Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [34]

I am poleaxed by her clumsy attempt at – what? Empathy, solidarity?

‘If you need more time, if it all gets too much, you just say.’ She nods eagerly. ‘You can’t rush something like this.’ Flashing me another smile, her teeth whitened, almost neon. I must be twenty years older, but feel like a child, as if she’ll pat me on the head any moment.

‘We’re thinking of shaking things up a bit,’ Stella says.

I look at the display for New Year in the corner – charting the different ways it is celebrated around the world – and the books in translation in front of it for people who’d like to read about another place. Then there’s the frieze we did last summer to brighten up the children’s library, and the mobiles made by the Sure Start group. The new notices for the pensioners’ Young At Heart group. I scan the room, see the people busy on the computers, the group of Asian men gathered around the tables, talking over the news, and it all looks good to me.

‘Fine,’ I say. I’ll bide my time, see what she does.

‘What d’you think?’ Tracey says when Stella has disappeared. Tracey and I have worked together for nine years. She’s great, a bit lazy perhaps, reluctant to do the shelving, which some people would get brassed off about but it doesn’t really bother me. She has a tough time at home: her mother has dementia and sometimes goes walkabout but so far has been returned unscathed.

‘Seems friendly enough,’ I say.

Tracey arches an eyebrow.

‘I’ve only just met her,’ I add. ‘Bit patronizing maybe.’

Unfortunately Stella is in work when I get an urgent call from school. Florence is distressed and they think I should come and settle her or take her home.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I’ll have to go.’ My heart pattering too fast as I pull my coat on. Small upsets mushroom these days. I’ve lost perspective.

‘Of course,’ she croons. ‘Perhaps you came back too early. The little girl, she must be so-’

I cut her off. ‘The block loans, can you ask Tracey?’

‘I will, don’t you worry about a thing.’ Which would be reassuring if I didn’t already know that she is taking every opportunity to question my fitness for work with Tracey, under the guise of concern. Always on about how awful I must be feeling and how it’s bound to affect my competence.

I can hear Florence as soon as I get close to the building, howling sobs, her throat sounding raw. She is in the Wendy house, which is now decorated like a tropical beach hut. Pictures of palm trees and surf fixed to the walls, a table with a raffia cover. Lei garlands of flowers and whole coconuts and large shells strewn about. She is curled over on her front, hands, knees and face on the floor.

‘She got upset at snack time,’ Lisa says. ‘I think Paige was a bit too enthusiastic about handing round the drinks and something set Florence off.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I crawl into the Wendy house and begin talking to her. ‘It’s all right, Nana’s here now. What a sad girl, come on, it’s all right now.’ Stroking down her back, easing her. Gradually her crying slows and peters out. The other children have gone outside to play. There’s just Lisa tidying round.

I manage to cajole Florence out of the house and we sit on a chair.

‘Coffee?’ says Lisa.

I’m so grateful. I know she’s got thirty kids to cater to and lesson plans and God knows what else, but she’s one of those people who just makes time, makes connections. Caring, I guess.

Florence’s face is red and puffy, her nose swollen and snotty, lips cracked. I wipe her nose. Offer her water, which she takes in little sips. While I drink coffee, I try to think of anything new that might have troubled her. She knows I’m back at work, but I’ve never been late to pick her up.

‘She’s not done anything like this before?’ I check, though I’m sure they’d have told me. Lisa shakes her head. I’ve no way of knowing if this is progress or not. Certainly not good for the well-being of the other kids in the class.

‘Did Paige say anything? They haven’t had a falling out or…’ I don’t like to suggest it but I wonder if somebody’s bullying Florence, making comments about her mum or her dad. Or me. Your fat old-lady nana.

‘No. Paige just took her the milkshake and Florence went into meltdown. Has she had night terrors? It reminded me of that.’

‘Milkshake? Was it banana?’

‘Yes. For our tropical theme. How did you know? Is she allergic to bananas?’

In a manner of speaking. Oh, Florence.

I close my eyes.

I think of Jack.

With ice in my heart.

Part Two

CHAPTER ONE

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

The first glimpse I get of you in court comes as I am led up the steps from the witness suite. My cheeks hot and my heart skipping too fast.

You are impeccably dressed, black suit and navy tie, white shirt. Sitting quietly. No hint of bravado. If you were auditioning for the role of respectable young man you’d walk it.

I haven’t been able to watch the start of the trial because I am a witness, but once I’ve said my piece I will be here every minute. Tony must be somewhere in the room, and Denise and Bea. But I am too nervous to search for their faces. The barrister for the prosecution is called Mr Cromer. He’s big, beefy, florid, with a Devonian burr in his voice and wire-rimmed specs.