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  ‘She looks normal, not like his mother and father,’ Dorothy said, following up her comment by inhaling on her cigarette.

  ‘Stuart, I think you’d be the best person to talk to Ann Fenner if we take on this case. I don’t think she thought much of me,’ he said.

  ‘She looks a respectable woman. Did you have that leather jacket on?’ Stuart asked.

  He nodded, pulling a face.

  ‘No wonder she didn’t take to you. We want to find out about her relationship with David. Anything else?’

  ‘Any gossip about the parents, also if you can find out about the tutors David had, especially in the last two years before he went to school. Addresses or telephone numbers would be useful. One of them might shine some light on the family,’ he said, as he picked up more drawings. ‘The rest of the people I don’t know, but I guess some of them are staff and pupils at Chillingworth.’ He spread out the remaining drawings below the others.

  ‘I know one of them.’ Stuart said, pointing to a full-length portrait of a man dressed in a suit, collar and tie and black gown. ‘That’s the headmaster, Ralph Baron.’

  ‘How do you know him, Stuart?’ Dorothy asked.

  ‘It was a few years ago. One of the pupils died. Nothing suspicious. Found in his bed by one of the other pupils. Some kind of heart failure. Everyone was very upset.’ He looked at the expressions on the other members of the team. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There was a post-mortem, nothing nasty was found.’ The silence round the table said it all. They looked again at the drawing of Ralph Baron.

  ‘Is he as tall as he looks?’ Laurel asked.

  ‘Bit taller than you, Laurel, about six two,’ Stuart replied.

  They looked again at his portrait.

  He was certainly slim with the build of a whippet, or a long-distance runner, and looked ready to leap from the page and jump a few hurdles. David had captured the intensity of his character, he fairly fizzed off the paper. His hair looked fair, straight. Definitely short back and sides with a low parting on the left and hair combed across his scalp. The face was long and thin, bushy eyebrows, a Roman nose and a generous mouth with full lips, which seemed incongruous in such an ascetic face. And the expression? Difficult to judge. Was this a person David liked? Frank frowned. The eyes said yes, he’d given the man kind, friendly eyes; the lips said no: they were lascivious and slightly twisted.

  ‘Frank, can I interrupt before we look at the next drawing?’ Dorothy asked.

  Frank nodded.

  ‘I read all the previous case notes, as we all have, and as I was going through the East Anglian Daily Times yesterday I came across a job advert—’

  ‘Not leaving us already?’ Stuart quipped. Mabel glared at him and he took some deep puffs on his pipe and looked the other way.

  ‘Chillingworth School are advertising for a secretary, part time. What do you think? It might be useful to have someone able to snoop round.’

  ‘Well spotted,’ Frank said. ‘If we decide today to take the case, and after Stuart and I’ve been to the school, we can decide whether it would be a good idea.’ He hesitated. ‘Mind you, you might not get it.’ He ducked as an eraser flew through the air. The mood lightened. ‘Time for a coffee break?’ Mabel asked

  Stuart picked up some plates and followed Mabel. ‘That was a really lovely Chelsea bun, Mabel.’

  There was a muffled reply from Mabel and the closing of the kitchen door.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ Frank asked Laurel and Dorothy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Laurel replied; she looked at Dorothy.

  ‘Mabel hasn’t confided it me, but I’m sure she’s still fond of Stuart.’

  ‘Women!’ Frank said, puffing out his cheeks, then blowing air like a surfacing whale. ‘You could have fooled me.’

  Laurel dug him in the ribs as Stuart came back into the room; he avoided everyone’s eyes and slumped into his chair.

  Frank collected the drawings they hadn’t looked at; everyone took their seats waiting for Mabel.

  She bustled in. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I was putting a casserole into the oven: lamb hotpot. One of your favourites, Stuart.’ She looked at him. He didn’t reply, but shot her a baleful look.

  They’re worse than a pair of spotty teenagers, Frank thought.

  ‘Mabel, you’re spoiling us. I’ll have to up my running if you keep on giving us so much delicious food.’

  ‘Thanks, Laurel, glad someone appreciates my efforts.’

  ‘Mabel!’ Dorothy said.

