Maybe it makes sense, thought Sam. If you discover that the person you assume is looking after your child can’t be, because she’s lying in the bath with her wrists slashed, maybe the first thing you do is panic and search the house for your daughter. Sam tried for about the two hundredth time to imagine himself in Bretherick’s terrible position. He doubted he’d be capable of moving at all if he’d just found Kate dead. Would he even be able to pick up a phone? Would he think about where his sons were?
There was no point speculating. Mark Bretherick couldn’t have killed Geraldine and Lucy. He was in New Mexico when they died.
‘She said she’d come and see me again, but I don’t think she will,’ Bretherick was saying. ‘I was stupid to let her go. I need to know who she is.’
It was a few seconds before Sam realised he was talking about his visitor from this afternoon, not his dead wife.
‘We’ll do our best,’ said Sam.
‘It’ll be easy for you to find out. You can appeal on television. She could be Geraldine’s twin, she looks so much like her. She’s married… Oh, and she’s got one of those mobile phones that shuts like a… sort of like a clam shell. Silver, with a jewel on the front, looks like a little diamond. You need to find her and bring her back here.’
Sam let out a long, slow sigh, hoping Bretherick wouldn’t notice his sinking shoulders. A television appeal? That would be Proust’s call, and Sam could guess what the inspector would say, could almost hear him saying it: Mark Bretherick had appeared on the news many times in the past few days. His was the sort of tragedy that attracted attention, and possibly visits from local nutters. This woman, whoever she was, could easily have been lying. Should Sam suggest a TV appeal all the same? Lobby for one as Simon Waterhouse might? Perhaps if he’d been there longer…
Sam still felt like a stranger in a strange land at work. Every molecule in his body yearned to go back to West Yorkshire, to the lock-keeper’s cottage by the side of the Leeds-Liverpool canal that he and Kate had loved, with the wisteria climbing its walls. Sam hadn’t known what the plant was called but Kate had gone on about it so much when they’d first seen the house, he could hardly have avoided learning the name. But Kate’s parents lived near Spilling and she’d finally admitted she needed help looking after the boys so there was no way they’d be going back to Bingley. In the end, Sam thought with a mixture of pride and shame, it turns out I’m more sentimental than my wife.
‘If Geraldine didn’t do it-if you can prove that-I’ll be able to carry on,’ said Bretherick. ‘For her sake and Lucy’s. I expect that sounds odd to you, Sergeant.’ He smiled. ‘I must be the first man in the history of the world to feel relieved when he realises his family has been murdered.’
7
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
St Swithun’s Montessori School is a Victorian building with a clock-tower on its roof and green-painted iron railings separating its playground from the enormous landscaped garden of the old people’s home next door. I can hear children through the open windows as I approach the front door-singing, chanting, laughing, calling out to one another. It sounds as if a party is being thrown in every room.
I stop, confused. It’s the summer holidays. I was expecting to find the place empty apart from the odd secretary. There’s a sign on the door that says ‘Action Week One-Monday 6 to Friday 10 August’. I wonder if it’s some kind of holiday childcare scheme, and have the automatic thought: what are parents supposed to do for the rest of the holidays?
I walk in and find myself in a small square entrance hall with a flagstone floor. Class photographs line all four walls: rows and rows of children wearing green. This startles me; I feel as if I’ve been ambushed by tiny faces. Beneath each picture is a typed list of names and a date. One, to my left, is dated 1989. I see Lucy Bretherick’s green dress, over and over again.
The sight of all these children makes me ache for mine. I found it harder than ever to drop them off at nursery this morning. I didn’t want to let them out of my sight. I kept asking for one last kiss, until Jake eventually said, ‘Go to work, Mummy. I want to play with Finlay, not you.’ This made me laugh; clearly he’s inherited his father’s diplomacy.
I didn’t go to work. I rang HS Silsford, lied to the disgusting Owen Mellish and came here instead. I’ve never phoned in sick before, legitimately or otherwise.
‘Can I help you at all?’ A soft Scottish accent. I turn and find a tall, thin woman behind me. She looks my age but better preserved. Her skin is like a porcelain doll’s and her short, sleek black hair hugs her scalp like a swimming cap. She’s wearing a fitted jacket, the thinnest pencil skirt I’ve ever seen and sandals with stiletto heels. On her ring finger there’s a pile-up of gold and diamond bands reaching almost to her knuckle.
I smile, open my bag and pull out the two photographs that I found hidden behind the ones of Geraldine and Lucy. When I look up, I see that the Scottish woman’s face has been immobilised by shock, and it’s nothing to do with my cuts and bruises. ‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I look like Mrs What’s-her-name on the news who died. Everyone’s been telling me.’
‘You…’ She pauses to clear her throat, eyeing me warily. ‘You know her… her daughter was one of our pupils?’
My turn to look shocked. ‘Really? No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’ I have no plan other than to keep lying until I come up with a better strategy. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded flippant,’ I say. ‘I had no idea you knew the family personally.’
‘So… you’re not here in connection with the tragedy?’
‘No.’ I smile again. ‘I’m here because of these.’ I pass her the two photographs.
She holds them at a distance, then brings them close to her face, blinking at them. ‘Who are these people?’ she asks.
‘I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t know. I just recognised the uniform as belonging to this school.’ Inspiration rushes to my aid. ‘I found a handbag in the street and the photos were inside it. There was a wallet too, with quite a lot of money in it, so I’m trying to find the bag’s owner.’
‘Weren’t there credit cards? Contact details?’
‘No,’ I say quickly, impatient with my own fictions. ‘Do you know who the girl is? Or the woman?’
‘I’m sorry, before we go any further…’ She extends her hand. ‘I’m Jenny Naismith, the headmistress’s secretary.’
‘Oh. I’m… Esther. Esther Taylor.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Taylor,’ she says, eyeing my wedding ring. ‘This is a bit of a puzzle. I know every child at St Swithun’s and every parent-we’re like a big family here. This girl is not one of our pupils. I’ve never seen the woman before either.’
The bell rings, making my whole body shake as if in response to an electric shock. Jenny Naismith remains perfectly still, unperturbed. Doors all around us start to open, and children pour out. They aren’t wearing the green uniform. Some of them are in fancy dress-pirates, fairies and wizards. Several Spidermen and Supermen. For a few seconds, maybe half a minute, they’re a flood of colour, sweeping past us and out into the playground. As soon as I am able to make myself heard, I say, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘But… why would a child who wasn’t at St Swithun’s be wearing the uniform?’