Flawed (11 page)

But hidden among those, sometimes quite well hidden, are a few whose injuries are ambiguous. Who might have walked into a doorknob, who might have trapped their fingers in a drawer, who might have picked up a lit cigarette, but who might not. Hospital staff develop an instinct for which they might be. So do teachers.

It was one of those crossroads moments. He could choose to believe a plausible explanation. He could express sympathy, advise caution in future, exchange a friendly nod with Noah's mother and go about his business; in which case he would probably never know the truth. Not about the grazed wrist; not about the black eye; and not whether it ended there. Noah Selkirk would never be taken into care
because his drunken father laid into him in Woolworths one day. Nice prosperous middle-class families like the Selkirks don't wash their dirty linen in public. They may be no better at managing their anger but they can always control themselves until they're safely behind their large solid oak front doors. Children like Noah may be as likely to suffer violence as their friends from the sink estates, but the abuse is much less likely to be recognised. People can't quite believe it happens at the nice end of town.

If Daniel did nothing, probably no one else would either.

He put on his most ingenuous smile and didn't look at Noah again. ‘You must be Mrs Selkirk. I'm Daniel Hood. I'm a maths teacher. I taught your son – rather briefly, events took an unexpected turn – at Dimmock High.’

So far, so truthful. He spared a moment to congratulate himself before continuing.

‘I'm glad I've seen you, actually, I've been wanting a word. Not just with you – there were a number of children in that class that I felt showed real promise with mathematics. Can I walk you to your car? I'd like to make you aware of some of the options for children with a feel for the subject.’

It was a gamble. In truth, Daniel didn't remember anything about Noah except his face. He might have been a mathematical genius in the making; he might still have been counting on his fingers. If Marianne Selkirk had said, ‘But Noah's
terrible
at maths!’ he might have been hard pressed to continue the conversation. Fortunately, two truths are almost universal. Most people's abilities, at any age, fall somewhere in the middle; and most people's parents want to hear that their children are smart. However scant the evidence, if you
tell them their offspring have talent they want to believe you.

As soon as Mrs Selkirk smiled, Daniel knew he was in business. ‘Actually, we were going for a coffee now. Would you like to join us?’

They ended up back in The Singing Kettle. It wasn't the only café in Dimmock, but perhaps it was the most genteel.

Gentility wasn't something that mattered much to Daniel. Usually he used it because it was across the road from his house. Today he'd have picnicked in an abattoir if that was what it took to make the acquaintance of the Selkirk family.

Perhaps what he was doing was dishonest. He was ingratiating himself with the woman in order to gain her confidence. Only his purpose went some way towards justifying his actions. If he was right about what was happening to Noah, and if he could find a way of helping this family before the situation deteriorated beyond the aid of a well-meaning busy-body, it would have been worth it. If not, he'd be left feeling like a pimp.

But Daniel would always take risks himself that he wouldn't countenance in others. And once he had an idea in his head it was almost impossible to shift it. Certainly neither the fear of embarrassment, nor fear itself, would do the trick.

As much as he could he avoided looking at Noah. He knew the boy had been terrified, from the moment they met in Edith Timoney's doorway, that he was going to blurt out an account of their last meeting. He wasn't, and by the time they reached The Singing Kettle Noah seemed to understand that he wasn't, but the boy still needed leaving alone to steady his nerve. So Daniel did what he never did, and talked over his head as if the child wasn't there.

‘I was pleased at how well that whole class were able to grapple with mathematical concepts. You may be aware, there's real concern in education circles that too many children of perfectly adequate intelligence are leaving school without a grasp of the fundamental skills. So I wasn't expecting to find myself talking astro-physics with a bunch of twelve-year-olds.’

Marianne Selkirk smiled. ‘Noah told me about that class, Mr Hood. He said it was the first time he realised maths could be interesting.’

Daniel demurred with a modest little shrug. ‘To be honest, Mrs Selkirk, I'm a maths bore. I bang on about how fascinating it is and never notice people's eyes turning glassy. But kids at that age, they're open to the wonder of it. They
want
to hear about how stars form, and how the cosmos formed, and how we
know.
They're the perfect audience.’

