Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(70)

Like going for another child’s eye with a pencil. For instance.

Donnelly sighs. ‘These kids need a huge amount of support. They need a stable home environment and trained specialists to help them develop the techniques they need to deal with their problems. There aren’t any short cuts, Inspector. The parents of a child with FAS face years of patient, diligent care. And that can be a weary, thankless task.’

‘But what if the kids don’t get that support – what if the parents refuse to acknowledge the problem for what it really is?’

He glances at me, and then away. ‘Sometimes it can take quite a while for the symptoms to become pronounced. In those circumstances the parents can be reluctant to rush to judgement – people generally don’t like their children being labelled. In that case I would monitor the child closely and recommend a referral to the Community Paediatrician as and when I thought it necessary. Or helpful.’

‘And can the parents refuse to have that?’

He flushes. ‘Most people want the best for their kids.’

That’s not an answer, and he knows it.

‘But parents can refuse?’

He nods.

‘So what happens then?’

‘If – in theory – I were to find myself in such a situation, I would carry on monitoring the child and consider talking to the school nurse. I would also spend a great deal of time explaining to the parents how important it is to get their child expert professional help as early as possible. I would stress that the long-term consequences of failing to do that could be catastrophic – drug addiction, violence, sexual offending. There are some horrific stats from the US, where as usual they’re far more advanced about these things than we are. I saw one report which estimated that people with FAS are nineteen times more likely to end up in prison than the rest of us.’

Which does nothing but confirm my worst possible fears.

I get up to go, but there’s clearly one more thing on the doctor’s mind. ‘Inspector,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye, ‘kids with FAS often have an unusually high tolerance of pain. So what you can find – sometimes, with some children – is that they take out all that pent-up anger and frustration on themselves. In other words – ’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘They self-harm.’

*

Quinn is just turning off his computer when the call comes through. He wedges the handset against his shoulder as he shuts down his programmes, only half listening. Then he suddenly sits up and grips the phone.

‘Say that again? You’re sure?’

He ploughs into the paper on the desk, looking for a pen.

‘What’s the address? Twenty-one Loughton Road. Got it. Call forensics and tell them I’ll meet them there. Yes, I do know it’s sodding Sunday.’

Then he’s up, seized his jacket and gone.

*

As I draw up outside my house, my phone beeps with an email alert. I open the file and scan it, then I call Everett.

‘Can you get Leo Mason to the Kidlington suite for nine a.m. tomorrow? We’ll need Derek Ross to be the appropriate adult, so can you call him and get that organized as well – tell him sorry, but there’s no alternative. As for Sharon, she can watch on the video feed if she wants, but she can’t be in the room. And if she wants to bring a lawyer, she can do that too, I’m not going to argue the toss on that one. But I want you there. If Leo trusts any of us, he trusts you.’

I’m just getting out of the car when the phone goes again. I can hardly make out the words for the panic.

‘Slow down – where is she – which hospital? OK, don’t worry. We’ll deal with all of that. You just focus on Janet.’

I end the call and stand there for a moment. And when I go into the sitting room a few minutes later Alex looks up and asks me why I’m crying.

*

There’s already a crowd gathering when Quinn gets to Loughton Road. A forensics officer is unravelling blue and white tape across the entrance to the drive and two more are removing items one by one from the skip. Old chairs, rolls of rotting carpet, broken bathroom scales, sheets of crumbling plasterboard. It doesn’t seem to matter how affluent the area, crap still gets dumped in other people’s skips. One of the uniforms directs Quinn to a small middle-aged woman in a loose dress and a pair of black leggings, standing behind the tape. She has her hair up in a messy bun – one of those women who grow their hair but never wear it down. She looks agitated and starts talking before he even gets to her.

‘Oh, Constable – I was the one who called. I wish I’d known about Daisy before – I feel dreadful that it’s taken so long to get in touch with you but we didn’t have a TV in the cottage and I don’t have internet on my phone. It costs so much, doesn’t it, and you can never get a signal on Exmoor anyway – ’

‘Miss Brookes, isn’t it?’ he says, getting out his tablet. ‘I believe you saw a man put something in the skip on Tuesday afternoon? When exactly, do you remember?’

‘Oh, it would have to have been about five. We had wanted to leave earlier, it’s such a long drive, but then I had to pick up some dry-cleaning and there was a queue and what with one thing and another – ’

Jesus, thinks Quinn. Does she ever stop talking?

‘So about five on Tuesday. What did he look like, this man?’