Read Online Troubled Waters by Gillian Galbraith - Free Book Online
Authors: Gillian Galbraith
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you look at this photograph,’ Alice asked, handing him one of the shots taken by Jim Scott in the temporary mortuary.
‘Jesus!’ said Mr Wilson, sitting back in his chair, blinking rapidly, dropping the photograph on his desk.
‘Is that her?’ the policewoman asked.
‘Yes. But she’s not a fox any more. What happened to her?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
5
If he set about the exercise with military precision he would find her, he told himself. He must. Lambie, so weak, so loving, was depending upon him, and, this time, he would not let her down. He paced the length of his office, thinking as he walked, rehearsing in his head the logical sequence that would inevitably occur. His phone went, distracting him, and recognising the number, he switched it off. No problem. Salesmen, he told himself, persist or get sacked. Kevin, the Cute Cards Company’s representative, would call again for sure. Not that he would be buying any more of their overpriced stationery in a hurry, not with Frankie Boyd setting up in competition to them. He’d offer a much better price, in all likelihood on far more amenable terms too.
‘Boss?’ A man’s head, topped with a halo of red hair, appeared round his door.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve got a big order to go to Berwick, they need it yesterday. Can I get a courier?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, immediately turning his back on the man to let him know that there would be no further chat, and waiting motionless until he heard the door close once more.
He sat down on the edge of his desk and lifted his cup of tea to his lips. The police had picked her up. So she was safe. But, in this day and age, she would not bekept in a cell or anything. No, they’d involve the Social Services, what with her being a child and everything. She was tall but still a child, anyone could see that, surely? What would they do with her – speechless, twitchy and, obviously, not normal? Lost in thought, he put down his cup untouched, and started to bite a fingernail, pulling at a ragged end. First of all, they would have to find a temporary home for her, and that would either be a children’s home, if they still existed, or, more likely, a foster home. And school, they would be bound to think about a school because education was the law. But, if she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, speak, what then? They’d not put her in a normal secondary school, would they? They couldn’t. That would be monstrous, did not bear thinking about. Imagining it, he began to sweat, could feel the moisture collecting on his brow.
No, they would opt, surely to goodness, for a special school. They’d be bound to. They’d be kinder there. Please, Lord, he prayed, help me find her, keep her safe, keep my child safe until I find her. Let me get to her first. Tears now pricking his eyes, he switched on his computer, intending to check out children’s homes and special schools in Edinburgh.
‘Boss?’ the same man’s head appeared round the door again.
‘Not now, Jake!’ he bellowed, embarrassed, turning his head away, angry that anyone should witness his weakness. Instantly, the door clicked shut and he returned his attention to the screen in front of him. Googling ‘Special Schools in Edinburgh’ brought up eleven possibilities, of which fewer than half appeared to cater for secondary school pupils. Four of them specialised in youngsters with communication difficulties, including those ‘on theautistic spectrum’, as their websites phrased it. They were based in Drumbrae, Abbeyhill, Liberton and Bruntsfield, respectively. Deciding to start with them, he wrote their addresses and details in his pocket notebook.
Faced with the results for ‘Children’s homes in Edinburgh’, he sighed. There was such a multiplicity of choices and, feeling momentarily weighed down by the hopelessness of it all, he did not even bother to copy them down. He could hardly check them all out, watch all of them.
‘Jesus!’ said Mr Wilson, sitting back in his chair, blinking rapidly, dropping the photograph on his desk.
‘Is that her?’ the policewoman asked.
‘Yes. But she’s not a fox any more. What happened to her?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
5
If he set about the exercise with military precision he would find her, he told himself. He must. Lambie, so weak, so loving, was depending upon him, and, this time, he would not let her down. He paced the length of his office, thinking as he walked, rehearsing in his head the logical sequence that would inevitably occur. His phone went, distracting him, and recognising the number, he switched it off. No problem. Salesmen, he told himself, persist or get sacked. Kevin, the Cute Cards Company’s representative, would call again for sure. Not that he would be buying any more of their overpriced stationery in a hurry, not with Frankie Boyd setting up in competition to them. He’d offer a much better price, in all likelihood on far more amenable terms too.
‘Boss?’ A man’s head, topped with a halo of red hair, appeared round his door.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve got a big order to go to Berwick, they need it yesterday. Can I get a courier?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, immediately turning his back on the man to let him know that there would be no further chat, and waiting motionless until he heard the door close once more.
He sat down on the edge of his desk and lifted his cup of tea to his lips. The police had picked her up. So she was safe. But, in this day and age, she would not bekept in a cell or anything. No, they’d involve the Social Services, what with her being a child and everything. She was tall but still a child, anyone could see that, surely? What would they do with her – speechless, twitchy and, obviously, not normal? Lost in thought, he put down his cup untouched, and started to bite a fingernail, pulling at a ragged end. First of all, they would have to find a temporary home for her, and that would either be a children’s home, if they still existed, or, more likely, a foster home. And school, they would be bound to think about a school because education was the law. But, if she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, speak, what then? They’d not put her in a normal secondary school, would they? They couldn’t. That would be monstrous, did not bear thinking about. Imagining it, he began to sweat, could feel the moisture collecting on his brow.
No, they would opt, surely to goodness, for a special school. They’d be bound to. They’d be kinder there. Please, Lord, he prayed, help me find her, keep her safe, keep my child safe until I find her. Let me get to her first. Tears now pricking his eyes, he switched on his computer, intending to check out children’s homes and special schools in Edinburgh.
‘Boss?’ the same man’s head appeared round the door again.
‘Not now, Jake!’ he bellowed, embarrassed, turning his head away, angry that anyone should witness his weakness. Instantly, the door clicked shut and he returned his attention to the screen in front of him. Googling ‘Special Schools in Edinburgh’ brought up eleven possibilities, of which fewer than half appeared to cater for secondary school pupils. Four of them specialised in youngsters with communication difficulties, including those ‘on theautistic spectrum’, as their websites phrased it. They were based in Drumbrae, Abbeyhill, Liberton and Bruntsfield, respectively. Deciding to start with them, he wrote their addresses and details in his pocket notebook.
Faced with the results for ‘Children’s homes in Edinburgh’, he sighed. There was such a multiplicity of choices and, feeling momentarily weighed down by the hopelessness of it all, he did not even bother to copy them down. He could hardly check them all out, watch all of them.
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