CHAPTER 3
Anna went to the washroom and splashed cold water over her face. By the time she returned to the incident room, the team had gathered. They were waiting for Cunningham to join them. After a few minutes, she strode into the room and took up position in front of the board. She seemed on edge."Okay, let's have quiet, please," she said loudly. Everyone became attentive. Cunningham folded her arms: a noticeable gesture, though one she did almost unconsciously. "Right, we have a really explosive situation on our hands, as well as a tragic one."Cunningham, in her low, cultured voice, seemed angry at the wait for the forensic and pathology reports. They had no details on any of the suspected dealers, so the hope was they would get results from the fingerprints taken from the flat. They still had no formal identification of their victim but, as the wallet had contained his ID card, they were presuming it to be ex-Detective Inspector Frank Brandon. His fingerprints, which would have been held on file, were being checked against the body. Whether he was on drugs would only be known when the labs were through testing.Cunningham took out a packet of Polo mints, unwrapped the roll, and took her time, carefully selecting one and sucking it, before she spoke again. "Why was our victim there? To score—or was he working for someone else? He was ex-Drug Squad, so would have many contacts, though, so far, we have not got any details of them, nor do we know if he contacted any of his old buddies. He was there for a reason and we need to find out exacdy what that was."Anna said nothing, doodling on her notepad. It seemed to her to be obvious that the reason had to be drugs.Cunningham continued. "I want you all back to the estate. I want everyone reinterviewed, as we need something, anything, to give us a clue to the identity of these thugs. All we know is that at around three o'clock in the morning, an argument broke out, shots were fired, Mrs. Webster called the police, and, after the call, she heard a further three or four shots. This brings us to the ballistic report; they hasten to add it is a very rushed job, but I put them under pressure. Two guns were used."Cunningham opened her notebook and detailed how many gunshot wounds the victim had sustained. The first shots were fired through the door; this was then opened, to fire more shots into his head and neck.Anna leaned forward; she was confused. Two weapons? If gunshots had been fired into Frank's chest, they would have brought him to his knees; yet she was certain she had seen fine blood spattering on the wall behind the victim, high up, as if he had been shot in the face and head area first, before the chest. She made a note to question the forensic officer she had seen at the scene of crime.Ballistics were confirming the make of weapon, but had already suggested they were automatics; in other words, handheld weapons. If two guns were fired, that possibly meant two shooters, but they still had no confirmation how many drug dealers were in the squat; there could have been three or four."Right now," Cunningham went on, "we don't have the faintest idea who we are looking for. The men seen by the tenants all fit the same description: gray anoraks with hoods drawn up over their heads, so we can't even ascertain their age, never mind their ethnic origin. These shooters, or drug dealers, also had various vehicles—BM Ws, motorbikes—but, as yet, we have no details. The tenants stated they saw numerous can parked outside, as well as cars turning up all night to score. The dealers had been living in this squat for almost three months. That's three months of complaints by residents and yet nothing seems to have been done to clear the animals away. We have various statements from the local plods saying they made plenty of visits to the squat but carried out no arrests! I want every report checked over and all the officers on these call-outs questioned."Cunningham folded her arms again. "Right, I said at the opening of this briefing that we have an explosive situation. We do. We have an ex-officer down and we have a drug dealers' squat that appears to have been left to get on with its business without harassment. Do you understand what I am saying? Let's take away the scenario of tough street kids dealing and, instead, make it a much bigger operation that might have been paying backhanders to officers to keep afloat."She glared around the room. "The weapons used were not the type handled by street kids. Our call-out lady, Mrs. Webster, describes the sounds as loud pops; that means they were using silencers. Ballistics have said that a Clock with a silencer could have been used. Street kids? No way."Anna sighed, her notepad full of doodles and drawings of guns. To her mind, street kids could easily get access to this type of weapon; if they were dealing, they would have bags of cash. It was at this point that her mobile rang.She patted her pockets hastily as everyone turned to face her. "Sorry, excuse me.""I hope that isn't personal.""Do you mind if I go to my office?" She hurriedly made her way outside and into her own small room.It was DS Harry Blunt. "Travis?""Yes, Harry. Listen, thanks for calling me back.""That's okay. What can I do for you?""I just needed to ask you—""Where are you?""I'm on a case in Chalk Farm.""That's not bad. That schlep we had to go out to, that murder in Epping Forest, was a bastard. I'm in Dulwich—woman's knifed her old man with an electric meat cutter. You tell me