either don’t care, don’t have the time, the energy or the vision to look any further than that wart on the end of your nose for answers to my relatives’ disappearances. So why don’t you go back to your comfy little office, shuffle some paperwork and leave the search for answers to someone who gives a shit? Next time you want to speak to me you can drive out to Dymchurch.’
I did get up then. Let him see my height and resent me for it. I shot a dirty look at Cash – I had thought she’d been OK. I always had been a lousy judge of women – and walked for the door.
‘Got quite a temper on you still, I see, Mr Booker,’ said Sprake, not moving.
I stopped and turned to face him. I noticed Cash push herself upright from the wall.
‘What was that?’
He tapped the file on the desk in front of him. ‘Actual Bodily Harm it says in here. Your employers know about that, do they? I didn’t think there was a school anywhere that took on teachers with criminal records. Maybe Turkey just hasn’t caught up with the rest of the civilised world, yet. Maybe I’ll give them a ring and ask.’ He smiled nastily at me.
I bit my tongue, hated him and left.
I wanted to slam the door behind me. I wanted to kick a hole in the plasterboard corridor wall. I wanted to punch the first face that looked at me.
I walked out into the fresh air and with a couple of deep lung-cleansing ins and outs swapped it for the fetid foul gas I’d been breathing for the last twenty minutes.
Well, if the police weren’t interested in finding out what really happened to my relatives I was. And my reasons had nothing to do with acquitting myself from any half-baked suspicions of some lazy bastard detective who wasn’t worthy of his office. One thing I did know: Sprake couldn’t have been even half-sure of himself. He’d let me go.
***
11
I drove home the longer, less busy way – the same way Detective Cash had driven me home the previous day.
Opposite the Hotel Imperial in Hythe I pulled off the road into a parking area with access to the beach. The sun had finally broken through and it was almost warm.
I crunched over to the shingle shoreline for a smoke and a stare at the great heaving mass of secrets in front of me. Now the sea kept secrets from me. I waited and watched and listened.
The greater the distance of time and space I put between the police and me the calmer and more rational I became. I needed to be. I needed to be thinking clearly. Anger and aggression wouldn’t be any help.
I smoked two cigarettes, got nowhere with my thinking, went back to the car and drove slowly home.
*
I was making a sandwich when my mobile rang. It was Detective Cash. I was tempted to ignore her but rose above that childish inclination.
‘Yes.’ I tried injecting my disappointment, resentment and sense of betrayal into the single syllable.
She wasn’t interested in my feelings. ‘Mr Booker?’ Who did she expect it to be?
‘Yes.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘Yes.’ I was conscious of being monotonous and monosyllabic.
‘Can you come downstairs and let us in then, please?’
That got me. Still holding the phone to my ear I crossed to the kitchen window. In the otherwise deserted car park and at the entrance to the back gate two vehicles were parked: a white panel van and the car Cash drove around in. She was standing looking up at me, phone held to her ear. There were three bodies suiting up in the white coveralls of Scenes of Crime Officers. She saved me the question.
‘I have a warrant to search these premises.’
I didn’t respond. I terminated the call and, trailing my outrage and anger behind me, went down to let them in. I unlocked the back door and went through it to stand on the pea-beach. I heard car doors opening and closing, men talking in low voices then pairs of feet crunching across the gravel. Anonymous figures carrying little cases and bags traipsed past me without making eye contact. They
I did get up then. Let him see my height and resent me for it. I shot a dirty look at Cash – I had thought she’d been OK. I always had been a lousy judge of women – and walked for the door.
‘Got quite a temper on you still, I see, Mr Booker,’ said Sprake, not moving.
I stopped and turned to face him. I noticed Cash push herself upright from the wall.
‘What was that?’
He tapped the file on the desk in front of him. ‘Actual Bodily Harm it says in here. Your employers know about that, do they? I didn’t think there was a school anywhere that took on teachers with criminal records. Maybe Turkey just hasn’t caught up with the rest of the civilised world, yet. Maybe I’ll give them a ring and ask.’ He smiled nastily at me.
I bit my tongue, hated him and left.
I wanted to slam the door behind me. I wanted to kick a hole in the plasterboard corridor wall. I wanted to punch the first face that looked at me.
I walked out into the fresh air and with a couple of deep lung-cleansing ins and outs swapped it for the fetid foul gas I’d been breathing for the last twenty minutes.
Well, if the police weren’t interested in finding out what really happened to my relatives I was. And my reasons had nothing to do with acquitting myself from any half-baked suspicions of some lazy bastard detective who wasn’t worthy of his office. One thing I did know: Sprake couldn’t have been even half-sure of himself. He’d let me go.
***
11
I drove home the longer, less busy way – the same way Detective Cash had driven me home the previous day.
Opposite the Hotel Imperial in Hythe I pulled off the road into a parking area with access to the beach. The sun had finally broken through and it was almost warm.
I crunched over to the shingle shoreline for a smoke and a stare at the great heaving mass of secrets in front of me. Now the sea kept secrets from me. I waited and watched and listened.
The greater the distance of time and space I put between the police and me the calmer and more rational I became. I needed to be. I needed to be thinking clearly. Anger and aggression wouldn’t be any help.
I smoked two cigarettes, got nowhere with my thinking, went back to the car and drove slowly home.
*
I was making a sandwich when my mobile rang. It was Detective Cash. I was tempted to ignore her but rose above that childish inclination.
‘Yes.’ I tried injecting my disappointment, resentment and sense of betrayal into the single syllable.
She wasn’t interested in my feelings. ‘Mr Booker?’ Who did she expect it to be?
‘Yes.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘Yes.’ I was conscious of being monotonous and monosyllabic.
‘Can you come downstairs and let us in then, please?’
That got me. Still holding the phone to my ear I crossed to the kitchen window. In the otherwise deserted car park and at the entrance to the back gate two vehicles were parked: a white panel van and the car Cash drove around in. She was standing looking up at me, phone held to her ear. There were three bodies suiting up in the white coveralls of Scenes of Crime Officers. She saved me the question.
‘I have a warrant to search these premises.’
I didn’t respond. I terminated the call and, trailing my outrage and anger behind me, went down to let them in. I unlocked the back door and went through it to stand on the pea-beach. I heard car doors opening and closing, men talking in low voices then pairs of feet crunching across the gravel. Anonymous figures carrying little cases and bags traipsed past me without making eye contact. They
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