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another way of living. He made a few notes about what he had learned and found the details Sheila had given him for Teddy’s form teacher. He phoned Fairacres School and asked if Deaven Harrow still worked there. He was told by the icy-sounding receptionist that Mr Harrow was the head teacher. Swift explained the reason for his call and asked to make an appointment to see Mr Harrow. The receptionist said it seemed an irregular query and Mr Harrow was a very busy man. Swift advised that he would call the query unusual rather than irregular and added that he too was a busy man. The receptionist said she would consult Mr Harrow’s diary but it could be weeks before an appointment might be available and perhaps Swift would prefer to send an email. Swift asked her for her name, then inserted a chip of ice into his own voice and told her that he wanted to see Mr Harrow in person. Presumably the head would wish to be as helpful as possible regarding what had been a tragic episode for one of their pupils and his family. There was a brief silence, then a request for him to hold. He walked around with the phone, bending and stretching. The afternoon was mild and the river beckoned. The receptionist returned, her tone slightly less arctic, and offered a half hour appointment at four on Friday afternoon. Swift accepted and thanked her for being so helpful. He rang off before she could respond to the sarcasm.
    * * *
    Mayfields was a single-storey, functional building run by a charity. Swift waited for Teddy Bartlett’s key worker in a pleasant room furnished with magazines, pictures of wildflower meadows and a water dispenser. He could hear strange, high-pitched cries now and again and the rhythmic sound of tambourines.
    ‘Mr Swift? I’m Peter Alfonso. How can I help a private detective, with regard to Teddy?’
    Alfonso’s handshake was firm. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with the slogan don’t tell me I can’t . He wore an earring and a stud in his left eyebrow. Swift had been expecting a nursing uniform of some kind and was pleasantly surprised.
    ‘Teddy Bartlett’s father has engaged me to try and find out who attacked his son back in 2000.’
    Alfonso put his lips together in a soundless whistle. ‘The police never charged anyone?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’ve worked with Teddy for two years so I know he was critically injured, but not any details.’
    ‘I felt I should come and see him. He is the victim of a terrible crime and it seemed the right thing to do.’
    ‘You know he can’t communicate, or at least not in any way that anyone’s able to understand?’
    ‘Yes. Do you think he has any awareness of who or where he is?’
    ‘It’s hard to say. All I can tell you is that Teddy has lived here since 2001 and there’s been no evidence of it.’
    ‘Okay, I won’t stay long. Would it be alright to tell him why I’m here and mention the attack?’
    ‘I don’t see why not. He won’t respond, though. Have you met anyone with a severe brain injury and paralysis before, or been to this kind of centre?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It’s just that you might be shocked. We work with people who are profoundly in need. Some visitors can find it difficult to deal with.’
    Swift nodded and Alfonso led the way to a large, airy room, saying that Teddy was having massage therapy. The room held a pool full of brightly coloured plastic balls. Scattered about were plastic percussion instruments and glowing lava lamps. Quiet choral music played. There were half a dozen people, a couple in wheelchairs and several in recliner chairs. In a corner, lying on his side on a large sheepskin, was a thin, shrunken man. A young woman was kneeling beside him, massaging his hands and speaking quietly to him. There was a scent of lavender in the air. Swift wasn’t easily shocked but he was taken aback as he and Alfonso approached.
    ‘Hello, Teddy. You have a visitor today. Mr Swift has come to see you.’
    Teddy’s face was shrunken and