how she can claim it's a fucking accident—she had to plug it in! I've got one for the Sunday joint, and there is no way—""Harry," she interrupted him. She had almost forgotten the way he had rambled on when they had worked together. Blunt by name and blunt by nature, he was hardly ever known to draw breath. "I don't have much rime.""Have you heard about Jimmy? Superintendent now—very high up. Is he on your case?""No, it's a DCI Cunningham.""Oh, her. The bull dyke. You watch she doesn't come on to you.""Thank you for that advice, Harry, but 1 didn't call about her; it's about the victim in our case.""Right, but word of warning: you watch out for her. In my opinion, she's full of hot air. Working with her after Langton should be a breeze." He laughed."Harry, listen to me. What do you know about Frank Brandon?""Frank? I know he retired early. Was on some case, running after some bastard, and fell. Got a rusty screw through his kneecap—fucked him over and so he got out." There was a pause. She could almost feel the wheels turning in Harry's square head. "Why you asking about Frank?""Well, it's not been formally ... I mean, we have no formal ID, but we think our victim is Frank Brandon.""What?""They are running tests on his prints. I couldn't be sure as he had taken some shots to his face and ... Harry?""You think it was Frank?""We can't be sure, but he had a wallet with Frank's ID in it.""Shit! The poor flicker! Gets out for an easy life and .. .You really think it's him?""I hope it isn't, but was he married?""I dunno; he used to play around with a lot of women.""When did you last see him?""More than a year ago; we had drinks before he left.""Was he on any kind of drugs?""I dunno. Maybe painkillers—his knee was smashed.""He used to be Drug Squad, didn't he?""Yeah, I think so—long time back, though. What happened?""He was found shot in a drug squat in Chalk Farm.""Fuck me.That's terrible.""Do you know what work he was doing after he left the force?""No, never saw him again. Wait a minute—1 did see him once, for a few minutes on Tottenham Court Road. I dunno what work he was actually doing, but he was driving a very flash Merc. Maybe he got work as a driver or bodyguard?""Thank you, Harry. I've got to go now.""Okay. I hope it's not him; he was a good bloke.""Yes, I hope so too. Bye now." Anna closed her mobile. By the rime she got back to the incident room, the briefing had broken up.Cordon approached her. "I'm off home now. We are to go back to the estate first thing in the morning."She nodded, irritated that she seemed to be paired up with him. "See you then.""You coming to the pub for a drink? Sort of to get to know everyone?""No, I have things to do at home. See you in the morning."Anna went to Cunningham's office and knocked. She waited for her to answer before entering. "Sorry about the interruption in the briefing." Anna explained that, in the hope of finding out more about Frank Brandon, she had contacted Harry Blunt.Cunningham, on hearing his name, gave a derisive snort. "That bigoted buffoon! Can't stand him."Nevertheless, Anna explained how Harry thought Frank might be working as a driver or bodyguard; he also doubted that Frank was using drugs, and recalled that Frank had once worked with the Drug Squad.Cunningham snapped that they knew that; then she tipped back in her chair. "He's been formally identified by his prints, Anna; it's just co
me in. Right now we don't have an address, but that should be through soon enough." Her desk phone rang.Anna gestured that she would leave."No. Stay put. DCI Cunningham? Terrific—yes, yes, thank you." She pointed to ajar of pencils.Anna picked one up and passed it to her, then watched as the DCI listened, jotting down notes.She finished the call and replaced the receiver. "Frank Brandon married a Miss Julia Kendal five months ago. She has two children from a previous relationship. We'd better go and see her."Anna nodded, though she was eager to get home. It was already after six, and the thought of all the unpacking she would have to do made her head ache. She would have liked to have gone in her own car, but Cunningham had insisted they ride together in a patrol car with a driver."This isn't a social visit, Travis!"Anna said nothing, doubting that Cunningham, she of the folded arms and classy voice, would be able to give much compassion to the poor woman they were going to visit.Anna was surprised by the house in Wimbledon. It was set back from the common, with pillared front steps up to a large oak studded door: modern, but expensive and quite tasteful. The carport had a Range Rover parked, leaving space enough for a second car. Anna could not imagine Frank Brandon here, but then she had never seen where he had lived as a bachelor.Cunningham took a deep breath. "Christ, I hate these meetings." She rang the doorbell and stepped back, almost onto Anna's feet. "Frank seems to have been doing all right, though: this must be worth about three mil at least."A Chinese girl opened the door."Mrs. Brandon, please," Cunningham said.The girl hesitated. "One moment, please." Her English was good."Who is it, Mai Ling?" another woman asked from inside."Will you please tell Mrs. Brandon that I am from the police," Cunningham said."I need to speak with her on a very urgent matter."The door was swung wider and a very attractive blonde in a chic dress and high heels appeared. "Is it about Frank? I've been worried sick.""Are you Mrs. Brandon?" Cunningham asked quietly."Yes, do you want to come