Trust me, people can talk themselves into all sorts of things – it’s just a case of skimming over the details and shutting your ears a tiny bit. No,’ he said finally, ‘this is a complex situation. And, happily, it’s not our job to sort it out.’
He stood up then. ‘So, assuming you are okay with it, Mike, I’m off to bend some ears at social services. They’ll decide how to proceed from there, and I imagine it will involve the police, but in the meantime you need to get this all written up, Casey. So I’ll pop down and see Kelly, make sure she’s coping okay with your lot, then I’ll make the call. Okay to tell them you’ll email a full report to them shortly?’
I nodded. ‘So what happens to Imogen? Like, right now I mean. She’s still in your office.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘And it probably wouldn’t be sensible to take her back to the Unit, so maybe you could sort out some work for her to be getting on with till we know what’s happening? We could have her go down to learning support – I’m sure Julia Styles will be happy to take care of her. Yes, that’ll work best for the moment, don’t you think?’
I told him it would, and that I’d have someone fetch her bag up and her reading book. I suspected that the last thing she’d want to do currently was pen poetry about fireworks and bonfires. She’d had enough of the latter for the foreseeable future, and as for the fireworks – well, they were just about to start.
It took less than an hour for the business of child protection to lumber into action. It was just before lunch when, my report finally written, I’d headed to Gary’s office so I could email it to the contact at social services. And now we were under way, Gary hadn’t let the grass grow.
‘I’ve already spoken to the grandparents,’ he told me, once I’d forwarded the email. ‘And put them in the picture. And the social worker will be in touch with them, too. In the meantime, grandad’s going to pick Imogen up at lunchtime, as there’s no point in her being here this afternoon, not in the state she’s in. The key thing is going to be convincing her that she’s not in any trouble, and the grandparents are aware of that as well – as they are about the fact that it’s essential that they don’t speak to either their son or their daughter-in-law until social services have been in touch and the authorities have done their bit.’
‘What an awful situation,’ I said.
‘Tell me about it. The grandmother’s devastated. Can’t quite take it in, as you’d expect.’
‘And must feel awful, too,’ I said. ‘Must feel so guilty about not believing her. And all this time … God, that poor, poor kid.’
‘But it’s over now, all being well,’ Gary said briskly. And I didn’t doubt that he’d see that it was so.
‘So what is going to happen next?’ I asked him. ‘What’s the course of events now it’s with social services? Will they go round and visit the house? Investigate? Bring them in to their offices and interview them?’
Gary gave me a look that was part way between a smile and a smirk.
‘Nothing so polite,’ he said. ‘That tends not to be how it works.’
‘How does it work then?’
‘They will simply have the police go and arrest them.’
I returned to the Unit after lunch with my head full of horrible images but my hands no longer full – not where Imogen was concerned, anyway – and it was a decidedly odd feeling. It was absolutely the way of things in my job – children came to you, you did what you could, then they left you; that was the job. And, actually, chances were that nothing much would change.
Gary’s pronouncement had really brought it home to me, no doubt about it. And the picture I’d subsequently painted – complete with sirens, reading of rights and trophy-winning cat fanciers being handcuffed and thrown into the backs of police riot vans, and into cages – was undeniably a pleasing one, and no less than she deserved. But, in the midst of all that, Imogen would still need to go to school. Yes, the grandparents could keep her home, I guessed, and no one would castigate them for doing so, but as she was already removed from the situation there wasn’t any clear and present danger, and my hunch was that everyone would suggest it was in her best interests – particularly re the selective mutism – for it to indeed be a case of business as usual, particularly if it transpired, and I was still confident it would, that her father had not been involved.
But that still left a hole in my brain’s Sherlock Holmes region. It was no longer my job to investigate anything. It was now in the hands of the professionals. And, as if to remind me, when I returned to the Unit after lunch break it was to find my attention drawn to the collection of pine cones in the corner, which took my thoughts to Christmas, and, by extension, to Shona, who was sitting with Molly currently, but staring into space.
It was a mental gear change, and an important one, as I had six children to think about, and for one of them, at least, the coming festivities would be incredibly difficult. I was very aware how much time was devoted in school to Christmas – not just to the occasion itself and the opportunities for fostering the children’s spiritual education, but to the day-to-day business of planning Christmas-related events, such as the special assemblies, the making and giving of cards, the various decorating sessions, the end-of-term parties and the community activities, such as the school’s annual carol service at the local church, for which I had a smidgin of a germ of an idea.
All of this, for Shona, would be torture. And I was also mindful that her ‘secret’ hinted at a difficult set of circumstances, ones that, in reality, only time could make better.
Which put another small idea into my head. As she’d not known how long I’d be out of the Unit, Kelly – ever the human dynamo – had already organised everything for that afternoon’s lessons, which would be maths followed by science.
As Shona’s maths was generally sound, bordering on comfortably above average, I decided I would pull her out of the first half of the afternoon, so we’d have some privacy to chat, if she felt so inclined. It would also give me a chance to bring up the secrets box, if it seemed appropriate, though I was mindful that she’d taken pains to keep her secret anonymous, so I’d have to let her take the lead on that.
The inquest into ‘Where’s Imogen Gone and What Was Wrong with Her?’ dealt with (easily attributed to a 24-hour tummy bug), I had a quick word with Kelly, then went over to speak to Shona. As well as being good at maths, she had an impressive artistic talent, which, today, served my needs very well. ‘I’m in need of a volunteer,’ I explained, ‘to help me create a thing of beauty for the display wall in the main reception, and I said to myself, “Who’s the undisputed champion of all things creative in the Unit, if not the entire lower school?” And guess which name sprang to mind?’
Shona smiled delightedly, which was gladdening in itself.
‘So you’re up for it?’ I asked.
‘I’d love to, Miss,’ she answered.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Grab your coat because it’s cold in the entrance, and let’s go and create a masterpiece, shall we?’
Putting children’s work on display was a central part of every teaching job, and though I wasn’t strictly speaking a teacher myself – my job title being the slightly more menacing ‘Behaviour Manager’ – I was still on the rota to provide displays for the boards in all the school’s communal areas, and mine was due to replace the current one by the end of that very week.
I’d already partly prepared and decided upon a theme for our display: a perennial and a bit of a classic, autumn colours. I’d squirrelled away various things already – mostly pictures and drawings, and the main ‘event’ would be the poems they had produced only that morning, which I would have them write out again, in their very best writing, and then decorate around the edges with whatever took their fancy. For now, though, it was a question of preparing the background and, as I suspected, Shona was full of ideas about what might look nice. We’d brought