40. Now

I'm doing my best. I've always done my best. Surely she can't be being bullied by the whole damn school. The Beaufort-Bradleys rule PES. But then… does it make sense that Jenna is being bullied? She walks around all hunched, hiding behind those headphones, making sure the whole world knows she doesn't want them.

I try to get her to engage more – show off her beauty. But she throws it in my face. Cuts off her hair. Tosses her costume in the wardrobe.

I've done my best. She brings it on herself.

I stumble as I reach the bottom of the stairs. Bevan and Croft keep going. I'm so shocked by my thoughts that I have to sit with my head between my knees.

I'm a terrible mother. A terrible person.

How could I have ignored my daughter's suffering for so long? Why do I pretend I think she's happy? But what exactly is she suffering from? Did the bullying come before the eyeliner, or after?

Why do you cut yourself, Frances?

I run after Bevan and Croft. My family and Theo sit around the fire clasping mugs.

‘Still no lawyer?' says Bevan.

‘Sadly not,' says my father.

‘And no Dan.' Bevan doesn't look at me, and it isn't a question.

I check my phone. It's almost half eleven – where is he?

‘I'd like to speak to some of you again,' she says. ‘Volunteers?'

Everyone looks at each other and Bevan says, ‘Thank you, Ava.'

Ava stands hesitantly, looking confused, wondering what she did to offer herself.

‘Just go,' says Mina, shooing her after Bevan.

My father stares at me. ‘What's going on, Frances?'

I'm about to tell him, but should I? ‘Detective Bevan got a call and then she came in here.' It's not a lie.

There's no room by the fire so I sit at the table. Mina gets up and moments later presses a mug of hot chocolate into my hands, but still she doesn't meet my eye.

No one talks. Shouldn't we be trying to figure out what's going on?

‘Can anyone think of anything that might be useful?' I say. ‘Do we know about any new friends, any plans to go anywhere?'

‘Your daughter is at Glastonbury with that sordid little girlfriend of hers and you're risking the reputation of this family, your brother's career, over it,' says my father.

I feel like I'm being squeezed in a vice. ‘How am I risking any of that?' I whisper.

‘Don't be so na?ve.'

‘Ash,' says Croft, standing by the door now.

‘Me?' He stands. I can see him wondering if Bevan's choice of first interviewee was quite as random as it seemed.

‘You don't have to,' says Father, and Ash looks at him, then at me.

It's the first time he's looked at me properly all day and the thought that he's been lying to me and to the police about Jenna being bullied, and that he might be about to change tack and refuse to speak to Bevan…

I don't know if he can see all the emotions on my face, but he goes white. ‘It's fine,' he says, his voice hoarse, and walks out.

Father tuts. ‘Tristan,' he hisses, and my brother jumps after his son. Father shoots Ava and Mina a look, just to let them know he didn't miss that Ava didn't have a chaperone.

‘What should I have done, Father?' I ask.

‘Unlike our local constabulary, we are not without resources,' he says.

I feel my forehead creasing. ‘If you're able to assist the police, please, you'll do anything to help, surely?'

‘You can't change tracks once the train has left the station.' He stares me down.

You can, actually. But my stomach turns. He's right about one thing. We are a family of considerable resource. My father and Tristan could've helped, before I went to the police. They could've gone straight to Georgia. But would that be legal? If she hadn't wanted to speak, what could we have done to make her?

None of it makes sense. Nothing ever makes sense with this family.

I stare into the flames and press my cuts, concentrating on the cold sharp pain.

‘I'd like your phones, Ash and Ava,' says Bevan, coming back in behind Ash and Tristan.

‘I'm afraid not,' says Father. ‘You'll need a warrant.'

Ava gasps.

‘Father!' I clench my fists.

Croft leans against the table with a sigh. ‘We only need a warrant if Ash and Ava refuse to hand them over voluntarily.'

‘They're my phones,' says Father. ‘The contracts are in my name. You'll need a warrant.'

‘Father,' says Tristan, ‘are you sure this is necessary?'

They stare at each other.

‘No, a reasonable man is never one hundred per cent sure. But no one in this room has had a chance to gather their thoughts before this invasion began, let alone consult legal counsel. I've let them search the farm. I don't believe any further incursions are necessary.'

Tristan throws up his hands and I look over at Ash and Ava. Where are their phones in any case? It's strange to see them without them glued to their hands.

‘Ash? Ava?' I say.

Father straightens an ornament on the mantelpiece. ‘I don't intend to be obstructive, Frances. If there were something useful on those phones, your niece and nephew would have told us. This upheaval is not required. Frankly, I'm not sure the twins know how to live without them.'

Except they knew Jenna was being bullied and they didn't say. What else are they hiding?

‘Mr Beaufort-Bradley,' says Bevan. ‘The proper procedure is for everyone to cooperate.'

‘They can have my phone,' says Ava, tears slipping down her cheeks. Something seems to have shifted in her.

‘It's not your phone,' my father snaps. ‘Not everyone here controls a multinational company, or is involved in running this country. I very much want my granddaughter home as quickly as possible, but I have more to consider than any one of you can imagine.'

Meet my father: David Beaufort-Bradley MBE. The most important thing in the room. Always.

Bevan smiles. Croft coughs.

Father turns to me. ‘Dear girl,' he says, ‘we will find Jenna. But there are ways of doing things.'

My eyes fill and I barely know I'm going to ask the question before I blurt it out. ‘Do you know where Jenna is?'

He stares and I know that no one outside of this family can see the mounting waves of fury crashing beneath his surface.

Why did I say that? He doesn't know. He's being difficult because he doesn't like being bossed around; to punish me for not letting him control the situation. And it is his farm.

‘I believe you're done for now,' my father says to Bevan.

She looks at her fingers, spread out on the table. ‘I'd like to send a family liaison?—'

‘No,' says Father.

Bevan nods. ‘May I take it your name is the only one on the deeds to this property?'

‘There is nothing within the grounds of Shorthorn Lodge that I don't own,' he says.

I'm about to object. But of course I know what he means. His name is on all contracts that matter, including the ones for our souls.