Not-Jeanette opens the back door of the car and Thomas climbs in. She closes it. Still, there has been no interaction or eye contact between them.
She’s going to drive away with him …
And now she has. And I did nothing.
Because there’s nothing you could have done.
Telling myself Thomas will be fine, I get out of the car and start to walk towards the school’s main entrance. Halfway there, I hear a voice calling my name.
I turn. At first I can’t see where it might have come from. Then I spot Lou, in the driver’s seat of a red Ford Fiesta. I didn’t see her leave the building; she must have come out while I was watching Thomas. She gestures towards me, and I see that the passenger door is open.
‘Get in,’ she mouths at me as I approach. She seems nervous; in a rush, as if we’ve just robbed a bank together and she’s driving the getaway car.
I obey the order. Another incentive to make sure we part on friendly terms – I’m going to need her to drop me back here later so that I can drive home.
Is it naive of me to trust her? What if she’s …
No. That’s paranoid. She’s a school receptionist. What’s she going to do – pull over and whip out a knife in broad daylight?
If someone wants me out of the way, presumably there are plenty of thugs for hire.
If Dom knew that I was even thinking in this way … ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘The Gallery,’ Lou says. ‘We can talk freely there.’
The Gallery turns out to be a crowded, homely café in Huntingdon, with square tables and a comforting smell of baked potatoes. Lou and I take the last available table. I tell her it’s my treat, whatever she wants to order, and thank her for being willing to talk to me, even though she’s the one who’s initiated the meeting.
‘How did you get my number?’ I ask her once we’ve got our cups of tea in front of us. ‘The mobile, I mean. When you asked for my details, I gave you the landline.’
‘You’ll think I’m a stalker.’ She looks embarrassed. ‘I tried the landline and no one answered, so I Googled you. I found your massage business website.’
With a photograph of me smiling, in my white work tunic, and both my phone numbers, mobile and landline, as well as my work email.
‘Sorry,’ says Lou unnecessarily.
‘Don’t be. You’re no more of a stalker than we all are these days. You could have saved yourself the bother, though, and spoken to me yesterday.’
‘I was too scared. I can’t believe I’m doing it now.’ She shakes her head, as if at her own recklessness. ‘I could lose my job if I’m caught discussing families who are at the school. And I really need my job. My husband’s business had to fight an expensive legal battle last year that nearly cleaned us out.’
‘That sounds rough. So … what changed your mind? About speaking to me. Was it the police?’
‘Police?’ Lou’s eyes widen.
‘Or social services? Has someone been to the school today, or rung up, asking about the Caters?’ It’s probably too soon. PC Paul Pollard might do something, but it will take him at least a day or two to get round to it. And the likelihood is, he’ll do nothing.
‘No. Why would you think that?’ Lou asks.
‘I’m trying to work out why you suddenly decided you want to talk to me. Enough to look me up online and ring me. That’s a big change from yesterday. Did something happen?’
Her eyes are flitting around, not settling anywhere. ‘Look, I need to know before this goes any further,’ she says. ‘Are the police involved in whatever’s going on? Please tell me. Don’t lie.’
I try not to be irritated by the suggestion that I would. Something I can’t put my finger on makes me think that being completely straight with her is going to be the most effective strategy.
I take a long sip of my tea and start with my detour to Wyddial Lane last Saturday.
As simply and clearly as I can, I tell her everything. By the time I’ve finished, she’s drunk all her tea. My cup’s still full, and cold.
‘And … you told all that to the police, everything you’ve just told me?’