  Mabel flushed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Let’s look at the rest of the drawings,’ Frank said.

  The one he’d selected was a woman dressed in a uniform which suggested she might be a nurse or possibly a school matron: starched uniform, with a fob watch displayed on her ample bosom and a neat cap pinned to a thin head of hair which was scraped back from her face, possibly into a bun. The mouth was tight, no sign of teeth, the nostrils flared, as though she’d detected a random fart. Large eyes, probably brown from the amount of graphite used, were surrounded by lash-less lids. The eyes were expressionless, staring into space, showing no emotion, neither caring nor disdain. Frank thought he wouldn’t like to see her approaching with a bedpan, or worse a thermometer.

  ‘Could be the school matron,’ Laurel said.

  Dorothy shivered.

  ‘That’s the end of the adults. The last two are children.’ He placed them side by side on the table. The portrait on the left made him feel sick. It had when he’d first seen it, and its effect on him hadn’t changed.

  The child looked young, possibly nine or ten, although Carol had told him the youngest children in the school were eleven. This boy was terrified. There was a frozen expression of fear on his face, shown by the wide eyes, enlarged pupils, the half-open mouth, lips drawn back in horror at what he was looking at, or what was about to happen. The way David had used shading to create shadows made his skin ghostly white, his cheek bones sharp as knives; you could almost hear his terrified whimpers. Frank gripped the edge of the drawing and placed it back in the pile of drawings. ‘I hope David has a vivid imagination; no child should feel this terrified.’

  ‘I wonder who he is,’ Dorothy said, lighting another cigarette and taking a deep pull.

  ‘If he’s a Chillingworth pupil we’ll find out. He’s not the boy who died, is he?’ Frank asked Stuart, knowing the answer but wanting to break Stuart Elderkin’s silence.

  ‘I would have said, if he was,’ Stuart snapped.

  Frank glanced at Laurel who bit her lip.

  He ploughed on. ‘Last one. The only one with a name.’

  Written in a childish but firm hand, in a jumble of capital and lower case letters, was the name Peter. It was a full-length portrait of a slim boy, about fourteen, who was smiling, his light-coloured eyes, probably blue, looked at you directly, and his small mouth curved with happiness. He was the kind of child mothers smiled at and old ladies patted on the head.

  Laurel put out her hand. ‘Can I have a closer look, please?’

  She’d seen what he’d seen.

  ‘Unless I’m mistaken this boy, Peter, has Down’s syndrome.’

  Dorothy leant forward and Stuart looked up.

  ‘You mean he’s a mongol?’ Mabel asked.

  Laurel nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. Although the signs are not obvious: he’s got a round face, and his hair, which is probably blond, looks thin. It’s the eyelids, that droop at the corners that give it away. I’ve seen several children with Down’s syndrome; I worked at a special school when I did my teacher training. Peter’s physical signs of the condition are slight compared to the children there, at least that’s how David has shown him. Also, if you look carefully at the corner of his mouth you can see a bubble of saliva.’

  ‘Carol – Mrs Pemberton – said David had a friend called Peter he was especially fond of; I don’t think she approved. Now I know why,’ Frank said.

  Laurel bridled. ‘It’s not Peter’s
fault he’s got Down’s syndrome; it’s inherited through the chromosomes. The children I worked with were lovely; well not all of them. They were a mixed bunch, just like any other class.’

  ‘Don’t get snotty with me, Laurel; I was giving you a reason for Mrs Pemberton’s dislike, not mine.’ He immediately wished he hadn’t said that.

  ‘Then Mrs Pemberton doesn’t sound like a very nice person … even if she is beautiful.’

  What was happening? Their meetings didn’t usually degenerate into swapping insults. He took a deep breath. ‘I wondered why he’s the only person David has given a name to? David obviously has difficulty writing, but he’d wanted this boy to have a name. I think he was someone important to David. Someone special.’

  Laurel nodded. ‘I think they were friends. Perhaps they were attracted to each other because of their disabilities: David, the boy who has difficulty reading and writing, but is a genius with a pencil, and Peter, the boy with Down’s syndrome, who’d not only have difficulties with reading and writing, but also in coping with many other aspects of normal life. What a strange friendship, if that’s what it is. But understandable. Two misfits supporting each other. Able to be themselves when they were together.’

