some for the people,’ she said.
‘People?’ Suzanne looked across to where wooden toys were assembled on some twigs and leaves. The peacock feather was stuck in the ground like a flag above them.
‘They’re on a boat,’ Lucy explained. ‘Escaping from the monsters. Tamby’s guarding them.’ She carried her glass carefully back to where she’d been playing.
Jane pulled a face. ‘Still monsters,’ she said. ‘They spent a long time with Emma’s father,’ she went on, ‘but I don’t know why. Joel told me.’
Suzanne had to do a quick mental pivot to realize that Jane was now answering her earlier question. ‘Emma’s father? How does Joel know?’
Jane shrugged. ‘Joel made it his business to know. I don’t ask. Joel wanted to know if there was anything they weren’t telling us – that we should know. He was worried.’
‘Well, so he should be.’ Suzanne wasn’t giving any ground on Joel. ‘She is his child. His only child.’ This concern, uncharacteristic of Joel in her experience, made her feel slightly warmer towards him.
‘Oh, she isn’t. His only one, I mean.’ Jane sat back on her heels, detaching a snail from one of the plants. She looked at it. ‘I don’t want that.’ She threw it over the wall into the garden of the student house. ‘He had a child from his marriage.’
Suzanne was genuinely shocked. She hadn’t known. ‘He never said anything. I’m sure he never told Dave.’
‘No. There’s no contact.’ Jane had finished working on the tubs now, and was looking at them with calm pleasure.
‘What, never?’
Jane fixed her blue eyes on Suzanne. ‘Never.’ She gauged Suzanne’s reaction for a moment, then said, ‘I know how it looks. And I don’t have many illusions about Joel. I know what he’s like. But there’s Lucy, you see.’ She rested back on her heels, her hands clasped round her cup. ‘Joel was just a bit of fun – I knew he wasn’t someone to take seriously. I didn’t actually plan for Lucy to happen.’ Suzanne nodded. Jane rarely talked about this. She was a very self-contained and private person. ‘Lucy needs to know that her father loves her,’ Jane said, glancing back at where Lucy was still absorbed in her game. ‘And if that means I have to make allowances for him, well, what does it matter? If I pressure Joel into doing more, he’ll just vanish. And what good will that be for Lucy? She’ll find out what he’s like as she gets older, but, just now, she needs to know he loves her.’
‘Does he?’ Suzanne had never, until recently, seen much sign of this in Joel.
Jane sighed and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. As much as he’s capable, maybe. Though this thing has really given him a jolt. He was straight up as soon as I told him – he was pissed off that I didn’t call him straight away – and he’s sticking around. Oh, he’s off today because he’s working, but he’s coming back tonight.’
Suzanne felt depressed at the thought of Joel being around. She remembered her encounter with him that morning. ‘He seemed upset that the police had interviewed Lucy,’ she said doubtfully. She found Joel in his new incarnation as concerned father a bit hard to believe.
Jane nodded. ‘He said I shouldn’t have allowed it. He thought it had upset her. I think she needed to talk about it, and she needs to know that someone is doing something. It was good for her to see the police – she knows that there’s someone to chase the monsters away. And we all needed to find out what happened – to Lucy, as well as Emma. I think Joel knows that really. He just hates to admit he’s wrong.’
‘Do you know any more about what happened to Lucy?’ Suzanne looked across the garden to where Lucy was rearranging her toys, her face serious.
Jane shook her head. ‘Lucy still says she went to the playground on her own, then she hid in the woods because she didn’t want to go to the hospital, I think. But it all got mixed up with Tamby. Each time she tells it, it gets more and more like one of her stories. I agree with Joel about any more interviews. I’ve told the police I’m not asking her again. I want her to forget.’
Suzanne needed to talk. Jane listened quietly as Suzanne told her about the interview with DI McCarthy, and her worry that she’d unwittingly implicated Ashley. ‘I tried to explain,’ she said, ‘but he didn’t believe me.’
Jane looked at her with exasperation. ‘You worry too much. Leave it up to them. It’s not your problem any more. You did the right thing. You told them what you saw. They’ll deal with it.’ She thought for a moment. ‘McCarthy. Was he the fair-haired one? Cold and distant? There’s something very sexy about men like that. He should have been wearing a uniform.’
‘Who? Who should have?’ Suzanne was thrown.
‘Your DI McCarthy. And you had him to yourself for a whole hour?’ Jane sighed. ‘All Lucy and I got was some female with a stuffed rabbit.’ She looked at Suzanne. ‘It’s not your problem,’ she emphasized.
Suzanne looked at Lucy who was engaged in carefully burying one of her toys in the narrow border at the bottom of the yard, her hands and face muddy, her hair tousled, her face intent.
Dennis Allan sat at the small coffee table in the front room. It was dark; the heavy curtains were drawn. He didn’t want people looking in, staring, whispering. He’d heard what they had been saying. Him… his wife… now his daughter… the police… murder… murderer… Murderer. He held his hands round the mug of coffee, sipping it occasionally, not noticing that it was cold. How had it happened? He looked at the photographs on the glass cabinet, safe in their frames, safe like he wasn’t any more, like his family wasn’t any more. Sandy in her wedding dress, white, he’d wanted that, though his mum had had a bit to say. Well, under the circumstances, Emma already on the way … Emma, in one of those oval frames the school photos came in, ten, smiling. Emma and Sandy on holiday, squinting in the sun, smiling. Emma in cut-off jeans, her blonde hair dyed a funny yellow, that awful stud through her nose, not smiling any more. Emma last Christmas by the tree, caught unawares, playing with the cat. Smiling now.
How had it happened? He’d tried so hard. I did try, Sandy. Nothing. I love you, Emma. Nothing. The answer came, unwelcome and unasked for. Like mother, like daughter. His own mother’s sour disapproval that had blighted the early years of his marriage. He felt his eyes fill with tears. He was weak. People thought he was weak. He’d seen the veiled contempt in the eyes of the detective. Did they think he didn’t notice? They thought they were so clever. Well, let them work it out.
Eight o’clock that evening, Suzanne decided she was going to the pub. There was a comedy night, she could talk to some friends, have a drink and just get away from it for a while. She put on the black trousers she’d bought several weeks ago and hadn’t worn yet and a silk top that Jane had given her. She twisted her hair back and caught it in a clip, put on some lipstick.
She was just checking the contents of her purse when there was a knock at the door. Suzanne opened it. She was surprised to see Richard Kean, the psychologist and her mentor from the Alpha Centre, his head almost touching the top of the doorframe, his bulk filling the small entrance hall as he came in. Richard had never been in her house before. She invited him into the front room, wondering what it was he wanted. He looked at her, taking in her make-up, the new clothes. Suzanne always dressed conventionally, even severely, for work. Until recently, she’d dressed conventionally, severely, for everything. ‘Sorry, I’ve interrupted you. You’re going out.’
‘No,
