23. Now

‘Then what?' I squeeze my fists tight.

‘We don't have cameras down the lane,' says Argus.

Why not?

‘And Ash and Ava, they didn't say anything about this?' says Mr Whitlow.

‘No! No.' I smooth my hair out of my face. Why didn't they tell me? I feel like I've been punched. They were probably trying to protect Jenna. Kids don't like parents knowing about their squabbles.

‘Okay. So, could you talk to the twins and find out what that argument was about?'

I'm unable to speak.

‘Have you spoken to the rest of your family yet?'

I shake my head, still trying to gather myself. I look down and notice my nail polish is chipped. ‘My father hasn't been picking up but he'll be home now. I spoke to Rose Godfrey's mother, Lydia. She told me Rose was at home, but I… She wasn't.'

‘Are you certain?'

‘I was sitting outside their house.'

Mr Whitlow's eyebrows rise. ‘Did you tell Mrs Godfrey?'

I sigh. ‘I did, but she didn't seem concerned.'

‘I see. I'd take this as a positive, though. It seems likely the girls are together.'

I nod, though I'm not sure. After that fight? I swallow. They never fall out. Maybe Rose really was hiding from me at her house.

‘Has someone spoken to Rose's bus driver?'

‘I did,' says Mr Whitlow. ‘Rose took the bus back to Polzeath but Jenna wasn't with her. He said he'd remember if she had been. I think she gets that bus quite a lot?'

I sigh. ‘So, probably not together.' My nose stings. I see Jenna at five years old, climbing too high on the rocks at Piskie, her skinny arms reaching up.

‘Look, my father, I think it's unlikely he'll know where Jenna is. I've tried to get hold of Rose but I can't. I think… I think I should call the police.'

Mr Whitlow frowns. ‘I'm afraid it's starting to look like that. But I would say you should speak to your family first.'

‘Right.' I close my eyes and try to stop my legs from buckling. I have to sit and Argus's desk chair almost escapes me. I rub my forehead. ‘I can be home in ten minutes.'

‘Good.'

‘Nothing else came through from your message?'

He waggles his head. ‘Some children did report the argument between Rose and Jenna – I was going to tell you when Argus called me about the CCTV,' he says. ‘But none of them knew what it was about. And I spoke to Colin – Mr Derby, Jenna's English teacher – again. He noticed Jenna's haircut and said Jenna seemed more confident in class this morning – she offered to read and he said that she put on some of the accents? She's usually quiet.'

‘Well, that's good,' I say.

‘I… It was out of character.'

‘Right.'

‘Look…'

‘What is it?' I ask.

‘It's just, I don't know for sure if this means anything, but I'm not getting as many replies from the students as I would expect in this situation.' He winces.

‘What could it mean?' I ask.

His lips turn down.

I look at my hands and see on my left index finger where the quick has been pushed too far back under my nail. ‘It could mean that they know something, and they're not saying.'

‘Mmm,' he says.

‘Have you spoken to Georgia again?'

Mr Whitlow sighs and leans against Argus's desk. ‘Frances, Miss Smith is a good teacher. She gets on well with Jenna. There's nothing to?—'

‘Gets on well with her?'

‘I believe they have a good relationship.' He says it like that's what I want to hear. But he knows we have history. He said Georgia had mentioned I might have a problem with her joining PES. How much did she tell him? What does he know?

I wipe away the sweat from my neck. ‘Mr Whitlow, you do understand that Georgia isn't exactly on good terms with my family?'

He nods. ‘I do.'

‘And you don't think it's strange that she has a good relationship with my daughter?'

‘Miss Smith is a professional. I can tell you, honestly, that she's an excellent teacher. Whatever happened?—'

‘So, you don't know what happened?'

‘I'm not sure it's relevant. Knowing Miss Smith, I can't imagine it plays any part in her work.'

So, does he know or not?

‘Jenna is a student, like any other. Miss Smith provides her with the support she needs, and I think you're aware that Jenna struggles with some aspects of drama. In any case, Georgia's been teaching all day and only went home about half an hour ago.'

I take another breath. She was here while I was here earlier? I thought Sarah had tried to call Georgia but she'd been on her way home. Why would Mr Whitlow have been talking to her on the phone if she'd been in the building? Were they covering for her? But I don't want a fight – I want to call the police.

I check my watch. It's coming up to seven thirty: dinner time.

‘I should go,' I say.

Mr Whitlow pats my shoulder and I resist the urge to slap his hand away.

I want to ask if he knows why Georgia left her last school, show him the Mumsnet message. I can't describe that as ‘treading lightly', but surely the time for treading lightly has passed? I grit my teeth. ‘Thank you.' I push out of the hut.

Back in my car, it's like a sauna. I check my reflection out of habit. My cheeks have gone pink from the sun. And the anger. I accelerate out of the drive and into the lane, a high-pitched drill piercing into my temple.

She gets on well with Jenna.

Ten minutes to home. Check with parents. Call police.

Why wait to check? Doesn't every second count? What if I'm already too late?

They're not going to know. When did they last speak to Jenna outside of mealtimes? When have they ever shown any interest in my daughter?

I see my father's face, eyes not quite as clear as they once were, watching me. The world doesn't revolve around you, Frances.

The heat suddenly overwhelms me. White spots dance before my eyes, and I pull over on the hard shoulder and step out of the car and gasp at a rush of air as something huge and fast and enormously loud comes towards me. I flatten against my car as an SUV dragging a trailer flies past, throwing up a biting storm of dust.

Blood beats in my ears as it retreats, honking, a middle finger raised out of the window. Over the gate, seagulls rise in a swirling cloud.

This is all too much. I have to keep a clear head. I need to… What did Tristan say? Get under the situation.

The sun is golden on the fields and poppies dance in the long grass. Hanging far off in the sky is the dot of a red hot-air balloon. I watch as it grows, the flame bursting to life then disappearing.

I look at my reflection in the car window and force myself to smile.

There. That's the real me.

What you think, you become.

I get back in the car. Everybody keeps saying the police will expect me to have spoken to everyone before contacting them, so that's what I'm going to do.