Читать книгу Don’t Tell Teacher: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist, from the #1 bestselling author - Suzy Quinn K - Страница 15

Kate

1.45 p.m.

I take deep breaths, lifting knuckles to the door. The red-brick house is identical to its neighbours – except for the large crack in the front door.

Knock, knock.

No answer.

Tessa’s words ring in my ears: Get on to that Tom Kinnock case as soon as possible. He should never have been passed over to us. Get it shut down and off your desk.

I would peer in the window, but the curtains are closed, even though it’s gone lunchtime.

Knock, knock.

I put an ear to the door and hear voices. Someone is home.

Knock, knock, knock.

‘Hello?’ I call. ‘It’s Kate Noble from Children’s Services.’

I knock again, this time with a closed fist.

There are hurried footsteps and a woman opens the door, blonde hair scraped back in a hairband.

‘Keep it down.’ The woman’s eyes swim in their sockets. ‘Alice is sleeping.’

So this is Leanne Neilson. Mother to the infamous Neilson boys.

She wears Beauty and the Beast pyjamas with furry slippers and looks exhausted, huge bags under her eyes. Her grey pallor is a drug-abuse red flag. Unsurprisingly, the files note that Leanne has a problem with prescription medicine.

Behind Leanne is a tidy-ish living room with red leather sofas and a shiny flat-screen over a chrome fireplace. The voices, I realise, were coming from the television.

‘You must be Miss Neilson,’ I say, reaching out my hand. ‘Lloyd, Joey and Pauly’s mum. Can I call you Leanne?’

Leanne Neilson isn’t the person I wanted to see today. I should be at Tom Kinnock’s house, getting his file shut down and letting his mother get on with her new life.

But social services is all about prioritising highest need.

‘All right,’ says Leanne, tilting her head, eyes still rolling around, not taking my hand.

‘So my name is Kate. I’m your new social worker.’

Leanne blinks languidly, grey cheeks slackening. ‘What happened to … er … Kirsty?’

‘She’s been signed off long-term sick.’

‘What do you want?’ A rapid nose scratch. ‘I’ve been in hospital.’

‘Yes – that’s what I wanted to chat to you about. Can I come in for a minute?’

Leanne looks behind her. ‘I mean, the house is a mess.’

‘It looks okay. Are the sofas new?’

‘Leather is … easier to clean. But give it a few weeks and Lloyd … he’ll wreck them.’ More rapid nose scratching.

‘Can I come in?’

‘When is Kirsty back?’

‘She probably won’t be coming back.’

‘Another one gone then.’ Leanne walks back into the lounge, her hand going to the sofa arm for support.

I close the front door.

‘Where’s baby Alice?’ I ask.

‘I told you. Sleeping.’

‘Can I see?’

‘This is like a … roundabout,’ says Leanne. ‘“Can I see the bedrooms? How are things with your partner? How are you coping?” I never see the same person twice. No one ever gives me any help.’

‘We don’t like changing staff either, Leanne,’ I say, following her up the pink-carpeted staircase. ‘It’s bad for everyone when people leave. But it’s just the way things are at the moment.’

‘Alice is here,’ says Leanne, lowering her slow voice to a whisper, and showing me a clean, relatively tidy baby room with five large boxes of Pampers stacked in the corner.

Baby Alice is asleep in a white-wood cot with a mobile hanging overhead. The room smells fine – unlike the landing, which has a faint odour of urine.

‘I know it smells,’ says Leanne, as if reading my mind. ‘Joey’s still wetting the bed. The doctor says he’ll grow out of it.’

‘How did this happen?’ I ask, pointing to a hole in a chipboard bedroom door.

Leanne blinks a few times, then responds: ‘Lloyd did that. I’ve told the housing people. They still haven’t been round to repair it.’ She adds, ‘It wasn’t my partner, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Has Lloyd started counselling yet?’ I ask. ‘He should be nearing the top of the waiting list by now.’

‘No.’ Leanne’s face crumples. She looks at me then, brown eyes filled with pain.

I know what she’s saying. I can’t cope. And suddenly I want to hug her.

But we’re not allowed to do that with adults.

‘Lloyd talked with the last social worker about coping strategies,’ I say, following the official line. ‘Boxing at his cousin’s gym? Has he been doing that?’

‘I’m his punch bag,’ Leanne says. ‘He’s getting so big now, I can’t stop him. I’ve asked them to take him into care. No one listens. He’s going to kill me one of these days.’

‘Let’s talk about how you can set boundaries. Look into some parenting classes—’

‘I’ve been to them.’

‘No. They were organised for you, but you didn’t attend.’

‘I couldn’t get there. I don’t have a car.’

‘I’ll set up some more classes for you. Maybe I can look into having someone drive you there. What about your medication? Are you taking it regularly?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m taking it.’ Leanne’s eyes dart to the floor. ‘But I lost some. Can you tell the doctor to give me more?’

‘You’d have to ask him yourself. Let’s talk about your partner. Are you still with him?’

‘Why do people always ask about him? What has he got to do with anything? I’m allowed to have a boyfriend. I’m a grown woman.’

‘He’s living here, isn’t he?’

Leanne thinks for a moment, eyes rolling around. ‘It’s my house,’ she says. ‘Why is it anyone else’s business who lives here? Look, can’t you take Lloyd into care, just for a bit?’

‘I can’t pick up a child and place them in care just like that.’

‘Why not?’

Because they have to be deemed at risk of immediate harm. And Lloyd is more of a risk to others than in danger himself.