in?""Please."They went into a spacious hall with a wide staircase. It was thickly and newly carpeted in a pale oyster; there was also the faint smell of fresh paint."I've been calling him all day," Mrs. Brandon said as she led them into a big family room. Again, there was a new carpet, and some of the furniture still had bubble wrapping around it." You'll have to excuse the mess. We only moved in fairly recently."Cunningham nodded and introduced Anna.Mrs. Brandon knew then, by how quiet they were, that something was wrong. She touched a gold chain at her neck as she perched on one of the new easy chairs. "Something has happened, hasn't it?""I am sorry, but I have some distressing news. There is no easy way to tell you this, but I am afraid your husband has been fatally wounded."Julia just seemed to sag, her head leaning forward. "Ah, no.""We will need you to give us a formal identification.""What happened?""He was shot.""Shot?""Yes. I am very sorry. It happened sometime early this morning.""He's dead?""Yes. Do you know what he was doing last night?"At this point, Julia lost control; she slid forward as she vomited over her new carpet.It took them some time to help her up, and get Mai Ling back to clean up the mess Julia didn't cry, but seemed to be in a daze, as she was helped to lie down and a cold cloth was put on her forehead. Cunningham sat close to her, and asked the girl to call Julia's doctor.By the time the doctor arrived, an ashen-faced Julia was holding on to Cunningham's hand. She had not said a word since she had collapsed. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and even her mouth seemed to have lost its color. As soon as the doctor went to her side, she closed her eyes. Cunningham had to ease Julia's fingers away; her grip had been so tight, it left white marks on her skin. Julia was in a state of shock and the doctor said he would give her something to help her sleep.While Cunningham remained with Julia and the doctor, Anna busied herself, helping to clear up. The bright, happy family kitchen was full of children's toys and games, all so new and pristine. There were many photographs of the two little sisters as babies, then toddlers; there were also numerous wedding pictures of Frank with Julia, and the girlsas bridesmaids, as there were in the lounge. It was hard for Anna to reconcile the Frank she had known with this proud and happy man in a pale suit and a pink silk tie.Mai Ling, who had come down from putting the girls to bed, was placing the children's dishes into the dishwasher."How long have you worked for Mrs. Brandon?" Anna asked her. "One year, six months. I have a work permit." "I'm sure you do. Do you understand the reason we are here this evening?" "No.""Mrs. Brandon's husband has been found dead." The face remained impassive. "How did you get along with Mr. Brandon?" "He is a very nice man.""Did you work for Mrs. Brandon before their marriage?" "Yes.""Was she married before?""She had partner.""But they weren't married?""I don't know; he was much older.""Is this house Mrs. Brandon's?""Yes, she buy this house; we move in not long ago.""After her marriage?""Yes.""Do you know what work Mr. Brandon did?""No. He go out early; sometimes come home very late.""But you don't know who he worked for?""No.""So—the children are in bed?""Yes, we have tea and then I take them up for bath and bedtime." Anna picked up the photograph of Mrs. Brandon and the two pretty girls. "They are lovely. They were from Mrs. Brandon's previous relationship?" "I think so.""What are their names?""Emily and Cathy.""Does Mrs. Brandon work?""No, she at home." Mai Ling turned the dishwasher on. "He had a heart attack?"Anna cocked her head to one side."Mr. Brandon? He has a gym upstairs and he work out every morning." The girl opened a cupboard to put away the jams from the table. It was filled with vitamins and health drinks. "He very fit man; he take all these with fresh orange juice."Anna looked over the mass of jars and health-food supplements and shook her head. "No. It wasn't a heart attack. Thank you for talking to me."Anna turned to walk out of the kitchen. From the array of vitamins, it was doubtful Frank would also have been pumping himself with drugs. She remembered how he was always working out; she recalled his massive shoulders and the overwhelming cologne he had always used. She was jolted out of it by the sound of the girl sobbing, sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands."Let's go." Anna jumped as Cunningham tapped her shoulder. "We'll need to come back and talk to the wife. She can't string two words together right now."They returned to the patrol car.Cunningham yawned. "What do you make of all that?" she said, not looking at Anna."Well, it's a very nice house; they only moved in after they were married. I think she has the money. She doesn't work, and that place must have cost a fortune to furnish. From what I could gather from the au pair, Mrs. Brandon's last partner was older—maybe he had the money originally. She didn't know what work Frank Brandon did; she just said he left early and often came home late. He also has a cupboard full of vitamins. It didn't look as if he was spoiling all that with drugs.""I know someone who works out and takes speed every morning, so you can never tell." Cunningham tapped the driver to tell him to take her home, not back to the station. She then settled back and took out her BlackBerry, checking e-mails all the way to her home in Belsize Park, ignoring Anna.
