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  "No indication. If you review the session recording, you'll–"

  "Thank you, I will. Any family member he might visit, anywhere?"

  "From what Richard said, there's just him and his widower father. Plus staff at the family home."

  "You've been there?"

  "Uh, no. I met Philip Broomhall in Victoria," she said. "Just the once. And the only time I met Richard was during that session."

  "In Elliptical House," said the officer.

  "Yes, that's right."

  "What about the driver?"

  "Lexa?"

  "You know her?"

  "Not before, er, beforehand. Is she under suspicion?"

  "Is there any reason she ought to be?"

  "I don't… Let me think." Closing her eyes, Suzanne was able to picture Lexa in the consulting room, her expression as she broke the news. "She wasn't lying, I'm almost sure of it. She was scared for Richard's sake, as I am."

  "You can tell if someone is lying, Doctor?"

  "Not really. If someone stares up and to their right, that may indicate visual imagination, but not necessarily falsehood. Some people navigate their memories by mental imagery. The other common mistake, made by people with too little training, is to assume that signs of stress, like hand-wringing or crossing ankles, mean someone is lying. It only means the person is stressed."

  There had been far too many miscarriages of justice, innocent people pressurised by the interrogating officers, forced into giving false confessions, because officers misinterpreted stress or visualisation signals as guilt. Suzanne had been an expert witness in a retrial – an innocent man walking free after seven years in a cell – and the officer probably knew that already.

  "Are you stressed right now?" he asked.

  "Of course I am. If I could give you any hint about where Richard might be, then I would. He was under pressure at school, and I don't know the specifics, because I'd intended to follow up on that in the next session. You might look for evidence of bullying, probably from peers."

  "Meaning possibly from teachers?"

  "Possibly, but there was no evidence for that. But you need to know where he's headed, not what he's running from, and I can't help. You must know more about homeless kids on the street than I do. Where would he go?"

  The officer looked over Suzanne's shoulder, presumably reading the screen.

  "Is there anything else you can think of, Doctor?"

  "No, I'm sorry. And I've thought about it, over and over again."

  "I'm sure you have. If you could hand over your phone, please."

  "My…? Oh. Sure."

  She put it on the table, just as he slid a handset toward to her.

  "This is your replacement, from us. You can keep it."

  "Really? It looks expensive."

  "That's all right. It will register to you by the time you've left the building. Any cached files will be copied during the procedure."

  "But my contact list and–"

  "It's all online." The officer waved his hand. "Cloud computing, the web all around us. Only the most recent changes are in the handset, in cache, and we'll make sure they're copied to you."

  "Well…" She picked up the new phone, its TCC logo embossed in gold on black: Tyndall Cloud Communications. "Thank you."

  "Thanks for your help, Dr Duchesne." He popped her old phone into a clear plastic bag and sealed it. "Nice talking with you."

  "Yes. I hope you find Richard."

  The door clicked open.

  "We'll do our best, Doctor. Mind how you go."

  There were fire-eaters and clowns on stilts, jugglers and acrobats clowns performing flick-flack somersaults across the cobblestones. The piazza of Covent Garden was busy, usual for a summer evening. Suzanne and Carol watched the performers, flames and movement serving as distraction for the eyes, while thought followed its own path, however dark.

  "At least I got a new phone out of it."

  "While they do forensics on the old."

  "I don't even know what's on it. The officer said it's all out in the clouds, the data."

  "Probably records all your sexual encounters." Carol nudged her. "So when was the last time you got laid?"

  Despite her age and her training, Suzanne's cheeks warmed. "You are a bad person, Dr Klugmann."

  "And you've not yet answered my question, Dr Duchesne. So are you going to answer me now or in a couple of minutes?"

  "No. You want smut, check your own phone."

  "You think there's room on one itty-bitty handset for all my sensual encounters?"

  "Probably not."

  One of the jugglers dropped his clubs, apparently by accident as another cartwheeled across him; but when the second juggler was standing, everyone could see that he now had the clubs arcing through the air. Onlookers clapped, as the duo began to toss clubs between them.

  "For your sake, hon, we need to do something about this investigation."

  "What do you mean?" Suzanne forgot the performers. "The investigation?"

  "If CCTV was going to provide a quick result, they'd have found Richard already. So it's not happening, is it?"

  "You're not suggesting we track him down ourselves?"

  "Right." Carol slapped her belly. Everything jiggled, voluptuous and rippling. "Running around the streets is so what I do."

  Men glanced in her direction.

  "Broomhall needs to hire someone," Carol went on. "A specialist, working full-time on finding Richard. And you see that blonde guy over there?"

  "Uh–"

  "You think he's staring at my breasts?"

  "Of course he is. But you can't tell Broomhall to hire an investigator."

