‘Tony… I think they’re right.’
‘What? Have you taken leave of your senses? Bloody hell, Ruth.’
‘Stop shouting and listen,’ I say, but he doesn’t.
‘He thought the world of her; this is Jack we’re talking about.’
‘I know! But when they came, when they arrested him, he tried to run away. He was expecting it. Any normal person, if they were innocent, they’d be speechless, stunned, outraged, but it was just like he knew he’d been caught and he made this mad dash for it and they had to physically restrain him.’
The air seems to leak out of Tony. He moves slowly, stooping, around the desk to his ancient office chair with its curved back and castors on the legs and green leather seat and back.
I perch on the edge of the desk so that I have a clear view of the car.
‘But what did they say?’ He gives a great sigh, ragged and fast, and a spasm jolts through his frame.
‘Nothing. I don’t know. Kay was there, she knew they were coming.’
He raises his hands to the sides of his head. I am reminded of Florence when I made her milkshake.
‘And they wouldn’t do that, arrest him, unless there was good reason,’ I say. My mind careers back to that night, bumping over the paltry facts I know. There was no sign of damage. No need to force entry. A dozen blows at least. Jack discovering the body. Jack’s story of a night-time trip to the gym. ‘What’s the alternative? If it’s not Jack? Broderick Litton crawls out of the woodwork after more than a year’s gone by and Lizzie lets him in and he beats her to death and then conveniently disappears into the night before Jack gets back from his workout?’
‘But Jack…’ he whispers.
‘I know. I know.’ I bite down on my tears, breathing hard. ‘I don’t know what to do, I don’t… What do we tell Florence?’ I break down.
Tony comes and holds me, his arms strong and heavy round my shoulders, my face pressed against his work sweater, which smells of damp wool and white spirit and wood smoke. Scents that send me back to camping, bonfires on the beach, rain on canvas, the three of us playing cards in the light from the Tilley lamp. To days at the allotment, Lizzie in her dungarees with her toy wheelbarrow. Cycling to the library with Lizzie on the child seat, me helping set up the crèche where she will play with the other kids while I work. Tony collecting her from school and letting her act as sous-chef. Us stripping wallpaper and painting window frames and choosing where to put up bookshelves.
