He doesn’t answer.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, shall I Nathan?’ the DCI says softly. ‘I think you might’ve followed Clare Edwards when she came out of school. I think you tried to talk to her. I think that when she didn’t give you what you wanted, you didn’t like it. You pushed her. And then you panicked.’ A pause. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time you’d followed a girl home from school, would it?’
Madeline feels a flash of anger – the DCI has no right to bring up an old, and possibly false, allegation. They need to show Nathan Warren that they’re on his side. In her experience, people don’t tend to talk much otherwise.
He’s shaking his head even faster, putting his hands to his ears as if horrified by what they’re suggesting.
‘No,’ he says, ‘no! I didn’t touch her, I didn’t touch her.’ He looks frightened, murmurs something else under his breath.
Madeline leans forward. ‘What was that, Nathan?’
‘She was pretty,’ he says, without looking at them, and Madeline feels a jolt of unease.
The DCI is glowering. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘she was a pretty girl, wasn’t she, Nathan? Did you like that about her?’
Nathan gives a little moan. He glances at Madeline as if for help, and she puts a hand on Rob’s arm, wanting him to calm down.
‘Is it possible you were in Sorrow’s Meadow a bit earlier than you thought, Nathan?’ she asks him. ‘If you tell us, we’ll be able to help you. If you don’t, things might get harder.’ A pause. He just keeps shaking his head, back and forth like one of those toys people put in the backseat of cars. Madeline resists the sudden urge to reach out, tap him on the top of the head with her pencil to see if his head will bob the other way. They are not getting anywhere today.
‘Let’s pick this up at another time, sir,’ Madeline says quietly.
Rob glares back at her, but she meets his gaze head-on. As they exit the room, she thinks once more of Ian, covering his wife’s hand, putting his arm around her waist. People can put on one hell of a performance. It is too soon to know who to trust.
Clare
Monday 4th February, 8.00 a.m.
Mum has made crumpets with butter for breakfast and I eat quickly, eager to get out of the cold house and let the day begin. I know I should tell Ian and Mum that I’ll be staying at Lauren’s or something tonight, but they’ll have a go at me and I just can’t face it today. Yesterday’s argument was bad enough. I’ll text Mum later on, when it’s too late for them to stop me.
‘Have a good day today, Clare,’ Mum says as I eat the last bit of my crumpet and swallow more tea, feeling it burn my tongue because I’ve drunk it too fast. I nod.
‘I’ve washed your blue coat and your black skirt,’ she says, pointing to the pile of washing on one of the kitchen chairs, ‘in case you wanted to wear that this week. I know it’s your favourite. And I got the stain off the coat.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter. I can feel Mum watching me, feel her eyes burning into my face. She probably feels bad for yesterday, but that’s tough luck.
‘You have a good day too,’ I say, a bit reluctantly, and at that moment Ian comes in, whistling in that annoying way he does first thing in the morning, a repetitive, grating tune that now pops into my head at random times throughout the day. His hair is still a bit wet from the shower and little droplets of water glisten in his beard.
‘Morning, my two lovely girls!’ he says cheerfully, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth and pulling open the fridge. I stiffen, push my chair back and reach for my blue puffer coat from the pile of washing, shrugging it on.
‘I’ve got to get to school.’
Ian pauses at the fridge; I see Mum looking at him, her expression almost pleading. The fridge door swings shut and Ian clears his throat, swallows down a mouthful of peanut butter toast, and looks at me.
‘Listen, before you go, Clare – I’m – well, we’re sorry for what happened yesterday. Us rowing with you about the exams. Your mum and I talked and, well, we think we’ve probably been pushing you a bit too hard, love. It’s a stressful time, isn’t it, and we know you’re doing your best.’ He stops for a second, then opens his mouth as though about to say something else. I can see peanut butter clinging to his teeth.
‘We are sorry, Clare,’ Mum chips in, and I stare at them, surprised by this sudden show of togetherness. My tongue still feels weird, like sandpaper where the hot tea has burned it.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say at last, wanting the moment to be over. Ian looks visibly relieved, a smile breaking out on his large face.
‘That’s our girl,’ he says, and to my horror he pulls me towards him, gives me an awkward half hug, my face pressing up against his shirt, my gold necklace pushing into the dip in my neck as I’m crushed against him. He smells of Mum’s new shower gel that she got for Christmas, and too much Lynx. I want him off me.
‘Be good, Clare,’ Mum says, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Ian releases me and turns back to the fridge, his already-short attention span reduced even further by the lure of bacon.
Quietly, I let myself out of the front door, take a deep gulp of air. At least they’ve apologised. Sort of.
I close the garden gate behind me and shove my hands in my pockets, ignoring a WhatsApp from Lauren asking if I’ve done our English homework. She’ll be panicking, she always does, but I’ll just let her copy mine. I pull my hat down over my long blonde hair, hoping it won’t look too flattened by the time I get there, then set off down Ash Road towards school. It’s only a ten-minute walk. I can never decide whether I like the claustrophobia of this town – I’ve lived here ever since I can remember, since Mum and Dad left London for somewhere smaller, quieter, safer. You’ll love it here, Dad said. They certainly got what they wanted – nothing dangerous has ever happened in the history of this place. Other than what went on within the four walls of our house, of course, but no one talks about that. Especially not my mum.
Jane
Wednesday 6th February
‘Can we have porridge the way Dad makes it next time?’ Sophie, my daughter, is pouting, her spoon halfway to her mouth like Goldilocks caught in the act. The bowl I’ve made her for breakfast is almost untouched – I make it with water, Jack makes it with full-fat milk. You’d think a doctor would know the dangers of cholesterol, but there you go.
‘Next time,’ I say, using a damp J-cloth to blot the orange juice that Finn has spilled on the table. My eyes prick from tiredness, my mouth feels dry from last night’s wine with the PTA girls. I checked my phone every time I woke up in the night, shading it from Jack’s eyes, wanting to see if they’d made any arrests for Clare Edwards. The news is sparse, the details vague. I’ve set an alert for it on my phone, so that if anything new comes in I’ll see it straight away. I can’t bear the thought of being separated from my children today. Not when this has happened next door. I want to lock the front door, tuck them up in their beds and throw away the key.
I