By the time Anna had collected her Mini from the station car park and driven home, it was half-past nine. She had not eaten since the sandwich before the briefing, so dropped into a late-night shop on the way. Anna parked in her allocated space, then took the lift up to the top floor. Stepping out, she could hardly believe her eyes.
Stacked up outside her front door were boxes and boxes of deliveries. Attached to the top one was a note, saying they had been unable to gain access, but that the security manager had agreed the items could be left. She wanted to weep.
It was another half hour before she had dragged everything in from the hallway into the flat. She was too tired to begin unpacking and just wanted a hot shower and something to eat. She heated some soup and filled the fresh rolls she had bought with ham and cheese, then carried them into the bedroom. It would have been lovely to flop down on her bed and switch on the TV before crashing out, but the large plasma screen sat ominously in the drawing room, waiting to be connected. Wherever she looked were boxes; she knew there was no way she could start the marathon task that evening. She half wished she was back at her old flat.
It got worse: there was no hot water. No matter how much she fiddled and twisted the dia
l, it remained icy cold. By this time, it was almost eleven-fifteen, too late to call the duty security manager.
Anna had just closed her eyes when a foghorn bellowed. She shot up. It felt as if, her bed was being shaken by an earthquake. She opened the balcony window doors. It was terrifying; the whole apartment seemed to be moving. Anna's mouth gaped open: the massive bridge was closing, which was why the apartment was shuddering. As soon as both sides joined, and it reverted back to its usual position, the apartment became still.
"Jesus Christ," she muttered, wondering if anyone else had felt it. Surely they must have, but she saw no one else on their balconies. As she returned to her bedroom, she knocked against one of the boxes, stubbing her toe. Back in bed, she bashed her pillow, but sleep didn't come easily; she was waiting for another foghorn blast. It was her alarm that eventually woke her. She felt like hell. She was going to give it to the security manager.Anna was still in a foul mood when she tried to get out of the garage. It didn't respond to her remote. She was swearing and cursing, when it opened of its own accord; she drove out and pressed for it to close, but it remained open. Even after she had had her breakfast in her cubicle of an office, she was still uptight. She typed up her report of the meeting with Julia Brandon and then put in a call to the security manager. His answer phone was on.Gordon was not a morning person; he yawned so many times, it felt contagious. Cunningham had underlined that they were to question every single tenant on the estate, as one or another could have details or descriptions of the drug dealers. He didn't understand why they had such an early start. Anna pointed out that many of the residents went to work; the few they had not yet spoken to would still be at home, she hoped. It was to be another tedious round of knocking on doors and questioning the neighbors. Also, as instructed, they were to interview Mrs. Webster's son.Gordon remained silent while Anna did all the inquiries. She was so irritated by his constant yawning that she snapped, "Did you have a late night or something? You seem half asleep.""No, I crashed out early, but I shouldn't have eaten so much breakfast. It always makes me sleepy—well, that's what my mother says.""Well, in future, do you think you could just listen to what your mother says and maybe have a bowl of cereal?""I hate cereal, all that chewing. I like scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes.""Gordon, I don't want to know.""Sorry."They went from floor to floor on the estate. This was usually a uniform job but, considering the seriousness of the crime, Cunningham had felt a show of rank worthwhile. It wasn't. Some tenants were still not at home, and most of their inquiries were carried out on the doorstep. Anna was feeling that it was all a waste of time. She had been inundated with the same complaints about the state of the building, and how many tenants had been waiting years to be rehoused.Anna had left Mrs. Webster until last. Knowing the situation with her son, she had called to ask for a convenient time. Mrs. Webster had said that Jeremy would talk to them, but they had to interview him in his room. Anna felt this would be another real time-waster, but far be it from her to put a foot wrong with Cunningham.Mrs. Webster was as neat and smart as she had been on the previous visit. Anna and Gordon waited in the hall as she tapped on her son's bedroom door and then went in. They waited three or four minutes before she came out and said they could now see Jeremy.Anna walked in ahead of Gordon—and could hardly contain her surprise.The room was quite spacious; shelves of DVDs