Chapter 1
I’m doing it, texted Holly. Today. I’m burning this place to the ground.
The conditions were perfect for arson. It hadn’t rained for a fortnight and the wind was light but constant.
The building, with lots of old timber, would go up like a torch.
In the bag at her feet were a box of Cook’s matches and a bottle of nail varnish remover.
Down the corridor was a room that wouldn’t be used for the next hour, and she knew from experience that she’d find in it a lot of flammable material.
An emoji came back: a man’s cartoon face holding a hand against his forehead. At the same time, the woman across the desk put the phone receiver down.
‘Sorry about that.’ She gave Holly a tight smile. ‘Where were we?’
‘You were about to explain why that bitch in human form thinks it’s OK to read my son’s worry book out to the entire class. He’s embarrassed, humiliated and feels completely betrayed. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to get him in the car this morning?’
‘Miss Baker.’ Lines appeared around the headteacher’s mouth like the rays on a child’s drawing of the sun. ‘Either you moderate your language, or this interview is at an end. I won’t tell you again.’
‘OK, she’s an insensitive, unprofessional bully who thinks embarrassing and humiliating a ten-year-old is acceptable behaviour. That worry book is private. My son has it for a reason. This has all—’
‘I understand he was writing in it while the class was engaged in a task.’
Holly clenched her fists. ‘That’s literally what it’s there for. He needs an outlet for his negative feelings. You’ve been told this several times. His counsellor has written to you.’
A line of boys, some of whom Holly recognised as her son’s classmates, ran past the window in the tail end of a noisy game.
Charlie would not be among them. Charlie stayed in the car until the first bell of the day had stopped ringing.
Charlie was always the last child to enter the school building. Apart from those who were late.
Charlie was never late. On the few occasions that Holly hadn’t been organised enough to get to the school gates on time, he’d refused to go in.
Mrs Milton sighed. ‘Miss Baker, we do our best. But there are twenty-eight children in Charlie’s class. We simply can’t give him the attention and the specialist care that you, clearly, think he needs.’
‘I was promised last term that all staff would undertake autism awareness training. Ofsted now recommends it as best practice.’
‘In ideal circumstances,’ the headteacher countered. ‘It’s something we hope to get round to in the next year or so.’
‘He leaves this shithole in less than nine months.’
With an exaggerated sigh Mrs Milton pushed her chair back a couple of inches, as though needing to distance herself from the contamination that was Holly. She said, ‘Charlie’s father phoned me last week.’
Holly told herself to stay very still. ‘He did what?’
‘I found his approach constructive. He thinks, and I agree, that—’
‘I have custody of Charlie. You shouldn’t be discussing him with anyone but me.’
‘We think it best to include both parents in our conversations about a child’s welfare. Mr Collingwood feels Charlie would thrive in a smaller environment, one more tailored to his particular needs. I understand there is a very good independent school in Weybridge that have offered him a place.’
The bell rang, loud and insistent, making further conversation impossible. Milton got to her feet.
‘You’ll be wanting to get to work,’ she said. ‘Let’s talk again when you’ve had time to think through what I’ve said.’
After crossing the room, she held the door open for Holly, giving her no choice but to walk through it.
The corridor outside was busy, as staff made their way to classrooms for morning registration.
Children poured through the main door and streamed up the stairs.
The younger boys’ changing room, the place she’d identified as the ideal ignition point for the fire, was a short distance away.
The bins were always full of old paper towels; discarded PE kit and sundry lost clothes littered the floor and benches.
Well, obviously not while the place was full of kids. She wasn’t a monster.
A school bus pulled up alongside Holly’s car before she had the chance to drive off.
Unable to complain – she’d parked illegally when all was said and done – she resigned herself to at least a five-minute wait.
The bus was always full, and the kids never seemed to leave it quickly or even willingly.
Pulling the morning’s post from her briefcase, she started to sort through it.
A couple of subscriptions that she really should cancel because she never got round to reading them and an underwear catalogue that she pushed back into its envelope.
Not something Charlie needed to see. There was an A5-size envelope with the stamp of an estate agent in the top-right corner.
And it was a posh-looking envelope: good-quality paper in a colour between ivory and cream, a first-class stamp, her name and address in a calligraphic script. When she picked it up, it was heavy.
Curious, and because the bus had by no means finished offloading its cargo, Holly opened it.
A coin of sorts fell out, enclosed within a small plastic square.
It was a little like the commemorative coins that Charlie received occasionally from her parents to mark important national occasions – royal weddings or jubilees.
This coin, though, showed no financial value, nor did it display the sovereign’s head.
About an inch and a half in diameter, it appeared to be bronze but probably wasn’t, and at its centre was carved a star inside a circle.
Around the edge ran a line of text that wasn’t English.
It was accompanied by a very short letter; curiously, from a firm of solicitors that she knew, which she’d had several dealings with.
This is your token. Keep it safe. Tell no one. On the event of my death, it entitles you to an equal share of my wealth. Good luck.
Logan Quick
Christ, thought Holly. Logan Quick was one of the richest men in the UK.