"Okay." Then aloud, laconically. "Be seeing you, Dad."
"So long, David. Letters from India this time."
"Super!" Eyes too bright, but the word coming out without a tremor. "Super!"
A traitorous wave of emotion took Fleming unexpectedly and for a moment he couldn't hide it. Brannigan noticed the clenched muscles of his jaw before he turned his head away.
It was several minutes before he was able to return to the folder.
The next three books were on mathematics. They contained average problems set a twelve-year-old and were reasonably handled. The book of essays he wanted to take away with him and read in private. He didn't feel he could trust himself to read them in Brannigan's presence. They were the essence of David. Sentences – echoes of David's voice – whispered up from the page before he could close his eyes and mind to them. "My first jumbo jet flight was with my Dad to New York. There was a film show – a Western – not very good. For lunch we had samon and lettice in boxes with plastic knives and forks. A woman in the next seat was sick in a brown paper bag and I couldn't eat any more lunch after that." Dad had been scored out with a red pen and Father put in instead. Samon had been corrected, but lettice had got through.
And further on: "The best pet I ever had was a gerbil. I» had it when we had a house with a long garden in the Cotswolds. It lived in a shed in the orchard. It was a long time ago when I was young. My mother didn't like it, but she didn't say she didn't like it because she knew I did. It got lost under the floorboards once but my Father found it with a torch. My mother said she was glad it had been found. That was not honest, but it was kind." Fleming turned back a page and saw that the essay was headed Honesty. He closed the book and put it on one side.
Honesty. "How are things with you at school, David?"
"All right, Dad."
"Any problems?"
"No – not really."
"You'd tell me if there were?"
"Yes, of course."
Had the inflection been right? Had he listened hard enough to find a note of doubt, of false brightness? Had he just hoped everything was all right and been too quick to accept David's word for it?
Surely he had known his own son well enough to be aware that he was putting on one hell of a cover-up.
As he must have been.
But these books were normal.
Inside the main folder was another smaller one with the words Project on Maritime History written carefully across it. There were drawings of Aegean Bronze Age vessels and Phoenician biremes. Then came a drawing on graph paper showing the measurements of a Viking ship. He had been given high marks for these and the written comment in red ballpoint: Good. You have done your research well. He turned to Brannigan. "How many times did David go to the Maritime Museum?"
Brannigan noted that he had himself well in hand again. His voice was toneless and his eyes showed nothing.
"The boys were taken on a preliminary visit before each section was written about. The section on cargo vessels was the fourth."
"So it was on his fourth visit that he was killed?"
"Yes."
Fleming closed the folder and then ran his fingers up and down the edges of it as if he were loath to part with anything that David had touched. At last he pushed it aside.
"How would you rate his work?"
Brannigan answered honestly. "Average. He could do very well indeed if he set his mind on it."
"And you would expect this sort of work from a twelve-year-old?"
"Yes. As I told you, he was average. Not brilliant -just a good, steady, middle-of-the-road ability. The sort that sometimes surges ahead in early adolescence."
"Not the sort that drops back six years and regresses to the intellect of a child of six?"
Brannigan was startled. "I don't understand you."
Fleming took the sketch out of his wallet and handed it to him without a word.
Brannigan looked at the drawing of the caterpillar and the unformed writing under it. WOLLY BEAR ON D'S BED.
"What is this supposed to be? Some of David's early work from his kindergarten?"
"Some of David's most recent work – during his period in the infirmary when he had mumps."
"I don't believe it!" It came out explosively. What Brannigan saw as an attack from a totally unexpected quarter not only unnerved but astonished him. What the hell was Fleming playing at? This sketch he was holding was the work of an infant. It bore absolutely no resemblance to the books on the desk. And what was that about regression? To this? Fleming must be out of his mind if he thought he could con him that easily.
He handed it back. "You've kept this a long time."
"I've kept it a matter of hours. I saw it for the first time this afternoon. David drew it for Jenny a week or so ago on his last day in the infirmary. Jenny gave it to me."
Brannigan felt the blood thrumming in his head. He saw a whole kaleidoscope of possibilities including one in which Jenny was in collusion with Fleming to the tune of whatever damages they managed to milk from the school. And then in he became calm again and dismissed them. He didn't understand and until he did understand he would try and keep an open mind.
He asked Fleming to explain the significance of the drawing and listened without interrupting while he did so.
"And he hadn't drawn the caterpillar since he was – how old?"
"I think the last nightmare-linked drawing was when he was seven and a half going on eight."
"You took him to a psychiatrist?"
"No. We – his mother and I – tore up the drawings. We sensed that was what he wanted and it worked."
"You think he suffered some shock that pushed him back into this?"
"Shock. Or a long period of unhappiness. I don't know. That's what I mean to find out."
"And you believe that the state of his mind was disturbed – perhaps to the extent that the fall into the hold was suicidal – is that what you're saying?"
"I think it's possible. And if it's proved true then God help you, the school, and everyone in it."
Brannigan was suddenly aware of the coldness of the room. He repressed a shiver. The isolation of command was like a cloak of ice on his shoulders. His own conscience in the matter was clear, but ultimately he was answerable for his staff and the boys.
"A little teasing – a caterpillar in David's bed – that's the easy and most likely explanation." He managed to say it quite smoothly, almost persuasively.
"The caterpillar was linked with the terror of waking alone in a dark unfamiliar house – it's a symptom, not the disease."
"And what do you believe the disease is in this particular instance?"
Fleming answered flatly, "A prolonged period of bullying – perhaps sexual assault."
He had expected Brannigan to flare up into a quick denial, but his answer when it came was measured and thoughtful. "The two old bogies of the system. It would be naive of me to discount either possibility. I'm prepared to investigate both. But unless either is proved you'd be wise to say nothing to anyone."
"I shall say nothing provided the investigation is carried out without bias. I want to be around to see that it is."
Brannigan stood up. "Very well, Mr. Fleming. You shall be around. It's my school and your child. There is common ground for concern."