Raven's Gate

curtain of water. “So when do I get to meet my foster parent?”
    “Her name is Jayne Deverill,” the social worker said. “And she should be here any minute now.”
    They were mending the escalators at Holborn tube station and as the woman rose up to street level, sparks from the oxy-acetylene torches flashed and flickered behind her. But Jayne Deverill didn’t notice them. She was standing completely still, clutching a leather handbag under her arm, staring at a point a few metres in front of her as if she was disgusted by her surroundings.
    She fed her ticket into the barrier and watched as it sprang open. Someone knocked into her and for a second something dark flashed in her eyes. But she forced herself to keep control. She was wearing ugly, old-fashioned leather shoes and she walked awkwardly, as if, perhaps, there was something wrong with her legs.
    Mrs Deverill was a small woman, at least fifty years old, with white hair, cut short. Her skin was not yet withered but it was strangely lifeless. She had hard, ice-cold eyes and cheekbones that formed two slashes across her face. It was hard to imagine her pale lips ever smiling. She was smartly dressed in a grey skirt and matching jacket with a shirt buttoned to her neck. She wore a silver necklace and, on her lapel, a silver brooch shaped like a lizard.
    Her progress from Holborn station had been observed.
    Mrs Deverill was unaware that she was being followed as she made her way down Kingsway, heading for the offices behind Lincoln’s Inn, but the man in the hooded anorak was never more than ten steps behind. He was twenty years old, with greasy blond hair and a thin, unhealthy-looking face. He had recognized the woman as an out-of-towner the moment he had spotted her coming through the ticket barrier. He didn’t know who she was and he didn’t care. Just two things about her had interested him: the handbag and the jewellery.
    He didn’t know where she was going but hoped that she would leave the main road with its many pedestrians and occasional policemen and follow one of the quieter streets that twisted away behind. Anyway, it was worth a few minutes of his time to see. He was still with her as she paused at a corner and turned left next to a pub. He smiled. It couldn’t have worked out better. Now there were just the two of them, walking down an alleyway that cut through to the legal offices – solicitors’ firms and council buildings – which existed in their own quite separate world. He took one quick look around, checking there was nobody in sight, then dug into the pocket of the dirty anorak he was wearing. He took out a jagged knife and turned it in his hand, enjoying the sense of power that it gave him. Then he ran forward.
    “You!” he shouted.
    The woman stopped, her back towards him.
    “Give me the bag, bitch. Now! And I want the necklace…”
    There was a pause.
    Jayne Deverill turned round.
    Ten minutes later Jayne Deverill was sitting, a little breathless, holding a cup of tea that she had been offered. She was in the office of the Family Proceedings and Youth Court, which was where Matt was being held.
    “I’m very sorry I’m late,” she was saying. She had a deep, rather throaty voice, like someone who had smoked too many cigarettes. “It’s very rude of me – and I deplore rudeness. Punctuality is the first sign of good breeding. That’s what I always say.”
    “You had trouble getting here?” Mallory asked.
    “The coach was late. I would have called you from the bus station but I’m afraid I don’t carry a mobile. We’re not as up to date in the Yorkshire countryside as you are down here in London. In fact, there’s no signal where I live, so a mobile telephone would be something of a waste of time.” She turned to Matt. “I’m very glad to meet you, my dear. I have, of course, heard so much about you.”
    Matt looked at the woman who had volunteered to be his foster parent in the LEAF Project. He didn’t like what he saw.
    Jayne Deverill could have stepped out of another century: a time when teachers were allowed to beat children and there were Bible readings before breakfast and tea. He had never met anyone more severe-looking. Jill Hughes had greeted the woman like an old friend, although it turned out that the two had never met – they had only spoken on the phone. Stephen Mallory looked more uncomfortable. He was also meeting Mrs Deverill for the first time, and although he had shaken her hand, he