were built around a large desk with a computer and small TV set on it. The speakers and DVD deck were stacked on top of one another next to some expensive-looking sound equipment. The walls were lined with tapes and records, all in alphabetical order. There were many magazines, neatly placed beside the desk. The small bed was made in a military style: folded top blanket, white sheet wrapped around, with two inches showing, and a pristine white pillow on top. There was a desk chair, and two spare canvas chairs propped against a wall. The carpet was dark blue and what space 011 the walls was not taken up with his collections was pristine white paint. Just as Anna was taken aback by the clinical room, in complete contrast to the rest of the flat, Jeremy himself was also something of a surprise.He was extraordinarily good-looking. He had blond hair, well cut with a long top layer, and bright blue eyes with dark lashes; his cheeks were pinkish, almost like a child's. He was wearing slacks, a white shirt, leather slippers, and a blue knitted sweater. He had the appearance of someone scrubbed clean, almost too much so."Jeremy, I am Detective Inspector Anna Travis and this is Detective Constable Gordon Loach. Thank you for agreeing to see us."Jeremy stared at Anna but made no move toward them."May we sit down?" Anna moved to the bed.Jeremy stepped forward. "Not on my bed." He took the wo canvas chairs and carefully opened one, setting it down straight, and then the next, making sure they were exactly side by side."Thank you." Anna and Gordon sat down, and she took out her notebook from her briefcase. Jeremy stood directly in front of them. "Now, Jeremy, 1 am here to ask you about an incident that happened the night before last. Do you mind answering some questions?"He nodded his head but remained standing, staring at them."Your mother contacted the local police station after hearing what she thought were gunshots and loud voices arguing. Do you remember that night?"No reaction."We have subsequently discovered that a man had been shot."No reaction."I am here just to confirm that and check out the time the shots were fired."No reaction."Do you recall anything that might be of interest to the police?"No reaction."Have you ever seen the people who were using the flat along the corridor? It's number nineteen."No reaction. If he was taking in anything she was saying, there was not a flicker of interest in his bright button eyes. His presence was very unnerving, as he was standing so still, looking at a point just above their heads. Anna closed her notebook."Would you like a cup of tea?" His voice was low and guttural."Thank you but no, we won't keep you any longer, Jeremy.""I don't like to be called that.""I'm sorry, Mr. Webster.""Jay.""Oh, Jay. Well, I am sorry to have taken up your rime. I know you work two mornings a week at Waitrose. You clear the trolleys, don't you?"No reply."Shall we put the chairs back against the wall for you?" "Have you finished?" he asked.Anna looked to Gordon and then back to Jeremy's impassive face. "I think so."He almost whipped the chairs from under them both, folding and replacing them against the wall. Gordon raised his eyebrows at Anna as Jeremy took a long time making sure they were exactly on top of each other."Thank you, Jay." Anna put out her hand, but he didn't touch it. He stepped back a fraction and turned to face his desk."Well, we will leave you to it." Anna crossed to the door and Gordon followed.On a large sheet of paper, pinned behind the door and therefore not seen when they had entered, was a handwritten list of dates and times, printed in different inks and highlighted with a marker pen."What are these, Jay?""Visitors," he said."I don't understand. Visitors to you, or ...""They do not have residents' parking tickets. It is against the law to park in the forecourt without a residents' parking permit."Anna glanced at Gordon and back to Jeremy, who had now turned to face them. His cheeks seemed even pinker, as if he was using rouge."You have been monitoring illegal cars parked, is that correct?""Yes.""And how do you know about these cars?""Window, of course.""Your window?""Yes.""May I see out from your window, Jay?""Yes."Anna passed him and went to the window. She lifted the slats of the pristine white blind. The window looked out onto the lockup garages at the rear of the estate. She let the slats slip back into place."I also monitor the vehicles illegally parked at the front on the days I work at Waitrose. I collect the trolleys and stack them and replace them in a long line outside the main entrance. People leave their trolleys by the side of their cars when they unload groceries, and they are not supposed to do that. They are supposed to replace them outside the entrance, but they don't. I have to collect each one and I make a line of them to wheel them back. Sometimes, I have found our trolleys outside on the road; that's when people have not parked in the Waitrose car park but on the street. I collect them and take them back to the entrance."He spoke in short, sharp sentences with a low, controlled anger."Jay, just let me understand: are these dates of people parking illegally at Waitrose or here on your
