Free Whitstable by Stephen Volk Page B

to say. I told him I’d prefer not to, but if he wanted to make it official, I’d make it official. But he was reluctant.”
    “I’ll bet he was.” Under his breath.
    Had he heard? Wake’s buttons really were straining across his midriff. “He was doing you a favour. He doesn’t want to cause any trouble.”
    “What exactly did he say, Derek? Are you allowed to tell me that? Officially or unofficially?”
    “He said you were talking to his little boy.”
    “That’s absolutely correct. I was. I won’t deny that. What’s wrong with that?”
    “Let’s just say he doesn’t want it.” The way he lounged back in the chair was beginning to annoy Cushing. He found it louche, oikish and disrespectful. And the man’s fly zip was distressingly taut.
    “I chat to all the children. You know that. They chat to me. I’m like the Pied Piper. Helen and I…”
    “I know. I know.” Wake leant forward, elbows on the desk. Pushed the harshness of the angle-poise lamp away. “Listen, it puts me in a very awkward position. When someone comes in with a complaint like this. I don’t want it to go any further if I can help it.”
    “On my part?”
    “On anybody’s part.”
    Cushing could feel his lips tight and bloodless with rage and dared not speak for fear of what might come out. So, he’s got his retaliation in first, he was thinking. Clever. Before I could make any accusations, he’s made his.
    Clever man.
    Clever monster.
    “Look, I know this feller. He’s a hell of a nice bloke.” Wake raked his hair with his fingers and offered his palms. “We went to school together. I’ve got drunk with him. He’s not a troublemaker, not like some round here. He’s got a decent job, down on the boats. My wife knows his family, has done for donkey’s years. He visits his mum in the nursing home every Sunday. He helps out at Christmas, with the food and that.”
    “In other words, you believe him.”
    “I think things can be misinterpreted, that’s all,” Wake said. “And he has, probably. I don’t mean ‘probably’.”
    Cushing didn’t think he could remember such anger building up inside him. It was white hot and it terrified him and he knew if it rose much more he wouldn’t be able to control it, and that would be a disaster. He opened the door.
    “Thank you so much. I think I’ll go now, if you don’t mind. Unless you have anything more to say to me.”
    Wake sighed and rubbed his eyes.
    When he looked up to reply, Cushing was gone. Wake sprang up, grabbed the closing door of his office, yanked it back wide and hurried to the sergeant’s desk in pursuit of the long dark coat. Remarkably, the older man was out-striding him and he had to break into a run to catch up.
    “Peter. Let me drive you home.”
    “No, Derek. Thank you all the same. I think I’d prefer some nice fresh sea air. Good day to you.”
    The detective followed him outside, caught up with him a second time and stood in front of him on the pavement, this time blocking his way.
    “Look, all I’m suggesting to both of you is keep a wide berth from each other. You, and Gledhill and his family. Both parties. Either that, or sort out your differences without the police getting involved.”
    “I’m sure we shall,” Cushing said, circumnavigating him.
    ***
    The scenario had changed radically. The script had been rewritten, drastically. Now at least he knew with some certainty that he daren’t rely on the police or the legal system. His adversary had prepared the ground, cleverly sown the seeds of doubt in a pre-emptive strike against him. If he made an accusation now it was too risky he would be disbelieved and, worse, far worse, the boy would be disbelieved—if the boy even spoke up at all. There was no guarantee he would do so, given his only way of dealing with the situation, it seemed, was through the prism of monsters and monster-hunters. Wasn’t it Van Helsing who said “The Devil’s best trick is that people don’t believe he