and cursed when he got a ‘network busy’ message.
‘Fuck!’
Ending the call, he redialled immediately. And got the same message.
‘Bastard fucking phone!’
And again.
And again.
At the fifth or six attempt, he got through. After barely two rings, his daughter’s voicemail kicked in. Hi! This is Alice. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Bye!
‘Alice,’ he said as calmly as he could manage, ‘it’s Dad. Call me when you get this.’
Keeping the phone in his hand, he walked up to a sergeant standing by the police tape. Flashing his ID, he got a nod of recognition.
‘Where are the schoolkids?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Gone to the RV points, sir,’ the sergeant said in a practised manner.
‘And where are the RV points?’
‘Er…’ The officer shrugged.
Carlyle was just about to slap him, when they were interrupted by a middle-aged woman with a clipboard. ‘Which class?’ she asked Carlyle briskly.
‘Er…’ Now it was Carlyle’s turn to show his ignorance.
The woman hid her frown behind her clipboard. ‘Teacher?’
‘A man, I think,’ was as much as Carlyle could manage.
This time the woman made no attempt to hide her contempt for his ignorance.
Summoning up the patience of a saint, she gave him one last try. ‘Upper or Lower school?’
‘Lower,’ Carlyle said decisively. He knew he had to have a fifty-fifty chance of being right on that one at least.
‘They will have gone to Monkwell Square.’
Carlyle looked at her blankly.
‘It’s just next to the Ironmongers’ Hall,’ the woman said.
‘Just back the way you came, sir,’ the sergeant said helpfully. ‘Head towards St Paul’s — it’s just before you get to London Wall. Should only take you about five minutes, maximum.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle replied through gritted teeth. Turning on his heels, he headed at a trot back through the gawkers and the randomly parked police cars.
It took him only a couple of minutes to find the Square. The place was full of girls in uniform gossiping in small groups, lounging about on the grass and generally looking quite pleased at the prospect of the afternoon off. Quite a few were smoking and he was shocked to see one girl, who looked to be even younger than Alice, taking a casual drag on a cigarette as she sat under a tree. How would he react if he found his own daughter smoking? He would cross that bridge if and when he came to it.
First he had to find her. It took him another few minutes to locate someone who looked like a teacher — a tall man in a suit, also brandishing a clipboard. Careful not to tread on any of the pupils, Carlyle stepped forward and introduced himself.
The man nodded. ‘John Doherty, Deputy Head of the Lower School.’ When Carlyle explained that he was looking for his daughter, he frowned. ‘There’s no need to overreact.’
Overreact?
‘It’s probably just a false alarm,’ Doherty continued. He looked as if he was in his early thirties, but with his floppy straw hair and boyish features he managed to look younger than many of the girls. ‘Everyone has been accounted for. We’ve told all the ones that don’t normally get picked up that they can go home.’
Before Carlyle could respond, the phone started vibrating in his hand. It was a text message from Alice: At home. All ok. x
A mixture of relief and frustration washed over him. He looked up, but the teacher had already walked off. For a few seconds, Carlyle stood there, feeling like a spare part. Then he called his wife and left the Square, heading west.
The bell rang, shortly followed by a low rumble of excited chatter. Michael Hagger leaned against a pillar outside the entrance to Coram’s Fields Nursery. Trying to look like the kind of bloke who would regularly pick his kid up from playschool, he watched the children start to stream out, still happily playing, stuffing their faces with snacks, or chatting about the day. Mostly it was women — mothers or childminders — doing the collecting, but there was the odd father here and there making the effort to be part of the post-school run.
Once he was sure that home-time was in full swing, Hagger slipped past a woman struggling with a buggy and went inside the building. Smiling at the girls in reception, he casually walked down the corridor towards Jake’s classroom.
Wearing jeans, trainers and a Thomas the Tank Engine T-shirt, the boy sat at a desk, drawing on a piece of paper with a green crayon. He was concentrating hard, with his tongue poking out of one corner of his mouth. For the first time, it struck Hagger that he was a good-looking lad. Must get it from me, he thought. A teaching assistant stood at a sink in the far corner of the room, tidying away a selection of paints and brushes. She had her back to them and didn’t turn round when he entered the room.
Jake saw him and made a face. ‘What are you doing here?’
Hagger forced a small smile. ‘I’ve come to pick you up.’
Jake looked confused. ‘You never pick me up.’
‘Well, I am today,’ Hagger replied through gritted teeth.
‘Where’s Mum?’
Hagger reached over and patted him on the head.
‘I’m picking you up today,’ he repeated. ‘I thought it would be nice.’
The teaching assistant was still busy putting caps back on tubes of paint.
‘Mum always picks me up,’ the boy said stubbornly. ‘Or Amelia.’
