Never Look Back by Clare Donoghue Read Free Book Online Page B

maybe twice, but that was it. As far as he knew, Jane’s mother took care of Peter when Jane was at work. He went to school during the day but had extra help because of his autism, although Lockyer didn’t know what the ‘extra help’ really entailed. He had never asked. Few people in the office knew what Jane’s life was really like when she clocked off. What Lockyer did know about her past, he had gleaned from snippets of conversation over the years: her one-time boyfriend had buggered off when she was eight months pregnant. Jane had once told him that she felt like a stranger in her son’s life because of his condition. Of course, that would have been the perfect opportunity for Lockyer to empathize, to let her talk about Peter, to tell her about Bobby, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t seem to find the words then, or now.
    ‘We’re almost there,’ Jane said, swinging the car into a narrow lane running between two terraces.
    ‘It’s down here?’ he asked, looking around at the high walls enclosing the back gardens of the houses.
    At the end of the lane there was a newly tarmacked car park with a dozen spaces marked out by fresh white paint. The clinic sat at the back, a single-storey red-brick building with a gabled roof. Four gold letters hung over the door: LYWC. Underneath them was a smaller sign that read, ‘Lewisham Young Women’s Centre’.
    ‘This is the place,’ she said, pulling into one of the spaces.
    ‘Not too busy for a Friday morning, is it?’ he said, looking around him at the empty car park. He opened his door, got out and straightened his jacket.
    ‘Maybe they’re not open on Fridays,’ Jane said, clicking the central locking on the squad car. ‘It took me a couple of goes to get an answer when I called.’
    He opened one of the double doors and gestured for Jane to go ahead of him. Lockyer realized he felt a lot better. Somehow the drive, the air and the change of scenery had lifted the emotional fug that had been suffocating him all morning. As he followed Jane over to the reception desk he could almost feel his head clearing. The desk was a traditional shiny pine, five feet high, and hiding behind it was a fifty-something receptionist who looked to be leafing through a women’s gossip magazine. All Lockyer could see were bright colours and orange-looking girls staring up at him.
    ‘Good morning,’ Jane said, already holding out her warrant card. The receptionist jumped a clear foot in the air with an accompanying screech. He didn’t know who was more surprised, her or him. He took a step back.
    ‘Oh, my,’ she said, her south-east London accent strong, her voice croaky. If there weren’t twenty Benson & Hedges in this woman’s purse he would hand in his badge right now. ‘You frightened me to death, creeping up like that. The bell under the doormat’s stopped working again. I’ve told them it needs fixing . . . I’ve asked a dozen times, at least . . .’
    He looked over at Jane and saw that she was just as stunned by the woman’s reaction as he was. He cleared his throat and gave her elbow a shove when he saw the corner of her mouth lift with amusement. The receptionist was still talking, not to either of them in particular, just chattering into the ether, her eyes alternating between looking up at the ceiling and then down at her feet.
    ‘Mr Walsh said you’d be stopping by and to help you with what ever you needed . . . he’s had to pop out, you see. Friday mornings is usually our quiet time, normally when we do the notes, that kinda thing, so, how can I help you? Mr Walsh didn’t say, he just said something about notes . . . not that I can show you notes but I suppose I can look at them, and then . . . I don’t know, I suppose it depends.’ The woman finally stopped talking and looked from Jane to him and back again.
    ‘And you are?’ Jane asked, hiding her smile as she reached into her jacket for a notepad.
    ‘Sheila Collins. I’m in charge when Mr Walsh