Using the pink glass triangle’s sharpest point, I start to slice gently at the grey rubber seal at the top of the window. The soles of my feet sting. I stop to examine them and see that they are bleeding: small chunks of lampshade have embedded themselves in the skin. I ignore the pain and carry on cutting at the thin rubber strip. I don’t care how long it takes. I will never stop. I will spend the rest of my life gouging out the corner of this window.

After what feels like hours, a curl of rubber springs towards me-I have prised it free with my makeshift spade. Yes. I drop the slice of lampshade on the carpet, grab the rubber and yank it as hard as I can. The strip peels away, and the glass in the window shifts slightly. I’ve pulled out the seal.

My body feels too battered to break anything. I push the massage table on to its side and start to unscrew the central metal leg, twisting it clockwise. It is stiff, and takes a while. I sing under my breath, ‘Annie Apple, she says “Aah”, she says “Aah”, she says “Aah”.’ Zoe’s Letterland song-she learned it at nursery. By the time I get to Z I’ll have done it, I tell myself. I’ll be free. ‘Annie Apple, she says “Aah”, she belongs to Mr A. Bouncy Ben says “Buh” in words, Bouncy Ben says “Buh” in words, Bouncy Ben says “Buh” in words, and then he bounces home. Clever cat…’

I’ve done it. I’m holding the sturdy metal leg. It’s hollow, but still heavy enough. It should do the trick.

Running from the opposite wall, I aim the end of it at the middle of the window. The glass smashes. It cracks, then crumples and falls like hard, opaque confetti.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and move towards the open air.

Police Exhibit Ref: VN8723

Case Ref: VN87

OIC: Sergeant Samuel Kombothekra

GERALDINE BRETHERICK’S DIARY, EXTRACT 8 OF 9 (taken from hard disk of Toshiba laptop computer at Corn Mill House, Castle Park, Spilling, RY29 0LE)

17 May 2006, 11.40 p.m.

Mum phoned this evening. I was so tired, I was barely able to form words with my lips and tongue. ‘What are you doing?’ she said. She always asks this question as if she hopes my answer will be ‘Sculpting a dolls’ house for Lucy from a piece of firewood. I’d better go now-got to get back to my sewing machine and finish the cute gingham curtains for those dollies’ little windows!’

‘Tidying away the toys that Lucy’s scattered all over the house,’ I told her.

‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘You’re always saying how tired you are. You should sit down and put your feet up.’

This surprised me. Mum usually tells me I have no reason to be tired and has never before shown an interest in the position of my feet.

‘Is Lucy in bed?’

‘Not yet,’ I told her.

‘Wait till she goes to bed, then. There’s no point putting things away that she’s only going to take out in five minutes’ time.’

Wrong again, Mother. There is a clear point. Tidying up is not only about the result. The process is equally important; sometimes I think it’s the only thing that keeps me sane at home. When Lucy and I are both in the house, I do almost nothing but walk from room to room tidying away the mess she’s made. I stand behind her, and as soon as she’s put something down I put it back in its proper place. Every time she pulls a toy or book or DVD off the shelf, five other items tumble down with it and land on the carpet. Each time she dresses up, all the play-clothes have to come out of the wardrobe to be strewn all over the bedroom. Then there are the toys I loathe most, those with more than one component: tea sets, picnic sets, hairdresser sets, Lego, Fuzzy Felt, jigsaws. All these things end up all over my floors.

In the past Mum has said that I should make Lucy tidy up herself, but if I did she would have a tantrum, which I would then need to summon up the energy to deal with. Still, that’s not the only reason why I clear up after her. Hovering behind her and putting back the things she’s taken out appeals to me in a sick kind of way. I like the symbolism of it. I want to prove to all observers how hard it is for me-second by second, minute by minute-to make my life acceptable to me, to get it into an order I can live with. I want my predicament to be clearly visible to all: Lucy is constantly ruining everything and I am constantly struggling to repair the wreckage of my life. And I will never, ever give up. I’ll be on my feet, on my hands and knees, fighting the things I hate for as long as there’s breath left in my body.

How would it be if I sat on the sofa chatting or watching television while Lucy spread her plastic, felt and glitter across the room? People would think I had accepted the ‘status quo’. You cannot undo the act of having a child once you’ve had one-I know this-but my endless, frenzied tidying is the closest I can get to the act of undoing (harmlessly, I mean).

I didn’t tell Mum any of this because I knew she would start ‘shoulding’ me-telling me what I should and shouldn’t think and feel. You can’t go round ‘shoulding’ other people. I could tell Mum she should be more understanding, but where would that get us? Evidently she lacks the capability.

‘Please don’t wear yourself out,’ she said. I was actually quite touched by her concern until she said, ‘I’m not trying to interfere in your life. All I care about is Lucy, that’s all. If you’re exhausted, you won’t be able to look after her properly.’

All I care about is Lucy, that’s all? Couldn’t she have packed a few more declarations of exclusivity into that sentence?

I was her daughter for more than thirty years before Lucy existed.

I told her not to phone again.

16

8/10/07

Sam Kombothekra realised he was going to have to watch his feet every time he moved in this strange, multi-level flat, or he would break his neck. There was a steep flight of stairs round every corner, and for added inconvenience the hall, landings and each individual step, it seemed, were littered with small, brightly coloured wooden balls. Sam had nearly been felled by a green one a few seconds ago.

He stared at the envelope in his hand, wondered when to say something and to whom. To Esther alone, to Nick alone, or to the two of them together? Maybe it was nothing.

He might not have looked at the Thornings’ mail at all if it hadn’t been scattered across the floor. He’d picked up the post and patted it into a tidy pile before going upstairs as a favour to Nick Thorning, who, if the state of his home was anything to judge by, was not coping well in his wife’s absence. The two children, Zoe and Jake, had been safely deposited with Nick’s mother. That had been Esther Taylor’s idea, one she’d voiced just as Sam had been on the point of suggesting the same thing.

Simon Waterhouse had been right about Esther. Well, almost. Charlie Zailer had picked her up from reception at Rawndesley nick, where she’d been fuming because no one seemed to believe people were trying to kill her best friend. Sam had now heard her long story, which revolved around an allegedly sexually frustrated childminder who thought cosmetic breast surgery was more important than saving the eco-system of Venice ’s lagoon.

Esther, despite being addicted to exaggeration, nosey and bossy, had proved helpful in many ways. Nick Thorning hadn’t been aware that his wife had given him a veiled message that she was in trouble. He hadn’t remembered where Owen Mellish worked, only that Sally thought he was a pain in the backside. It was Esther who, when she’d phoned and Nick had told her Sally had gone to Venice with Mellish, had known something was wrong. Mellish had no involvement in the Venice work. He worked with Sally at HS Silsford, a hydraulics consultancy firm. Sam had arranged to meet Mellish at Mellish’s girlfriend’s flat so that he could search it. He hadn’t found Sally Thorning, or any evidence to suggest Mellish had abducted her or killed anybody. All he’d turned up was several large Ziploc bags full of cocaine, which Mellish would do time for if Sam had his way.