‘That doesn't seem to be the universal experience of maths teachers,’ observed Mrs Selkirk dryly. ‘I suspect you're rather good at it. So what was it,’ she asked then, putting him on the spot, ‘that you wanted to talk about? You're not telling me Noah's the next Steven Hawking?’

Daniel laughed dutifully, using the time to think. ‘Who knows? I don't expect they thought Steven Hawking was, when he was twelve. But actually, it's not geniuses – genii? – that I worry about. If you have that kind of remarkable mind, you're always going to make use of it. If a rather moderate education leading to an appointment as a patent clerk wasn't enough to stultify Einstein's mind there's no reason to suppose other geni—…clever people spend their lives sweeping floors because their talents go unrecognised.

‘No, what worries me is when ordinarily bright kids decide they can't do maths because it's obscure and difficult and unrewarding. Because a GCSE in History of Art might be easier to get but it won't open the same doors. This is an increasingly technological world, and it's not going to get any simpler. We're already at the point where people who understand the technology have the world at their fingertips. Yet fewer kids, not more, are studying maths and the sciences. We're going to end up with a real skills shortage. And people like Noah, and the other kids in that class, could fill that gap and end up running the world because of it.’

Every word of it was true, and it was a cause that Daniel believed in passionately. But today he didn't care about Noah Selkirk's future. He could be an art historian if he wanted; he could publish religious pamphlets or play piano in a bordello. Right now all Daniel cared about was what the boy was going home to tonight.

It's a tricky business, interfering with a family dynamic. There are more ways of making things worse than making them better. Probably the only reason even a determined dogooder should get involved is to protect someone who can't protect himself and who can't leave.

And he knew that if he asked Noah outright whether his father was hitting him, the answer would be no. Because the heartbreaking fact is that there is almost nothing a parent can do that will stop a child wanting his love and approval. Another blow, another kick – that's something he's familiar with. Breaking up the family is the unknown, and that really scares him. He would genuinely rather suffer in silence than face the unknown.

Daniel realised Marianne Selkirk was watching him, curiously, her head a little on one side like a bird's. ‘Where's this going, Mr Hood? It wouldn't be that you give lessons in maths and you just happen to have a vacancy?’

Daniel coloured so violently that, outside, he'd have confused low-flying aircraft. ‘That isn't what I was saying. I just wanted…’

Seeing his embarrassment, Marianne thought she'd misjudged him. ‘I'm sorry,’ she smiled. ‘I asked because, if you're willing to tutor Noah, I'd be interested.’

Which was exactly what Daniel had been hoping for. He hadn't expected to feel so humiliated by his success. He didn't know what to do now, what to say.

But the bottom line was the same. He thought the boy needed his help, and this was a way to give it without anyone knowing that Noah himself had made the first move. If that meant being taken for a snake-oil salesman, Daniel didn't suppose that in the grand scheme of things it was too high a price to pay.

Mrs Selkirk was waiting for a response. He'd have to say something. ‘We've been a little at cross-purposes. It's my fault: I have this habit of expecting people to read my mind. No, I wasn't really suggesting that Noah needs a tutor. He's smart, and he gets good teaching at school. I just wanted to encourage him, and you, to see that maths could offer him a good future, to keep it up and keep his options open while he thinks about a career.

‘But if you want to get him extra help, that's not a problem. I used to do a bit of tutoring. If you like, I could come to your house for a couple of hours some evening and let's see if it does any good.’

Marianne Selkirk looked at her son. ‘What do you think?’ But the boy wasn't volunteering an opinion. Perhaps volunteering an opinion wasn't a wise move in the Selkirk household.

The woman smiled back at Daniel. ‘It's a good offer, Mr Hood, and we'd be foolish not to take advantage of it. I'll be going up to town on Monday. Would you be free tonight?’

‘Al Capone,’ observed Detective Inspector Hyde, entirely out of the blue so far as Voss could judge, ‘went down for tax evasion.’

‘Did he?’ said Voss carefully. Caution was his default position when he didn't know where something was leading.

Hyde nodded. ‘The dogs in the street knew he was a gangster, but the authorities couldn't prove it. But they
could
prove he fiddled his income tax.’