  ‘That’s a brilliant analysis, Laurel,’ he said.

  ‘Poor little buggers.’ Stuart reached for his pipe.

  ‘If Peter is still at the school he may know why David ran away,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Or David may have told Peter about his family, perhaps the reason for his disappearance lies there,’ Frank mused.

  They all gazed in silence at the drawing of Peter.

  Frank studied their faces. The moment seemed right. ‘I’d like us to take this case on. Do I have your agreement?’

  Four pairs of eyed looked into his. Four heads solemnly nodded. Relief flooded through him and deep in his guts desire and lust made his muscles tighten. He’d see Carol again. And again. And again.

  Chapter 6

  Wednesday, 10 March, 1971

  Although it was after lunch Samuel Harrop was lying on the settee dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown. He tried not to move, as every muscle contraction, however slight, sent waves of sickening pain crashing through his body. He looked at the rosewood clock on the matching sideboard. Five minutes past two; in twenty-five minutes he could have another dose of morphine. He mustn’t weaken and take it before then, he must keep his mind clear until he’d seen Nancy. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, tell anyone else. She’d be appalled, but he knew she’d still love him and would do what was right. He must get Clara to let him see her.

  He carefully turned his head to look round the sitting room, his favourite room in the house. The French windows leading to a grassy slope, rich with primroses, the Art Deco furniture he’d collected over a number of years, the streamlined Paul Frankel sofa, in ebony and black lacquer and the matching armchairs. Near the wall was his music centre and his collection of records and tape cassettes. He’d loved to lie on the settee, the French windows open, the sea breeze coiling round the house, wafting the curtains. He’d close his eyes and listen; perhaps a favourite Benjamin Britten opera, the rich voice of Peter Pears filling the room. Now the windows were locked and he couldn’t open them and he dreaded hearing any music as it prompted thoughts that soon all would be silence.

  Immediately he’d seen Nancy and was sure she’d do what he wanted, he would commit suicide. He’d hidden a bottle of morphine many months ago and he would make an end to it. He was a coward and he’d be leaving Nancy to deal with the fallout of his confession. He grasped the arm of the settee as a wave of pain twisted his gut. Would telling her put her in danger? Only if only he knew he’d told her.

  Why wouldn’t Clara let him see Nancy? Nancy knew about their false marriage. This last month Clara had made him a prisoner in his own home, she’d dismissed the cleaning lady and the gardener, and he was too physically weak to escape. She’d even removed the phones so he couldn’t ring for help. He must reason with her, bribe her, promise her anything as long as he saw Nancy. He couldn’t, mustn’t, die without making reparation. Nancy would be horrified, disgusted and frightened but she would see justice done.

  He glanced at the clock again: it was time. Through the open door of the sitting room he heard Clara’s footsteps on the tiled floor of the hall. She came into the room and paused in the doorway. ‘It’s time for your medicine.’

  As always, she was immaculately dressed and groomed. Her brown hair was swept back into a hairstyle reminiscent of Maria Callas, her favourite soprano; on her it seemed like a helmet. She wore a jade-green wool suit and black high heels.

  ‘Shall I fetch it?’ she asked.

  He nodded. She turned and left the room, returning shortly with a tray on which was a medicine bottle, two glasses, one empty, one containing water, and a spoon. She placed them on a small table near him.

  He forced himself to sit up. As he moved the smell of his unwashed and decaying body made him gag. This morning Clara had refused to help him bathe, and he was so weak he was afraid if he got in the bath by himself, he might sink beneath the soapy water and drown. Clara didn’t love him, but he’d thought she was fond of him. Now he knew she despised him because he was weak, dying and she hated the ugliness of his approaching death.

  He measured the morphine with the spoon into the empty glass, just enough to take the edge off the pain, but not enough to bring even a brief oblivion. He wouldn’t let Clara give him his medicine: he no longer trusted her.

  He washed the bitter taste away with the water in the other glass. ‘Clara, I need to talk to you.’