  "He's rich, so he can afford it."

  "But–"

  "And after I've talked to him he'll be pleased to have thought of the idea for himself. Because that's what he'll think has happened."

  "You're marvellous." Suzanne squeezed Carol's upper arm. "Thank you."

  "It's still early."

  "And you've a blonde guy to seduce, which you won't while I'm hanging around."

  "There's another nice-looking man over there. We could double d–"

  "Good night, Carol."

  "'Night, sweetie. We'll catch up tomorrow."

  "Catch yourself a good one tonight."

  "Count on it."

  Suzanne watched as Carol moved among the spectators, exuding charisma and sex, gaze fastened on her prey.

  "Be good."

  She turned and crossed the cobblestones, heading for the Tube.

  [ EIGHT ]

  The first night was awful. Then things got worse.

  The world was cold, that was the obvious thing. During the sweltering daytime, Richard's white shirt had been enough; but evening had been a warning, and when darkness fell, he was in trouble. Plus, a white shirt stands out in shadows. Why hadn't anyone told him that?

  Because it never mattered before.

  In the real world, where fear came from Father shouting and the stink of whisky on his breath, or being alone in a house with eight or ten people, depending on which staff were on duty… in that world, the colour of your clothes didn't mark you out, transform you into a target. Now he was alone in a city of five million people, all of them bigger and more violent than him; but the thing was, he could go anywhere, not trapped inside school boundaries with a maniac like Zajac intending to kill him.

  A year ago, he was trailing his father into Selfridges and found his gaze hooked by a dirty blanket on the ground. On it, a young girl-woman slumped, a stained medical dressing on her hand, her features delicate beneath grime, and redness in her eyes that spoke of recent tears. Father had not stopped, so neither did he; but inside, riding up on the escalator, he'd said: "Did you see that girl?"

  "What girl?"

  "Outside by the doorway. Begging, I guess."

  "No, nothing worth noticing."

  Later, at home over dinner, he'd tried to ask about her again, explaining about the blanket and the ga
uze bandage. Father had explained that he hadn't seen a girl as such, but he might have glimpsed a beggar, an example of a generic type; and that her kind were an infestation, and would Richard pass the chocolate sauce, and how were the crêpes tonight?

  Today, a few people had asked if Richard had any spare change. Mostly he'd walked past. But now, a youth of his own age with weeping sores on neck and forearm was standing in front of him, asking the same thing: Spare any change? Richard reached into his pocket, thinking he could pay phone-to-phone, maybe get to an ATM… but the only thing he found was a used tissue. No phone meant no bank account, meant everything was gone. Bumping through the crowds in Leicester Square, that was when it must have happened.

  "I'm sorry. I've got… nothing."

  "Christ, mate." The youth wiped away snot-dribble with his sleeve. "You one of us?"

  "I… think so. You mean beg… uh… homeless."

  Runaway. That's what I am.

  It was a frightening word, conjuring up stone-faced police officers chasing him down with dogs and stunguns. But it was hard to maintain the fright, because the hunger that had begun as deepening stomach pains had slowly metamorphosed into listlessness, a feeling of sleepiness despite the cold. Standing in front of the youth, he began to sway.

  "I'm Jayce. Who are you?"

  "Huh?"

  "Jayce. What's your name?"

  "Rich–, er, Richie. Hall."

  "No surnames, mate, not round here. You ain't eaten today, huh?"

  "Not since… No."

  His mouth began to salivate.

  "Well, Richie, you'll get used to it."

  His stomach felt like a stone.

  "Jee-zus," added Jayce after a moment. "All right, come with me."

  He struggled to his feet, slung his blanket over his shoulder, and emptied a few coins out of a plastic cup. "Fuckin' poor day today. You'd think they'd have a heart."

  As Jayce moved closer to Richard, a wave of sweet stink came from his mouth – the teeth were tinged with greyish green, speckled with black. His clothes smelled ripe.

  "Who would?" Richard took a step back. "Who'd have a heart?"

  "The rich ones with the money, who else?"

  Father said that no one gave anything for nothing, and without money there'd be savagery. All you had to do was earn your living; and what else was life for?

  "Come on," added Jayce. "You can do me a favour later."

  "Favour?"

  "Like I'm doing you. What, you want to eat, don't you?"

  "Er… Yeah. Please."

  "Well, ain't you polite. Come on, we're going to see Greaser Khan."

  "Who's that?"

  "Someone who'll like you for a messenger-boy, 'cause you still look clean. Won't last, mind."

  "Being a messenger?" Richard trembled, not knowing why.

  "Looking clean. You're respectable, see. So you'll be able to go inside, like, department stores and things, with no one noticing. Drop off little deliveries for old Greaser."

  "Deliveries."

