‘Yes,’ he says. That’s all he says. Just yes. Quick and quiet. And hangs up.
Jack gets back first; it is almost dawn. His eyes are red, his lips chapped, his face grey. He is wearing navy jog pants and black trainers and a nylon anorak which the police must have given him to replace his clothes. He takes the coat off, moving slowly like an arthritic old man, and sits beside Florence, still sleeping on the sofa.
There’s no mistaking whose daughter she is. The same shiny straight black hair and even features, prominent cheekbones. The only thing Florence got from Lizzie are her eyes, sea green, the same as Tony’s.
Jack’s been the main carer the last couple of years. Lizzie and he are both freelance, so whoever has work offered grabs it and the other person picks up the domestic reins. It’s hard for them – juggling, coping with the uncertainty of money – but they both love their work and neither of them would swap it for the security of doing something tedious nine to five.
Jack will do anything he can get: radio parts, panto, telly, as well as theatre, which he likes best. He keeps going up for auditions but hasn’t had anything for months, whereas Lizzie’s been flat out. She first began interpreting at conferences and for deaf students at the universities here, then developed her theatre work, which has really taken off.
Kay brings Jack a cup of tea and he wraps his hands around it and hunches over. She tells him what she’s already told me about the day ahead. About what will happen to Lizzie. What must be done. She leaves us to talk.
He is clearly exhausted, but I am desperate to know what he saw, to hear the sequence of events, to find out if he’s learnt anything yet from the police.
‘What happened?’ I ask him.
He shakes his head. ‘They don’t know.’ His voice is worn out, husky, almost gone. ‘I’d been to the gym…’ He tries to clear his throat. ‘She was watching TV when I left…’
They both go to the gym regularly. Lizzie likes it as a way of keeping fit, and Jack has to keep in shape for his work in the theatre.
‘I got back…’ His hands tighten round the mug. ‘She was there…’ his composure breaks and he speaks, fighting tears, ‘she was there, like that. Who could do that?’ He looks at me.
‘Did you see anyone?’
Jack shakes his head, ruination in his eyes.
‘Broderick Litton,’ I say.
‘They know. They’ll interview him.’
‘She’s not had any trouble from him recently?’
‘No, nothing since last July.’