  She sat on one of the armchairs, planted her feet firmly on the carpet and stared at him, her face expressionless. ‘I’m not letting you see Nancy until you tell me what you want to see her about.’

  ‘Clara, I haven’t much time left. Before I die there is something I must tell Nancy. Lives depend on it. I should have told someone before, but I was a coward.’

  She leaned towards him, her face flushing. ‘Why can’t you tell me? What is it? She knows you’re a homo. What else is there to tell? What do you mean, lives depend on it?’

  Sam flinched at her description of him. His throat tightened and the room seemed to press in on him, the armchairs turning into squat black toads. He was hallucinating. ‘Please, Clara.’

  She leant against the back of the chair, hands resting on the arms; in emerald green with her crown of hair she was like a queen, ruling over his life.

  ‘I promise to fetch Nancy if you tell me what you are going to tell her. I don’t want to look a fool when she finds out you haven’t told me. I think that’s the least I deserve. I am your wife and I’ve acted my part all these years. I know you’ve had lovers, but I’ve never done so, no scandal has come through me.’ She paused. ‘I promise to fetch Nancy if you’ll tell me what you’re worried about.’

  He’d have to risk it. At least one person would know the truth and even if she didn’t bring Nancy, perhaps her conscious would make her reveal his secret.

  He lowered his head, so he couldn’t see her face and told her.

  She drew her feet towards each other, until it looked as though her legs were glued together.

  ‘Who’s behind all this?’ Her voice was calm.

  He told her.

  She sat still for several minutes. ‘I’ll go and see Nancy now.’

  He looked up. Her face was rigid like chiselled ice.

  ‘Phone her. She’ll come straight away. Let me phone her. Where are the phones?’

  ‘No. I want to see her before you speak to her. I won’t tell her anything. You must do that.’

  Fear fluttered through his chest. ‘Please don’t leave me locked in. Something might happen while you’re out and I won’t be able to escape.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘I’ll bring her back soon, I’ll leave now.’ She walked stiffly from the room. A few minutes later he heard the turn of the key in the front door and then the sound of her car pullin
g away.

  Would Nancy come to see him? Clara seemed determined. Was she going to Nancy’s? Where else could she be going? He leant back, the cold leather pressing against his dying body as though it wanted to wrap him in a skin coffin. He longed to be covered by a feather-filled eiderdown, to press the morphine bottle to his lips, let the liquid trickle down his throat, rest his head on a soft pillow and to slip into a final sleep, and oblivion.

  If she wasn’t going to Nancy’s, where was she going? To him? He shouldn’t have told her. Why would she do that? To challenge him? Or warn him? Could she be going to ask for help? Help to shut him up? God in heaven was she capable of doing that? He mustn’t think like that – it was the morphine twisting his brain. Supposing he died before he told Nancy, and Clara didn’t tell anyone? The horror would go on. What could he do?

  Chapter 7

  At midday, Laurel parked Dorothy’s Morris Traveller outside the Harrops’ Edwardian house. She’d asked Dorothy if she could borrow her car as the Morris was less conspicuous than her Ford Cortina. At the meeting everyone had agreed she should take on Nancy’s case, and after consulting Nancy, she’d decided to try and make contact with Sam Harrop when his wife, Clara was out of the house.

  She was parked on the opposite side of the street to the house, a discreet distance from the drive. She looked at her watch. Ten past one. She ate the Cornish pasty she’d bought from Smith’s Bakery, savouring the crisp pastry and the peppery contents. She made sure none of it dribbled onto her best blue suit; she’d not worn it since her first days at Blackfriars School, but she’d reasoned if she did bump into Clara she wanted to present a respectable picture. She put the greasy paper bag into the waste bin on the floor and opened a side window to let out the smell.

  It was now quarter to three and she was bored. She opened up The Times newspaper which she’d brought to hide her face with, and flipped through a few pages. Nothing but bad news: a Belfast milkman gunned down in front of children; a life sentence for a squaddie who’d raped and killed a ten-year-old child and Lionel Bart fined £50 for possessing cannabis. She looked at the TV programmes: Softly, Softly at eight followed by a party-political broadcast. She groaned.