Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [14]

‘I need to ring her.’

‘She said she’ll come round tonight unless you text her,’ Kay says.

‘Where are the others?’

‘They’ve taken Florence to the library.’

‘The library?’

‘That all right?’ Kay says. ‘They asked her where she’d like to go and that’s what she said.’

It makes sense. Somewhere familiar, safe, welcoming. The staff know Florence through me, and Jack takes her to the story sessions and the events we have there. I’m about to reply, to tell Kay something about the library and my lifelong job there, when the pain in my chest ratchets up several notches and my head swims. I put out my hand but there’s nothing there to hold on to, and I feel myself swooning, falling back, my bones gone to water.

The GP, someone from my practice I’d never met, listens to my heart and takes my blood pressure. He knows the situation and advises me to try and eat, little and often, and increase my fluid intake. He thinks I’m dehydrated as well as suffering from shock and stress. ‘Your heart sounds fine, no arrhythmia; your blood pressure is high, but that’s to be expected. I’m not unduly worried.’ Doctor speak. Unduly. Who else says unduly these days?

He writes a prescription for a mild tranquillizer in case I need it.

‘What about side effects?’ I say. ‘Is it addictive?’

‘Not with a short course at this dosage,’ he says. ‘There are a range of potential side effects. The leaflet lists them all, but the most common ones are feelings of detachment…’

Isn’t that the point?

‘… drowsiness, and a dry mouth.’

Do I want to feel detached? If I muffle the emotions, won’t they just grow in intensity, waiting to ambush me when I stop taking the medicine? ‘I’m not sure I want it,’ I tell him.

‘Entirely up to you; the script is valid for six months, anyway. And if there’s anything else you need, do ring the surgery.’

Marian and Alan bring Florence back; she’s clutching a pile of picture books that threaten to overbalance her. They plan to do some shopping for us. Marian is brisk and practical and talks too much, a running commentary. She’s probably afraid that she’ll fall to pieces if she stops. Alan’s reserved, speaks only to agree with her comments or echo her thoughts. We’ve only met them a handful of times, at the wedding, once before that and then at Florence’s first birthday party. I watch Marian heating the soup and talking about allotments and gardens. And home-cooked vegetables. She manages to talk about soup for a good five minutes.

Living in East Anglia, they see much less of Jack and Lizzie and Florence than Tony or I do. What will happen now? Would Jack think of leaving, go and live there, take Florence? The thought sends panic swirling through me, and I grip the table. When they’re ready to leave for the shops, I ask Marian if she will fill the prescription for me.

I can’t cope with all the people calling at my house to comfort us. It seems heartless to turn them away, but Kay suggests she act as gatekeeper and will explain that we are grateful for their good wishes but too distressed to meet anyone.

Cards arrive, from neighbours and colleagues and friends. It takes me ten minutes and several tours of the house to find my reading glasses. I keep losing things. As if now that I have lost Lizzie, I can’t keep hold of anything else.

I open a batch of cards at the table.

‘Is it your birthday?’ Florence says, her head cocked to one side.

‘No. These cards are for us because of Mummy dying. People know we’re sad. They’re thinking about us.’ Her face closes down and she slips from the chair. I go after her into the lounge.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ she says.

‘Gone for a shower. It’s all right to be sad,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s sad.’

‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘This book.’ She pulls out a battered copy of Each Peach Pear Plum, still doing the rounds. I remember reading it to Lizzie.

‘Okay.’ I sit on the sofa and she clambers on to my lap.

We say the words together, and she tilts her head from side to side as she chants, pointing with her finger at the characters hidden in the pages. Mother Hubbard, Cinderella, Robin Hood.

And for a few minutes Florence and I escape, float down the river with Baby Bunting, tumble down the hill with Jack and Jill and climb through the branches of the great tree.

CHAPTER EIGHT

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

DI Ferguson takes my hand in both of hers when we meet, her grasp firm. She looks me in the eyes and says, ‘I’m so sorry. We are doing everything possible to establish what happened to Lizzie and bring whoever is responsible to justice.’ She glances around. ‘Is Mr Tennyson here?’ she says to Kay.

‘I’ll get him. Tony, Mr Sutton, will be here any time.’

We go in the dining room. I call it that but no one ever eats in here. I use it for overspill, for hobbies and storage. The inspector takes her jacket off and drapes it over the back of an armchair. She’s small next to Kay, close to my height though slimmer than me. A black woman, her clothes stylish, her hair pulled up away from her face in a topknot. Specs, red and white and brown patterned frames, on a chain round her neck. A touch of pinky-red lipstick.