‘You could tell the police all that,’ I say. ‘Why do you think they wouldn’t listen to you? It sounds as if you know what you’re talking about.’
Sian shrugs. ‘They must have a reason for thinking what they think. I’m hardly going to change their minds, am I?’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go in a minute.’
‘The photographs Jenny Naismith’s got, the ones I brought in, they came from Lucy Bretherick’s house,’ I blurt out, not wanting her to leave yet.
‘What? What do you mean?’
I tell Sian an edited version of the story: the man at the hotel who pretended to be Mark Bretherick, my trip to Corn Mill House, finding the frames with the two photographs hidden beneath ones of Geraldine and Lucy. I’m hoping she’ll be flattered that I’m telling her so much, that it’ll make her feel important, make her want to stay and carry on talking to me. I don’t mention that I stole the pictures. ‘Did Lucy’s class go on a school trip to the owl sanctuary at Silsford Castle?’ I ask. It didn’t occur to me to ask Jenny Naismith.
It’s a while before I get an answer. Sian is still trying to take in what I’ve told her. ‘Yes. Last year. Every year we take our reception class.’ She looks at me. ‘I’m not being funny, but… even if Jenny knew who the other girl was, she wouldn’t have told you.’
Because she thinks I’m a gutter press hack. Great. For a school secretary, Jenny Naismith is a more than averagely talented actress. If she thought I was planning a big, emotive story in one of the tabloids, perhaps to publish pictures of other St Swithun’s pupils, what would she have done? I press my eyes shut. She’d have taken the two photographs, locked them away somewhere, then made herself scarce.
I have no proof that those pictures exist, that I ever had them. ‘So, if this girl is a pupil at St Swithun’s, she’s probably in Lucy’s class,’ I say.
‘Not necessarily,’ says Sian. ‘The photo of the other girl might have been taken the previous year. Any year, really. How old did she look?’
‘I don’t know. I assumed she was Lucy’s age because of where I found the photo, because the other woman looked roughly the same age as Geraldine.’ I hear myself admitting to having made assumptions on the basis of no facts, connections that probably don’t exist, and feel embarrassed. ‘Is there a girl at St Swithun’s whose surname is Markes?’ I ask. ‘Whose father is called William Markes?’
‘No. I don’t think so, no.’
Why would there be? My brain is rushing ahead of itself; I’m speaking without thinking.
‘Did the Brethericks seem like a happy family?’
Sian nods. ‘That’s why I can’t get my head round this thing with the photos. Mark would never… He and Geraldine were really sweet together. They always held hands, even at parent consultations.’ I wince. Sweet? The adjective seems inappropriate as a way of describing two adults. ‘Most of the parents sit with their arms folded, looking deadly serious, as if we’ve done something wrong. Some even take notes while they interrogate us. Sorry, shouldn’t have said that, but they do harp on: is their child more than averagely creative, are we doing everything we can to stimulate them, what special talents have they got that the other children don’t have? The usual competitive rubbish.’
‘But not Mark and Geraldine Bretherick?’
Sian shakes her head. ‘They asked if Lucy was happy at school-that was it. If she had friends, and enjoyed herself.’
‘And did she? Have friends?’
‘Yeah. This year the class-Lucy’s class-is friendly as a whole, which is nice. Everyone plays with everyone. Last year it was a bit more cliquey. Lucy was one of the three oldest girls in the class, and they tended to hang round together. Lucy, Oonagh-’
‘Wait.’ I recognise the name instantly; it was in the diary Mark Bretherick made me read. Oonagh, daughter of Cordy. Could she be the girl in the picture? I open my bag, pull out my notebook-home to my many lists-and a pen. I write down the names as Sian says them, the two girls in Lucy’s gang last year: Oonagh O’Hara and Amy Oliver. There were no references to Amy in Geraldine’s diary.
‘Is either of them skinny?’ I ask, remembering the swollen-looking knees, the bony legs.
Sian looks taken aback. ‘They’re both thin. But…’
‘What?’
For the first time, she seems to be holding something back. ‘The woman-what did she look like?’
I describe her: short brown hair, square face, blunt features. Leather jacket. ‘Why?’ I say. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve really got to go in a minute.’ Sian ’s eyes move to the door. ‘I think the pictures you found might be of Amy and her mum. Amy’s painfully thin. We used to worry about her.’
‘Used to?’
‘She left St Swithun’s last year. Her family moved away.’
Moved away. For some reason, the words make my skin prickle.
‘It’d explain why Jenny Naismith didn’t recognise her,’ says Sian. ‘Jenny only started here in January.’
My heart is pounding. ‘Tell me about Amy’s family,’ I say, trying not to make it sound like an order. ‘The O’Haras too.’ Amy Oliver could well be the girl in the photograph, but Oonagh was the one mentioned in Geraldine’s diary, and there’s part of me that can’t allow anything to be neglected or overlooked. It’s the same part that won’t let me walk past a cupboard or drawer that Nick has left open and climb into bed, no matter how exhausted I am. ‘You’re too thorough,’ he regularly tells me. ‘It’s easy to fall asleep even if the bedroom’s a mess-look.’ Three seconds later he’s snoring.
Sian looks at her watch and sighs. ‘You didn’t get any of this from me, right? The O’Haras split up last year. Oonagh’s mum went off with another man.’ She rolls her eyes to indicate that she has no time for that sort of thing. Instantly, I feel defensive on behalf of Cordy O’Hara, a woman I’ve never met. ‘Amy’s parents…’ Sian shrugs. ‘We didn’t see much of them, to be honest. They both worked. It was always Amy’s nanny who dropped her off and picked her up. But I believe they’re separated too. I’m not sure, though. You know what schools are like for rumours. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’d split up.’
‘Why?’
Sian rubs the strap of her watch, distracted by her need to be somewhere else. ‘I’ll walk with you to wherever you’re going,’ I say. ‘Please. You have no idea how much you’re helping me.’
A flush of pleasure spreads across her face, and I find myself hoping that Zoe is never so grateful for a snippet of praise from a stranger. If I could secure one thing for my children it would be confidence. The confidence to lie, cheat on their partners, skive off work and stick their noses in where they aren’t wanted? Yes, I say silently. If necessary, yes.
Sian and I leave the gym, head out into the maze of corridors. ‘Amy’s dad’s lovely but her mum’s a bit funny,’ she tells me, eager to talk now that we’re moving. ‘She used to make Amy write all sorts of strange things in her news-book that couldn’t possibly have come from Amy. The children are supposed to do it themselves from reception age onwards-’ She breaks off, seeing the question in my eyes. ‘Oh, it’s like a little notebook. All the children have one-the school provides them. Every weekend they’re supposed to fill them in. They bring them in on Monday morning and read them out to the class: what I did at the weekend, that type of thing.’
‘What kind of strange things?’ I ask.
Sian scrunches up her face. ‘Hard to describe, really. You’d have to see it for yourself.’