Page 15

I stare at Mr Whitlow’s wide brown eyes, his rugged jaw, his loosened navy tie.

Five and a half hours missing. Not one and a half. Five and a half.

It’s a good job I’m sitting down because inside it feels as though something might snap. I don’t flinch. But I can’t say anything either. My mouth is wired shut.

Mr Whitlow takes a deep breath. ‘The first thing we need to do is activate the parent tree. We’ll message every single parent we have on file and ask them if their children have seen Jenna.’

The parent tree? How ridiculous. What about calling the police? What about raising the alarm all around the local area, across Cornwall and up and down the country?

But I breathe. The first thing the police will do is ask the parents at the school anyway. So I nod slowly, seeing the back of Jenna’s newly exposed neck beneath the blunt curtain of her dark hair.

Did I even see her face today? Look her in the eye?

I try to conjure her but I see her as a sleeping, puffy-cheeked newborn, pink hat drawn over her bare head.

‘She was in this morning – all her teachers have confirmed. Let’s ask the children if they’ve seen her since lunch.’

I remember holding her on that first day home, tiny and warm, pressing my nose to her impossibly soft head and breathing in her intoxicating scent. A wave of emotion rolls over me, but instead of wobbling, my voice comes out sharp. ‘She’s been missing since lunch, and you didn’t know?’

He colours slightly. ‘Sixth-formers don’t need permission to leave school grounds. I think it was the same in your day?’

I make an effort not to cross my arms. I don’t need him to feel attacked. But that isn’t a clever rule, is it? We loved it when we were sixth-formers, but now I see it in a different light.

‘Mrs Beaufort-Bradley – Frances – I am sorry. I’m sure everything’s fine, but I understand your worry.’

I stiffen the corners of my mouth to stop them from turning all the way down. ‘I’ve been trying to call Rose Godfrey, but she’s not picking up. Can you try?’

‘I’ve tried already.’ He gives a regretful smile. ‘Let’s get this message out.’ He types away. I notice there are pastry flakes on the desk and I resist the urge to tell him to clean them up. This is one of the most expensive schools in England, not a run-of-the-mill comp.

I smooth my dress over my lap.

‘Okay. “EMERGENCY TREE ALERT: Jenna Beaufort-Bradley, sixth form C, has not come home from school today. Last confirmed leaving English (Mr Derby) before lunch. Please speak to your children and message back if they saw her after that.” How’s that?’

I nod. ‘Did Miss Smith say anything else?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone light, my brother’s words in my head.

He shakes his head. ‘Sorry. Nothing else.’

My phone buzzes with the alert and it sends a fresh bolt of fear through my heart. I can’t stop looking at it: Jenna Beaufort-Bradley, sixth form C, has not come home from school today.

Immediately, my phone starts pinging with messages from friends on the PTA, before Mr Whitlow even starts to get them. They each want to tell me how sorry they are, that they haven’t seen her, that they’ll ask their children, that they’re sure nothing’s wrong.

One mother says her son is having a party this afternoon and she’s just searched the house and she isn’t there. Another asks if she could have gone to Glastonbury for the music festival. It’s this weekend.

I stare at the messages piling up and want to scream at these kind people for clogging up my phone with useless sympathy.

‘Nothing else?’ I press.

Mr Whitlow clears his throat. ‘Miss Smith mentioned you and your brother might have some thoughts about her coming to teach here when I hired her, but you never raised it at the time.’

I feel suddenly desperate for water, desperate for air. I stand, take Mr Whitlow’s glass and drain it at the open window, looking down on the fountain.

How could I raise it if I didn’t know?

Georgiadidn’t report Jenna missing.

I remember the last thing she ever said to me, years ago: ‘May you burn in hell, Frances.’

This is what that feels like.

But everything that happened – it was thirty years ago. And even Georgia couldn’t do something to a child.

I set the glass on the windowsill. A man on a sit-on lawnmower trundles up the driveway. ‘I didn’t raise it because I didn’t know,’ I say, just about keeping accusation out of my tone.

‘You didn’t know?’

I shake my head, forcing myself to sit back down.

He frowns. ‘We must have mentioned her at PTAs… I’ll admit it was rushed, with Ellen going off on mat leave early, but the announcement was in one of the round-ups.’

We’ve talked about her at PTAs? I suppose I don’t keep track of every single member of staff and Smith is such a common name. There’s a Mr Smith who teaches geography.

But the round-ups, I read every one. I cock my head. ‘I don’t think so…?’

He nods, clicks something and turns his screen. He points at a paragraph in an email:

Bad New/Good News!As Mrs Haynes will be finishing for maternity leave earlier than expected and won’t be returning post-Christmas, we have had to find a replacement sooner than expected. We have been very fortunate to secure the talented Georgia Smith, an alumna of PES and drama graduate of Manchester University, with a masters in educational psychology and over twenty years of secondary teaching experience. Georgia comes highly recommended from the prestigious Redmoor College, where she is known for reinvigorating their dramatic productions and her award-winning Acting Up programme. We look forward to welcoming her this December.

She’s been here for six months? I almost ask to check the email recipients, but it’s not like I could have just randomly dropped off the list. How could I have missed this?

Maybe I skimmed the email. Maybe I saw that heading and thought it was inconsequential – a mix-up with a raffle, something about the ill-fated hockey team – not about the hiring of a member of staff who once attended this school and left in disgrace.

Or maybe I read it and forgot.

That’s not possible though, really, is it?

But then I think of the photograph of Dan and his mistress. I didn’t even look at it properly before I stuffed it in the bin.

‘I wonder if a slightly less opaque heading would have been more useful?’ It slips out before I can catch it.

‘I don’t think you should worry about Miss Smith.’

I nod, trying to seem calm and reasonable. ‘Probably not. But still, I’d like to speak to her myself.’ Even though it’s the last thing I want to do.

He holds his breath then lets it out. I can feel him calculating how to manage me. ‘Look, I’m not sure what happened between you, but, under the circumstances, I wonder if it might be best if I act as a go-between, for now. I don’t believe she has much more to add and if – if – Jenna is missing, then she will of course cooperate with the police.’

I can feel myself bristling, but the word ‘police’ rings like a bell, filling my head till it’s all I can hear.

If it comes to a fight between me and Georgia, do I want to look like the crazy one? And could I face her without falling apart completely? Even after all this time, the thought makes my stomach turn all the way over.

Twisted. Evil. That’s what she is – what she must’ve become. She could do something to a child – a Beaufort-Bradley child. She hates me and my family with a passion so bright it surrounds her like an aura.

I have to speak to her. I’ll know if she’s lying. But then I remember my brother telling me to tread lightly. He’s the politician. He knows how to get things done.

I force myself to smile. ‘Yes, I see, that’s understandable.’

But deep in my gut I feel it: Georgia has done something to Jenna. Georgia isn’t here because she got a job teaching. She’s back in Port Emblyn to destroy my family. And I’ve known it since the second I saw her.