Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [24]

She seems unable to decide, rocking in an agony of indecision. I am reminded of the way she acted choosing the toy. Impatience simmers beneath my skin, my nerves already shredded by Jack’s arrest. ‘Get two different things,’ I suggest, keeping my voice level, ‘one for you and one for Matilda.’

That works.

‘Rocky road for Matilda. Chocolate for me.’

We are halfway back to the yard when she bursts into tears. ‘I don’t want chocolate, I don’t want it.’

Tony gives me a look suggesting we go back, but I think she’ll just repeat it all. There’s a newsagent’s on the next corner and I nip in there, buy a bag of Hula Hoops and a carton of Vimto.

Florence eyes them as I come out. She is still crying. I don’t say anything, but we walk on and she quietens. Once we’re in Tony’s office again, I open the Hula Hoops and eat a couple. Put the cakes on the table. Offer the Hula Hoops to Tony. He shakes his head until he sees me glare, then he takes one and eats it. Florence watches.

She can tell something is going on but can’t quite work out what.

I shake the Vimto, pierce it with the straw and take a sip. Offer it to Florence. She takes it and drinks. All the crying will have made her thirsty.

‘Can I have some of your cake?’ I say.

She screws up her mouth, uncertain.

‘You can have some of my Hula Hoops.’

She nods.

I give her the Hula Hoops. She eats them all. I take a morsel of cake. She eats the rest, then the Rocky Road, her little teeth cracking the nuts with relish.

Tony fields calls while we’re there. There’s a strange, sad intimacy in the situation. It’s like we’re hiding. I should speak for myself. I’m hiding. Playing house. Not willing to face real life. Real death.

Dead on noon, we go to buy chips, and they are huge and crisp and golden. The vinegar makes my eyes water. We eat them in the car. I burn my tongue. Florence polishes off plenty. Her appetite is amazing.

‘We’d better go,’ I tell Tony, ‘let you get on with work.’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘We’ll go.’

‘If you hear anything…’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll come round later.’

I’m at sea, unmoored. I drive home, and Florence and I lie on the sofa together with Matilda and watch films back to back.

What do I do now? How on earth do I explain this to her?

Kay does ring and I am civil – just – and ask her what is happening. ‘As soon as I know,’ she says, ‘I will tell you.’

It’s not enough.

By the time night falls, the storm has gone. The trees outside are still, the ground is drying up. All is quiet. But inside me the tempest rages. I am fit to crack, like Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanes, spout till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Is there any chance you’ll be released without charge? Just thinking of it makes me jittery. I don’t want you anywhere near me, near Florence. Surely they won’t let you go now; they must have hard evidence to arrest you.

You bolting, your scrabble to escape, your vehement denials -they were what betrayed you. Jumping to your feet, trying to barge past the police officer, struggling and shouting. If you were innocent, I’m sure your response would have been different. Numb disbelief, uneasy laughter, a sense of hurt, of injustice, growing anger, outrage. You should have rehearsed that better. Done the preparation. Perhaps you had, but when they came with their set faces and their handcuffs, their stolid caution learned by rote, you fluffed your lines, acted out of character, dropped the mask.

You’d done well up till then, I’ll give you that. Five-star review. I had no inkling, not one iota. No moment when the thought that it might be you crept into view or tickled at the back of my skull, or niggled in my belly. No sniff of suspicion that you were anything other than a grieving husband knocked sideways by the tragedy. You were superb. Didn’t put a foot wrong, not where I was concerned. Give that man an Oscar.

Ruth

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Saturday 19 September 2009

‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘He’s had to go to work,’ I lie.

Florence pulls a face. But she doesn’t query the unusual way Jack left, the men who dragged him away, the fact that his hands were cuffed together and he was raging.

I resort to practicalities. ‘So I’ll put you to bed. Think it’s time for a hairwash, too.’

‘When is he coming back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Soon?’ she says, with a sharp nod, as if it’s definite. As if by wishing it she can make it so. ‘Now,’ she says.

‘Not now.’ Though I have no idea how long Jack might be away or whether he will be back. Will I let him in? Will we sit here and drink tea and pretend he hasn’t been ‘helping the police with their inquiries’?

‘We’ll get you ready and I’ll sleep back in my bed,’ I say.

Her face falls in resignation, and she gives a small sigh.

The bastard. I curse him for what he has done already and the hurt that’s yet to come.

Tony doesn’t stay long. With Florence asleep, I’m aware that we are alone together. And that hasn’t happened for years.

He looks so tired: the network of broken capillaries that craze his cheeks, a fake rosiness set against his dull eyes and the rash of grey stubble on his chin. His hand shakes when he lifts his mug of tea.