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Tom Storey stared out of the window, watching the leaves detaching from the trees and swirling in the brisk breeze that had sprung up towards noon. He sat motionless, his bandaged stump gripped in his other hand. Tony watched him for a good ten minutes, but Storey never budged.
Eventually, he walked across the day room and pulled up a chair next to Storey. He noted the purple bruise along his cheekbone. According to the orderly who had shown Tony in, one of the other patients had punched Storey during a group therapy session. ‘Even these mad bastards draw the line at child killers,’ the man had said casually.
‘We’ve all got two personalities, you know,’ Tony said conversationally. ‘One in each hemisphere of the brain. One’s the boss, it shouts down the weaker one. But you sever the diplomatic links, and there’s no telling what the subservient one will do once it gets the taste for power.’
Storey still didn’t move. ‘I can still feel it,’ he said. ‘It’s like a malevolent ghost. It won’t leave me alone. Supposing you find out I’ve got a brain tumour. And supposing that doesn’t kill me. There’s still going to be a war going on in my head, isn’t there?’
‘I won’t lie to you, Tom,’ Tony said. ‘There’s no quick fix here. See, you’ve got the dominant left side of the brain. That’s in charge of the three R’s–reading, writing and arithmetic. And you’ve got the right side. It’s illiterate, but it comprehends form, solid geometry, music. I suspect it gets frustrated because it can’t express itself readily in the ways that humans generally communicate. That’s why it goes off the rails when the left side loosens its grip. But that’s not the end of the story.’
‘Just the end of Tom Storey.’ His voice was bitter.
‘Not necessarily. The brain’s an amazing structure. When it gets damaged, it retrains other areas to take over the jobs that used to be done by the bit that’s redundant. And there are things we can do to retrain the rebellious part of your brain. I can help you, Tom.’
Storey took a breath so deep it raised his shoulders. ‘Can’t bring my kids back, though. Can you?’
Tony looked out of the window at the flurry of golden and scarlet leaves. ‘No, I can’t. But what I can do is help you live with that absence.’
Tears spilled out of Storey’s eyes and trickled unheeded down his cheeks. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
Because it’s the only thing I’m good at, Tony thought. What he said was: ‘Because you deserve it, Tom. Because you deserve it.’
Carol walked into the interview room with an assumption of confidence she didn’t really feel. It had been many months since she’d interviewed anyone, witness or suspect, and she was afraid of her emotions bleeding into the professional sphere. It didn’t help that she was conscious of Paula at her side, weighing her up. At least Ron Alexander’s composure seemed to have slipped a little. He was refusing to meet her eyes, fiddling continuously with his wedding ring.
‘Right,’ Carol said, settling into her chair. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jordan and this is Detective Constable McIntyre. As your solicitor will have explained, Mr Alexander, we’re looking for your help in respect of another inquiry that’s not related to the reasons you were originally arrested. We would appreciate your co-operation.’
‘Why should I talk to you?’ Alexander blurted out. ‘You’ll only twist anything I say to make a case against me.’
Bronwen Scott put a hand on his arm. ‘You don’t have to say anything, Ron.’ She looked directly at Carol. ‘My client is concerned that any co-operation he offers you will be reflected in any subsequent proceedings.’
Carol shook her head. ‘You know it’s not up to us, Ms Scott. It’s the CPS who make the deals. But I’m perfectly willing to make representations to them at the appropriate time.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
Carol shrugged. ‘It’s the best I can do. Your client might like to consider the converse, however. If he fails to help us in such a sensitive case, nobody’s going to cut him any slack anywhere down the line.’
‘Is that a threat, Chief Inspector?’
‘Just a statement of fact, Ms Scott. You know as well as I how emotions run high in the case of a missing child. Sex offenders have a hard enough time in prison without adding to their problems. It’s up to you, Mr Alexander.’ Carol eyed Alexander, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. She opened the folder in front of her and took out the photograph Jan Shields had supplied. She placed it in front of him. ‘We found this on your computer. Do you recognize this child, Mr Alexander?’
He glanced at the image then looked away, desperately scanning the wall as if it would give him the answer. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Can you tell me who it is?’
‘His name’s Tim Golding.’ He picked up Scott’s pen, gripping it in both hands as if trying to snap it in two. ‘His picture was in the papers. And on the TV.’
‘When did you acquire this photograph?’ Carol leaned forward slightly, forcing warmth and intimacy into her voice.
He flashed a look at Scott, who nodded. ‘I don’t know exactly. A few weeks ago, I think. It came in an email attachment. I was shocked when I opened it.’
‘Shocked because you recognized Tim Golding?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. And because of…because of how he looked.’
‘What? You’re not used to receiving pictures of naked, frightened children?’
‘Don’t answer that, Ron,’ Scott said quickly. ‘Chief Inspector, if we’re going to make any progress here, I must insist you stop asking questions whose answers might tend to incriminate my client.’
Yeah, right. Carol took a deep breath. She slid another photograph from her folder. ‘Do you recognize this boy?’
Alexander frowned. ‘Isn’t he the one who went missing last year? Guy something or other?’
‘Guy Lefrevre,’ Carol said. ‘Have you ever been sent photographs of Guy Lefevre?’
‘No.’ Alexander’s eyes flicked from side to side. Carol couldn’t decide whether he was panicking or lying. But with Bronwen Scott patrolling her every question, there was nothing to be gained by pressing the point.
‘What did you do when you recognized Tim Golding?’ she asked.
‘I erased the picture right away,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want it on my machine.’
Carol stripped her voice of challenge and tried to sound sympathetic. ‘You didn’t think about contacting the police? You could have printed it out and sent it to us anonymously. You’ve got children of your own, haven’t you, Ron? How do you think you’d feel if one of them went missing? Wouldn’t you want to believe that anyone who had information that might help the inquiry would pass it on to the police?’
A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. ‘I suppose,’ he said.