  "Little ones. Not heavy."

  "But–" Richard stopped.

  "You want to eat or not?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "So this way. Oh, yeah… Fuck's sake, don't go calling him Greaser."

  "I wouldn't–"

  "Or if he asks if you'd like to go with him into the stockroom round back," said Jayce, "tell him no thanks, Mr Khan, I'd prefer to wait out here if that's OK. Trust me on this one."

  They were walking along broken pavement, beneath a streetlamp that was fizzing dull scarlet instead of orange. Up ahead was the brightness of an all-night store. Several people slouched outside.

  "Out where?" said Richard.

  "Huh?"

  "You said, wait out here. Where?"

  "In the shop, where else? And here's me thinking you weren't a tosser."

  "I–"

  Better to keep his mouth shut. Blabbermouths at school suffered; and this world was even harder. When Jayce removed his cap outside the shop, Richard did the same. Jayce nodded: "He don't like it, not seeing faces, like."

  When they went in, a plump Asian lady smiled at them from behind the counter. From the rear of the shop, two men watched, hard-faced.

  "Is Mr Khan in?" Jayce bobbed up and down, almost on tiptoe. "Got someone to meet him, like."

  The lady remained smiling. One of the men turned and went through a bead curtain.

  "Let's look at the mags," said Jayce.

  "I–Right."

  There was food and it was calling to him. He still had a little change; perhaps he could buy a Twix bar. But Jayce was tugging his sleeve, so he followed. A youth with dreadlocks and a steel chain spiralling around one arm was flicking through Blade Warriors, then holding open a double spread: two fighters clad in trunks, streaked with scarlet, blades wet and bloody.

  Richard squeezed his eyes shut.

  "So who's this?"

  "This is Richie, Mr Khan."

  Khan had high, square shoulders and a trimmed beard. The woman was no longer in sight. Behind Richard, the guy with dreadlocks placed the magazine back on the shelf and scurried out of the shop. Meanwhile music started playing: something old and fast, about Illuminati.

  "You're not local, are you, Richie?"

  "Er, no, sir."

  "You know your way around?"

  "I could help him, Mr Khan."

  "Why would you do that, Jayce?"

  "Look after a mate, like."

  "Uh-huh." Khan rubbed his knuckles against his beard. "Since you ask, there's a little something needs to go to the Adult Education College. Bit of extra study material. So, you're in?"

  "He's in, Mr Khan."

  "All right." Khan fished a small red box from his pocket. "Mr Maxwell, teaching Chinese, class starts at eight. Be there ten minutes early."

  Richard swallowed salty saliva – maybe tears? – as the world blurred.

  I have to do this.

  He didn't know what his reward was going to be, but there was a commitment now.

  "You like the music, Richie?"

  "Uh, sir?"

  "Sir." Khan looked at Jayce, then at the hard-faced men behind the counter. "He called me 'sir'. I like this boy. I asked" – his eyes became large, focused on Richard – "if you like Fatboy Slim. We're talking classic here. None of your modern din."

  "Um, yes. I do. Like it."

  "Good."

  The red box, when Khan handed it over, fitted in Richard's palm.

  "And I'll pay you now, since I trust you." Khan gave Jayce a boiled sweet wrapped in cellophane: that was what it looked like. "You know what would happen if – you know, don't you?"

  "Yes, Mr Khan. Thank you."

  The music changed to Kids in Glass Houses, who Mrs Kovac liked to play in the kitchen while she was cooking, except that she was in his old life, where everything was clean and rich, taken for granted until now.

  I'm so hungry.

  But Jayce was leaving the shop. Richard hurried after, clutching the box, feeling acid pain inside. Could a stomach dissolve itself for lack of food?

  This was so hard.

  Out on the street, beyond the next corner, they stopped. Jayce took the "sweet" out of his pocket, and undid the cellophane a little, revealing caked green powder. It reminded Richard of the orange ammonium dichromate used in class to build a volcano, turning green and spewing everywhere when set alight. He thought about trying to explain chemical volcanoes to Jayce; instead he asked about the powder.

  "You don't want to be trying this." Jayce dabbed some onto his tongue, and his eyes darkened. "Not till you need to."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing. Let's get you fed."

  "We have to be at this college by ten to eight."

  "Plenty of time. What time is it now?"

  "I don't… I lost my phone."

  "Probably why the Bill ain't picked you up. Come on."

  Soon they were at a ramshackle establishment, once a furniture store, from the fade
d signs. From round back, the aroma of tomato soup and toast was overwhelming. Cracked doors, horizontal across piles of bricks, served as tables. Plastic chairs, with the frozen bubbles of burn marks, were set out in the yard. Some fifteen or twenty people, shabby-looking, were queuing for soup.