Now, finally, Claire wanted to go back to work; it would give her a chance to keep an eye on Lorna, but James explained in his irascible manner that they had cover booked for the rest of the term – ‘We just went on your sick note, Claire’ – and she’d have to come back in January. She stopped herself from asking about Lorna. She’d stopped calling PC Jones too. When she’d finally got through, he’d explained there was nothing he could do or tell her about Mr Pryce, his patient, friendliness now clipped. ‘In fact,’ he’d said, ‘if it’s the Mervyn Pryce I’m thinking of, he actually does a lot of community work.’
She’d pushed it too far with Lorna, she knew that now. Talking about calling the police! Stupid. And not even accurate; even if she did call the police properly, what would she have to tell them? Nothing concrete. And Lorna was too scared and confused to tell them anything herself. No. Do what you said you were going to do, stay vigilant, try to win her trust back. And so Claire kept an eye on the court notices, re-read her notes on Mervyn Pryce and Pete, searching them for something, anything, she might have missed. Something that could make PC Jones take her seriously. Something that could save Lorna. And then, one day, she found something:
This Weekend 1.5km Children’s Christmas Fun Run!
With a route around the Arboretum Park, the 1.5km fun run is a great way to get the kids active, and for a good cause too! Children aged nine and over can run it alone, but those eight years and under must run with an adult. Our marshals will cheer you on and entertain you with their fancy dress the whole way round, and there’s even a free ice lolly waiting for you at the finish line! All proceeds will go directly to Grove House Hospice.
And there was a picture of Mervyn Pryce dressed as Santa, proudly wearing a marshal sash, giving the thumbs up to the camera. Children were clustered around him. One ape-like arm was draped over a girl’s shoulders.
Claire shuddered, printed out the page and folded it neatly into her notebook.
* * *
Claire arrived at the Arboretum the next morning, and made her way through the swathe of seedy-looking Santas, decked out in cheap polyester costumes and itchy beards. A turbulent sky threatened rain, but the local radio station was there, broadcasting Christmas songs, and everyone seemed of good cheer. Quite a good turnout, too, for this town. Merry-looking elves and overweight fairies carried collection buckets, and the whoops and cheers of the radio DJ and the overexcited children lent it a carnival atmosphere. Everyone was happy, it seemed. Except for Claire, scanning the crowd anxiously for Mervyn Pryce.
She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for – just, something. Something that looked strange. Something disturbing. Something that perhaps only Claire, with her honed instincts and practised gaze, would be able to see for what it was. A child held too tight, perhaps a wandering hand. A marshal, he was a marshal. That meant that he’d be along the race route, or at the finish line. Start at the end of the route, Claire, where it’s less crowded. Walk slowly, and you’ll see him. You’re bound to.
She stalked around the perimeter of the track, feeling foolish and exposed. She should have brought Johnny with her, then she would at least look as if she belonged in the park. Children ambled past her; some of them she recognised, and she hung her head so as not to catch their eyes. Go home Claire. This is stupid, go home. But there was that nagging feeling, she would see something, something useful, something concrete . . . just a little longer, just until she saw Mervyn Pryce.
And then she did see him, dressed as Santa, but with the beard pulled down, holding a can of energy drink and laughing, joking with someone. Who? I know that person. Mervyn laughed loudly, and the man with him put his hand on his shoulder. He said . . . what was he saying? He said: ‘I know! She’s—’
And then a shambling mass of children and sweaty dads jogged by, and she couldn't hear anything else, but she could see them, both of the men, very clearly. Mervyn Pryce was with PC Jones. They knew each other. They were friends.
Claire’s chest contracted, she turned away, and walked swiftly back to the finish line. Maybe they weren’t friends. Maybe, maybe they were acquaintances, or they’d just met. But no, no, they seemed close, pally. They were joking with each other. Joking about a woman. Some silly, annoying woman who wouldn’t go away . . .
She broke into an awkward run and arrived, panting, at her car; fumbling with the keys, she slumped breathlessly into the driver’s seat. They’d been talking about her. Don’t be paranoid, Claire! You don’t know . . . No. I don’t know. I feel it though. It all makes sense! How unhelpful PC Jones had been, how uninterested in her concerns, and how cold and officious he’d become when she’d mentioned Mervyn’s name. At the time, she’d thought it was because she was asking him to breach protocol, give her privileged information, but now she realised that, no. No, it wasn’t that. He’d been protecting Mervyn Pryce. And if he was protecting him, there had to be a reason why.
All those news reports of children being groomed, being abused. All the intimations and accusations that those in authority knew, that they did nothing, that they were even complicit. You couldn’t turn on the TV or listen to the radio without coming across yet another terrible tale, historical abuse, the appalling lapses of social services, a generation of children broken, abandoned.
You’re being silly, Claire. You’re getting carried away.
I don’t know. I don’t think I am.
Well what can you do, Claire?
I don’t know! I don’t know. Something. I have to do something.
* * *