estate?""This is a residents' parking area. You have to have a permit.""Yes, I understand that, but these times and dates are from your estate and not Waitrose, is that correct?""Yes."Anna could hardly believe it. "l don't suppose you listed any license-plate numbers, did you, Jay?""I have them.""You have the license-plate numbers of these cars?""Yes. You don't listen to what I am saying. I am a resident and these people have no right to park illegally and so I am monitoring them.""For how long?""A long rime."Anna took a deep breath and smiled. "Do you think Jay, that you could pass these license-plate numbers to me? As a police officer, I can do something about them being illegally parked in the residents' bays."He chewed his lip."I could make sure they don't block any residents' bays for you.""That would be good, because sometimes when my care worker comes here to see me, she can't find a space; one rime she got a ticket because she had to park across the street on a yellow line.""Well, let's get this all written down then, shall we? Do you have the numbers?""Yes. Please do nor silt on my bed."Anna straightened and waited as Jeremy replaced the two chairs.Again, she and Gordon sat side by side, but this time Jeremy drew out his desk chair and sat down too. He swiveled to face them. Anna took out her notebook again and gave an encouraging look, expecting him to open one of the drawers, but he remained facing them."Are you ready?" he asked."Yes, Jay, we are ready. Do you need your lists from there?""No, they are not the license plates; they are the dates and times they blocked the residents' parking area. I started doing this when they boarded up the flats along the corridor.""Right, could you pass me the relevant license plates and, if they match the dates ...""Are you ready?" he repeated."Yes. Yes, Jay, we are very eager to—"It was as if a key had been turned at the side of his head. Without hesitation, he began to list the car-registration numbers from memory. Over and over again, Anna had to ask him to pause, as she couldn't keep up. He was able to describe the make and color of the cars as well. Gordon was writing in his notepad too, but Jeremy spoke so quickly, as if on automatic pilot; sometimes, when they asked him to pause, it took a while for him to pick up where he had left off", but he continued reeling out registration after registration.Anna said nothing to Gordon until they were on their way back to the station. Then: "Do you believe that?"Gordon shrugged. "Did you ever see the film Rain Man, with Dustin Hoffman?"Anna nodded."What makes a mind able to recall all those numbers, and yet he can only work pushing grocery trolleys around?" Gordon shook his head. "Look at the way he keeps his room.""Obsessive-compulsive syndrome. Heartbreaking really; he's such a handsome young man.""Yeah, his mother keeps him well turned out, doesn't she? I mean, he was immaculate: hair cut, trousers creased, even his shoes were polished. You don't think all those car numbers were just his nuttiness, do you?""1 hope not." Anna sighed. "We've got pages of figures and dates. Let's hope something comes of them."Jeremy was still cleaning his room. He used Febreze on the canvas chairs, wiping the wooden arms down. He then wiped the window blind, especially where Anna had lifted it. He took out his own small Hoover to check over the carpet. Then he stripped naked and folded his clothes into his personal laundry basket. He showered and scrubbed his body, washed his hair, and made sure his nails were clean. He then carefully got dressed. No one but his care worker was ever allowed into his room; his mother only stepped inside to pass him his meals, and to clear away his tray.Mrs. Webster tapped on his door. "You ready for lunch, Jeremy?""Yes.""Everything go all right? They were with you for a long rime.""Yes.""Were you able to help them at all?""I'm hungry.""Won't be two ricks."He ate grilled chicken, broccoli, mashed potatoes and gravy every day followed by fresh fruit. By the time she brought his tray, he was waiting just inside the door. He took it without a word and ate at his desk, keeping all the food as separate as possible, chewing each mouthful carefully. When she came to collect the tray, he was still sitting there, his plate empty, his cutlery placed neatly together."That was very nice," he said."Good." As she bent forward for the tray, she could smell Pears soap, the only soap he would ever use. His shampoo was a brand for children, so it would not burn his eyes when he washed his hair. His freshness never ceased to move her. When she leaned forward to pick up his tray, she was close enough to touch the soft peach cheeks that she had longed for years to kiss, but was never allowed to.
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