Voss supposed there was a moral to the story. ‘Honesty is the best policy?’

Alix Hyde chuckled. ‘Indeed it is, Charlie. And the other thing to remember is, there's more than one way to skin a cat.’

Voss considered. ‘You mean, if we can't get Terry Walsh through the front door we should see if he's left a back window open?’

Hyde liked that. ‘Exactly. It's no use sending the cavalry after him if he's going to see them coming a mile off. But maybe an Indian scout could sneak up behind him without being noticed.’

Voss had seen that film. He remembered what happened to the scout. ‘It could be risky. He's an affable villain, but maybe
only when he's got nothing to worry about. Maybe not so much if he's cornered.’

‘Then we'd better be ready for him,’ said Hyde briskly, ‘because one way or another I intend to corner him. Front door, back window, Indian scout or Inland Revenue, I mean to have his head on my wall.’ She paused a moment, frowning. ‘Where the hell did all these metaphors come from?’

‘A metaphor shower?’ murmured Voss.

Hyde wasn't listening. She was planning. ‘So we can't use Susan Weekes. What
can
we use?’

It needed saying, and Voss was the only one who was going to say it. ‘The one who knows him best is Superintendent Deacon.’

Hyde's jaw rose in a way that, in a man, would have been described as pugnacious. ‘He might know, Charlie, but can we count on him to share his knowledge? I think we're on our own.’

There were drawbacks to working for Deacon. Voss had been warned of every one of them when he drew the short straw. But there were advantages too. The man was a damned good detective, and someone wanting to learn the trade could do worse than watch him closely. And Voss had always felt he knew where he was with Deacon. That he could be relied on. Yes, he could be relied on to shout a lot, and be inventively unpleasant at the least provocation. But also to hold the line between good and evil if it took every ounce of strength and every drop of courage he possessed. He didn't tolerate laziness, sloppiness or lack of commitment in others because he'd have quit the job rather than do it that way himself. No one believed him, but Voss felt privileged to work for someone
who in so many ways – just not in all of them – was an outstanding police officer.

Now, almost for the first time, he wasn't sure where he stood with Deacon. He found it hard to believe the Superintendent was putting a childhood friendship ahead of his duty, but to someone who didn't know him – to Detective Inspector Hyde, for example – it could have looked that way. And Voss felt like a toy they'd been told to share nicely by an adult who had then left the room.

Hyde went on: ‘What I know about Terry Walsh is what's on the record, and if it wasn't enough before there's no reason to suppose it will be now. But you're the local man, Charlie. Everything you've heard about him won't be on the record. It won't seem terribly relevant, some of it – off-the-cuff things Walsh has said, things people have said about him, maybe some things Deacon has said – not even about his activities so much as the man. I can't tell you what I'm looking for because I don't know what there is. But you have an instinct for this job, I know that already. The sort of thing I'm looking for, you'll know it when you see it. Think, Charlie. What can you tell me about Terry Walsh that might give us a way in?’

Voss knew a few things that weren't on the record. The problem was, most of them were to Walsh's credit. When he wasn't being a crime magnate he was a good husband and father, a good employer, a good neighbour. And at least once he'd put himself out to help Deacon in a personal crisis, one man to another. Part of Voss would be sorry when Walsh finally got his comeuppance. Though it wouldn't stop the rest of him joining the celebrations at The Belted Galloway.

He said slowly, ‘There's one thing. A scam Mr Deacon told
me he used to pull when he was starting out.’ And he explained the
doppelgdnger
fraud.

Like Deacon, like Voss himself, Alix Hyde had a struggle to contain her admiration. ‘So he went round selling people their own goods. That was…’

‘Reprehensible,’ said Voss, straight-faced.

‘Yes. Thank you, Charlie, that's exactly the word I was looking for.’ She thought about it. ‘And – in a reprehensible sort of way – witty. I'm not sure how it's going to help us. But one day it may. One day it very well may.’

He was on his way back to his own office when he heard the sudden laugh behind him and turned back, startled, to see Alix Hyde grinning at him. ‘A metaphor shower indeed, Charlie Voss!’