Noel Hardy sat forward in his chair, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
He was a short man and the large desk which bore his nameplate seemed to dwarf him even further. Reed had sometimes wondered if the furniture in the school had been designed to suit the importance of the person who sat behind it.
Predictably, as Headmaster, Hardy sat behind a desk of almost ludicrously oversized proportions. For a man of fifty-five he looked remarkably sprightly, the only flecks of grey visible on him being in his eyebrows which hovered
like bloated furry caterpillars above his dark brown eyes: eyes which now seemed to be gazing into space as if seeking some kind of answer.
As he looked across his office, his stare focusing on the vase of fresh flowers on a table near the door, he was aware of Reed leaning on the front of the desk.
Hardy could hear the younger man breathing.
‘Come on,’ Reed said, irritably. ‘Why wait any longer?’
‘It’s not that easy, Frank,’ Hardy said, finally, blinking hard. The spell, it seemed, was broken. ‘We have no proof.’
‘You saw the marks on his body. He didn’t do that to himself. That kid is terrified. God alone knows what he’s been through. The only way to help him is to call the police. They have to find out what’s been done to him.’
‘There are other considerations.’
‘Such as?’
Hardy lowered his gaze again.
‘The publicity’ he said, sheepishly. ‘This kind of thing could reflect badly on the school.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Reed snapped, exasperatedly. ‘There’s a kid here that’s been beaten, possibly by his parents. Not just slapped around but badly abused physically and mentally. You don’t have to be a bloody social worker to see that. And all you’re worried about is the reputation of the school. What matters more to you, Noel? The state of St Michael’s or the well being of its pupils? So what if it does attract some publicity? Good. It might stop some more kids from being mistreated.’
‘What makes you think there are others?’ Hardy wanted to know.
‘Ask Judith Nelson. She’s seen one of her girls in more or less the same state.’
‘Which girl?’
‘Annette Hilston. She lives about two streets away from the O’Brian boy.’
‘So what do you want me to do? Have every home in that area investigated, just in case the children there might be in danger?’ Hardy glared at his assistant.
‘Frank, you’re a parent yourself, how would you feel if someone started yelling abuser at you? If they accused you of harming your child?’
‘If my daughter looked and behaved the way Paul O’Brian does then they’d have every right to accuse me, because the chances are they’d be right. That boy needs
our help, Noel, and the only way he’s going to get it is by you calling the police. Now.’
Hardy got to his feet and crossed to his window. It looked out over part of the school playground. He could see children out there now, some standing around in groups talking, others running about. Some boys were kicking a football against the wall opposite.
There were a number of houseplants on the window sill and, as he stood there, Hardy gently stroked the smooth leaves of a spider plant.
‘You say you’ve seen injuries on another pupil too?’ the Headmaster said, quietly.
‘I haven’t but, like I said, Judith Nelson said she had. Call her in if you want to.’
Hardy shook his head slowly, his back still to Reed. ‘There are serious ramifications for everyone concerned if your allegations are right or wrong, Frank’ he said, still gently stroking the plant leaves.
‘I realise that. But I’m prepared to take that chance.’ Hardy turned to face him. ‘Yes, you’re prepared,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not sure I am. As I said, perhaps, if we had more proof.’
‘Come on, for Christ’s sake! What are you going to do? Wait until a child is killed? Will that be proof enough for you?’ Reed pushed the phone angrily towards his colleague. ‘Call the police, Noel.’
Hardy held up a hand as if to silence Reed. ‘Assuming you’re right’ he said, returning to his desk. ‘What will the police do? Visit the boy’s family? Ask a
few questions? If they find nothing to support your allegations then you could make it worse not just for the school but for the boy himself. Perhaps you haven’t considered him, Frank.’
‘He’s my only bloody consideration’ Reed snapped.
‘We’re not responsible for those children once they’re outside our care’ Hardy said, defensively.
‘So what do we do? Turn our backs on them when they need help?’ Reed demanded.
‘That boy needs help. You know that. We’re the only ones who can give it to him.’
The two men stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
It was Reed who finally spoke again.
‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, pushing the phone nearer to the Headmaster.
The older man glanced at the phone.
Reed kept his gaze fixed upon him.
Hardy looked at him, his face pale.
‘And if you’re wrong?’ he said, the words hanging in the air.
Reed pushed the phone a little closer.
‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, quietly.
Forty-eight
All Phillip Cross saw when he answered the door of his flat was the bottle of Moet et Chandon dangling before him, gripped by two slender fingers.
The photographer smiled even more broadly as Catherine Reed stepped into view, clasping the bottle to her as if it were a child.
‘Peace offering,’ she said, indicating the champagne.
Cross ran appraising eyes over her, over the long dark hair, which he could smelclass="underline" freshly washed. There was a vibrance to her features which he’d not seen for a while. If he’d harboured any thoughts of giving her a hard time they vanished quickly. She remained before him in the doorway and crossed one shapely leg in front of the other, the split in her skirt opening to reveal the smooth skin beneath. She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
‘Come in’ Cross said, chuckling, stepping aside as he ushered her into the flat.
Cath put down the bottle and wrapped her arms around him, feeling his lips press urgently against hers, his tongue probing beyond the hard edges of her teeth. She responded fiercely, pulling him more tightly to her.
When they finally separated, it was Cross who spoke first.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’
She shrugged and sat down on the sofa, kicking off her shoes, drawing her legs up beneath her, watching as he retreated to the kitchen to fetch a couple of glasses. He returned a moment later with two large tumblers, blowing in one to remove the dust.
Cath watched him as he uncorked the champagne and poured some into each of the tumblers. She smiled.
‘That’s really classy, Phil’ she chuckled as he passed her the glass.
He raised his own glass and tapped it gently against hers. They both drank.
‘You still haven’t told me why,’ Cross said, sitting beside her, snaking one arm around her shoulder.
Cath shrugged. ‘I’ve been working hard lately. I think I’ve been a bit of a bitch to you.’
‘I’d like to argue with you but I can’t’ he said, smiling as she punched him playfully on the arm.
‘I haven’t meant to be,’ she persisted. ‘But this story I’m working on is big.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘It’s important to me, Phil.’
‘You didn’t come round here to tell me how much your career means to you, did you? I already know that. I’ve never wanted you to change the way you think about your work; I know how much it means to you. I just don’t see why I have to be separate from it. We are in the same business, after all.’