you sure? You’re a hundred per cent sure you didn’t recognise her?’
‘Honestly, if she hadn’t called out my name I wouldn’t have given her a second glance.’
‘If you don’t know her why is she doing this?’
‘Psychiatric problems? Who knows? Possibly she’s become fixated with me because of something I wrote in the paper. I really don’t know, Jo.’
‘But you believe me? That’s she’s dangerous?’
Max twists round and shifts one leg onto the sofa so we’re looking directly at each other. ‘I don’t know. I hope not, but she’s come after us three times now. Four if you count planting the drugs. I gave DS Merriott a description of her when he interviewed me. He said we need to keep a record of everything – every sighting, everything she says, everything she does. And if we ever feel threatened we’re to ring 999 straightaway.’
‘Oh my God.’ I press a hand to my throat. I was so desperate for Max to believe me but now he does I feel genuinely scared.
‘It’s going to be OK, Jo.’ Max reaches for my hand and presses it between his. ‘We can get through this.’
‘Can we? What if the police press charges about the drugs? I’ll have to go to court.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. The police only found a small amount. “Personal use”, that’s what the DS said. I think you’ll be let off with a caution whether they find Paula or not.’
‘But why did she do it, Max? Why go to all the trouble of breaking in just to plant drugs? Why didn’t she ransack the place if she’s convinced you have something of hers? It doesn’t make sense.’
The TV is still in the alcove to the left of the fireplace, with the DVD player and PlayStation 4 on the shelf beneath it. Elise’s iPad is propped up against her box of toys. All the DVDs and games are still on the bookcase. I went through every room in the house when I checked the windows and nothing was missing, nothing was out of place.
‘What are you doing?’ Max asks, following me as I walk into his study next door. His desk looks the same as it always does – strewn with papers, CDs, coffee-stained mugs and pens. His books are still on the shelves. His records are still in the racks. I open the doors to one of his cupboards and look inside: more documents, more paperwork, more folders.
I turn back to look at him. ‘Is anything missing?’
I watch his face as his eyes flick from the desk to the shelves to the racks to the floor. ‘No. Not that I can see.’
‘Do you swear on Elise’s life that you’ve never taken anything that doesn’t belong to you?’
‘I swear.’ His eyes don’t leave mine as he shakes his head. ‘I swear on our daughter’s life.’
Why did you do it, Max? Why did you take something that wasn’t yours? Because you could? Because you were greedy? Because of Elise? Or all three? You tell yourself you did it for your daughter, but is that the truth – really? If it is, why are you having trouble sleeping at night?
You knew the police were on their way so you acted fast. You grabbed what wasn’t yours to take and you ran. You thought you’d got away with it. You thought the police would arrest everyone who knew what you’d taken, but you were wrong. You missed someone. Someone you believed wasn’t a threat. You stupid man. You stupid, arrogant man …
Mum is making lunch, bustling around her small kitchen in her worn-down slippers and Cath Kidston apron, filling the table with bowls of salad, bread, crisps and a quiche, fresh from the oven. I told her to let me make dinner but she wouldn’t hear of it. So, while Elise ‘helped’ Mum in the kitchen, I sat with Dad and watched a quiz show with him on the small TV in the corner of his bedroom. He fell asleep partway through and I’ve been sitting here ever since, listening to the dry wheeze of his breathing and watching the laboured rise and fall of his chest.
We arrived an hour ago. There was no sign of Max when Elise and I got up, just a crumpled blanket on the sofa and a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. There was no note, nothing. After our conversation about Paula, and Max’s apology, I couldn’t bring myself to discuss a separation so we spent the rest of the evening silently drinking wine as we watched a sci-fi/horror thing on Film4. I was grateful for his company – there’s no way I would have stayed in the house alone – but an apology wasn’t magically going to put right everything that was wrong with our relationship. It was too little too late. Or was it? Should I fight harder to save our marriage? It would make Max and Elise happy but what about me? I went to bed early, just to get a bit of time to myself. If Max was upset he didn’t complain.
This morning I didn’t feel safe, being left alone in the house, and I couldn’t face going to work, so I rang Diane and told her my back was playing up again then I texted Max to tell him I was going up to Mum and Dad’s for the weekend and I’d speak to him soon. He’ll be gutted that he won’t get to see Elise for a couple of days and I know I’m running away from talking to him about our marriage but I need to think. I don’t want to make a hasty decision I regret.
‘Will you come and have your lunch, Joanne?’ Mum calls from the kitchen.
Dad doesn’t stir. I kiss his rough cheek and creep from the room, gently pulling the door closed behind me. As I do, my phone vibrates in my pocket and a tinny tune fills the air.
I don’t recognise the number that flashes up on the screen but it’s got a Bristol code. My heart quickens. It must be the police with an update on the drugs investigation. I didn’t expect them to get back to me this quickly.
‘Hello?’ I press my mobile to my ear. ‘Jo Blackmore speaking.’
‘Hello, Jo,’ says a friendly-sounding female voice. ‘My name is Lorraine Hooper. I’m a senior social worker in the Child Protection team in South Bristol and I was wondering if I could schedule a visit to—’
‘You’re a social worker?’
‘That’s right. I’m a senior social worker in the Child Protection—’
I feel myself sway and have to hold onto the door frame of Dad’s room to keep myself upright. ‘What’s this about?’
‘It’s nothing to worry about, Jo. I’d just like a little chat. Are you and Elise home this afternoon?’
I try to speak, to frame a coherent question in my mind, but I can’t. My brain is anaesthetised by fear. I can hear Mum shouting that the quiche is getting cold but the sound is distant and echoey, as though it’s being shouted from the base of a deep well. The police must have informed Social Services about the drugs bust. And now they think I’m an unfit mother.
‘There’s no need to worry. I’ll explain
