‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ I groan in frustration.
‘What?’ He looks confused.
‘We’re late for school. Oh, never mind. Put these on.’ I throw him his school uniform.
‘No!’ he yells, as I turn off the telly and drag him upstairs to brush his teeth. ‘It’s not finished!’
‘That’s too bad,’ I say grimly, buttoning his shirt. Then I shove his shoes on his feet and bundle him, whining and wailing into the car. Outside, Eileen’s husband, Bob, is collecting up the leaves in a refuse bag. He stops and stares with sharp, critical eyes. Anyone would think I was abusing my son, I think, bitterly. ‘Stop crying,’ I hiss at Dylan. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
‘We’re late for school,’ I explain cheerily to Bob over the sound of Dylan’s screams and Bob nods slightly but doesn’t smile.
When I get to the school, it’s already first break, and all the children are outside in the playground, running and shrieking. Ms Hamlyn is on duty, standing by the wooden pergola in the centre of the playground, a whistle around her neck. She’s deep in conversation with another teacher, a woman with dark, curly hair, but breaks off when she sees us.
‘Oh, hi Dylan,’ she coos sweetly, crouching down to his level. ‘We missed you in phonics. Where have you been?’
‘Sorry,’ I say breathlessly. ‘We overslept.’
She straightens up, the sweet smile vanishing. She doesn’t tell me it’s okay this time. I’ve been late already twice for pick-up in just the first week and now this. It looks like even Ms Hamlyn’s good nature is not inexhaustible. Three strikes and you’re out with her, I suppose.
‘Did you inform Nicky in the office?’ she says coolly. ‘She’ll need to add Dylan to the register.’
‘Not yet, but I will.’
‘Where’s his lunch? I’ll put it in the fridge,’ she adds, as Dylan runs off to play with Harry and a couple of other children who are kicking a ball around on the small football pitch.
Crap! I forgot. ‘It was just on the side,’ I lie, feeling mortified. ‘I’ll go home and fetch it.’ I haven’t even given him a water bottle.
‘No need. Don’t bother. He can have a school dinner. There are always a few extra and I can give him one just this once. Are you okay?’ she says with sudden sympathy as I turn to leave. ‘You look a bit peaky.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, scurrying away before I start bawling in front of Ms Hamlyn and the other teacher. ‘Thank you.’
At home, I just have time to feed Delilah and shower and change before I have to head to the police station to give a statement. As I’m leaving the house, I glance in the mirror and examine myself critically. My hair is still sleekly blonde, but it’s starting to get greasy and clump a little. I haven’t washed it since the haircut yet. I’ll never be able to blow dry it the same way. But I’ve dressed smartly in a new summer dress with purple butterflies. I look respectable and honest, I think, tucking my hair behind my ear. I give myself a friendly, trustworthy smile. They have to believe me over Luke, surely.
The police station is near the centre of town, just behind Boots on the high street. I’ve only ever been inside once before, years ago when I found a stray dog with Charlie. Knowing that our parents wouldn’t be willing to keep it, we took it to the police station. I can’t remember much about what happened, except that we left the dog with a friendly policeman and that he gave us badges.
There’s no badge this time, and the policeman who greets me is not so friendly. A stocky, young officer, he fills in a form with grave formality and then shows me through without ceremony to a bare, grey office where DI Littlewood and Sergeant Fisher are waiting.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Littlewood smiles coolly – as if I had any choice in the matter. She takes a sip of water from a plastic cup. ‘We’ll try to take up as little of your time as possible. Please take a seat.’
‘Would you like a drink, Catherine?’ asks Fisher, all friendly bumbling as if I’m a guest in his house.
I smile at him gratefully and shake my head. If I accept a drink, I won’t be able to hide the fact that my hands are trembling, and it will be obvious how nervous I am.
‘If you don’t mind, we’d like to run through your account of Friday night again, just to make sure we’ve got everything straight,’ says Littlewood smoothly as I perch on the edge of the chair.
‘Sure, no problem,’ I say with false bravado.
Littlewood switches on a tape recorder, announces the date and lists the names of the people present in the room.
‘So, Catherine Bayntun,’ she says, ‘for the recording, please tell us in your own words what happened on the night of Friday the thirtieth of August.’
Cautiously, I run through the events of that night again. But I’ve been through it so many times now in my head it sounds false – like a rehearsed speech – and I try to ignore the sceptical expressions on their faces as I recount what happened: dropping Dylan off, Weight Watchers, the pub and then the drive home.
‘I invited Luke into my house, and he accepted,’ I finish firmly. ‘He stayed the whole night.’ I repeat that several times, so that there can be no doubt.
‘Do you have any evidence that he was at your house?’ asks Fisher.
‘Like what?’
He shrugs, ‘Something he left behind maybe, or some proof that you and he were intimate.’
‘He has a birthmark on his thigh,’ I say, with a sudden flash of inspiration.
