Why in God's name had he blindfolded himself on that ship?

When they had gone climbing he had not dared look down at anything more than twenty feet. Had he worn the blindfold because otherwise he would never have summoned up the courage to jump? But wouldn't his way out have been a different way out. Wouldn't he have chosen some other way that would have frightened him less? And what was so terrible that it couldn't be faced? The term was halfway through – a few more weeks and they would have been together., Impulsive suicide.

It happened to other children. But David? Sane. Normal. Happy.

Happy?

When it happened he was alone – so Brannigan said. Brannigan could be wrong.

If not suicide – then murder?

The phone had been ringing for several minutes before he picked it up.

Jenny's voice. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

If it had to be anybody, then he was glad it was her. "No, I was awake." She said awkwardly, "I just felt I had to say good night to you – and…"

He waited… "Yes?"

"I have time off tomorrow evening – from five onwards.

I shall be at Nelson Street."

"Yes – well, I see… thanks." His mind was confused.

He didn't know what he was saying. By the time he felt ready to speak to her she had put the phone down.

Four

THE NEXT MORNING a cold wind blew in from the sea carrying small flume's of rain. Fleming, who had slept little, killed the two hours between six and eight by walking along the coast road. The morning, sunless, lacked colour. The headland and the sea merged together in a blend of soft greys as if sketched in pencil. Only the wind, sharp with salt, was alive. The wind was believable, cold on his pores, uncomfortable, noisy and boisterous. It teased the sea so that it humped up into waves that broke hissing like snakes on the boulders below.

The Lantern served breakfast from eight onwards in a small dining room opposite the bar. True to its name, wrought iron lanterns flanked the fireplace and one of mullioned glass hung in the centre of the room. Fleming chose a table behind the door where he wouldn't be forced into conversation with any of the other residents. He had bought a local paper on his way in and read it with scant attention while his breakfast was being served. The world with all its problems mattered as little to him as a fly buzzing against a window pane. He didn't give a damn for any of it.

He missed the paragraph at the bottom of page three.

Mr. John Fleming, the father of the child who died tragically at the Maritime Museum, armed at Marristone Port on Sunday. He informed our reporter that he would speak to him at a later stage when he was conversant with all the facts of the case. The autopsy is being carried out today and the inquest will take place on Friday. Mr. Fleming is staying at The Lantern after having spent one night only at Marristone Grange School.

Brannigan read the report aloud across the table to Alison while she poured him his second cup of coffee. The report was innocuous enough apart from the 'one night only' which was stiff with implication.

Her plump cheeks coloured with annoyance. "You brought him here and we did our best to make him welcome. He could have stayed here and had our support. He didn't have to go to The Lantern. He's impossibly belligerent. I think he's halfway out of his mind."

Brannigan said quietly, "Wouldn't you be, if it were your child?"

She conceded the point. "Possibly – yes – if we'd had a child. But I'd contain my feelings. I wouldn't go looking for the worst all the time. I wouldn't line up all the staff of the school and call in a firing squad because one boy played carelessly and fell."

"Or jumped – or was pushed."

"Utter rubbish! You can't believe that."

He was trying his best not to. If he hadn't seen the sketch he would have persuaded himself by now that it was an accident. He wished that Hammond could have seen the sketch. The description of it had far less impact than actually seeing it. Hammond had listened" apparently without emotion. He seemed to have got himself pretty well in hand – or perhaps he was learning the knack of not letting his feelings show. He had agreed to see Fleming at the Maritime Museum with a curt, "All right – if that's what he wants!" but he had taken considerable persuasion to agree to see Lessing. His "You don't get counsel's advice unless you're accused – who the hell is accusing me?" Brannigan had countered with, "Nobody – yet. He's representing the school. I've already explained to you that the school must be represented. I've asked him to come up and have a chat with you here – informally."

Brannigan had contacted Lessing after leaving Fleming at The Lantern the previous evening. Lessing had agreed to come up to the school house at eleven.

There was one matter that Brannigan wanted to see to before Lessing arrived. It was quite likely that the request would be abortive,' but he had to try. He waited until Alison had taken the breakfast things through to the kitchen and then he closed the door so that she wouldn't hear. He dialled Sam Preston's surgery.

Preston was facing the boy's father across the desk when the phone rang. It couldn't have been more inopportune, but at least Fleming couldn't have guessed the identity of the caller. He said brusquely that he would call back.

The sketch was on the desk between them.

The doctor repeated what he had begun to say when the phone rang. "I understand your anxiety. The pathologist will discover if there was sexual assault. He would discover that anyway, without any prompting from me, but I'll get in touch with him this morning if that's what you want."

"That's what I want. When will I know?"

"The report goes straight to the coroner, but in this instance as you're the child's father and next of kin you're entitled to be informed. You'll know later today."

He picked up the sketch again and examined it. If the boy had been assaulted then this sketch was dynamite. A prosecuting counsel using a psychiatrist's professional back-up could blow the school to hell.

He handed the sketch back. "You had professional advice from a psychiatrist at the time?"

"No. What's your medical opinion on it now?"

Preston thought: Lax of you, but lucky for Brannigan. "I'm a general practitioner – not a, shrink. All I can do is to advise you to be open-minded about it until you know one way or another. Don't jump to conclusions. The boy might not have been touched."

"My God – if he has been!"

"Quite. But don't start thinking the worst."

He took out his prescription pad and wrote on it. "Take this to a chemist. They'll make the waiting period more bearable. And they'll help you to sleep."

Fleming returned the sketch to his wallet. He stood up slowly and took the prescription. He wouldn't use it, but it would be churlish to say so. Preston understood. Bloody pills, he thought. Bloody situation. But it was the best he could do. He saw Fleming to the door and then he put the call through to Brannigan.

"If you're about to ask me what I think you're about to ask me – then don't. The findings at the autopsy will be sub judice." Brannigan guessed the situation. "Fleming was with you just now?"

"Yes."

"Obviously he showed you the sketch?"

Preston was silent.

"No comment?"

"I'm sorry."

"So am I – but I had to try."

"Strictly off the record," Preston said, "do you think the pathologist will find anything?"

Brannigan said heavily, "Strictly off the record – I don't know. If it happened then whoever it is isn't likely to go up on the roof-top and shout mea culpa. The sketch worries me as much as it worries Fleming – are we both exaggerating its importance?"