‘ – and all that whispering behind your hands and looking down your noses at me.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. How many more times do we have to go through the same old same old? No one’s looking down their nose at you. You’re imagining it.’
‘And you’re Daddy of the Decade,’ replies Sharon sarcastically.
Barry gets up. ‘At least I’m not jealous of my own kid.’
Sharon gapes. ‘How dare you!’
‘Because that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? It’s just like it was with Jessica.’
‘Don’t you dare drag her into it. It’s completely different.’
‘It’s exactly the same. You just can’t stand being second best, can you? Being anything other than the centre of attention all the bloody time. It happened with Jessica and it’s happening now. Your own fucking daughter. You never stop boasting about her when she’s not there, but you never say anything nice to her face. You never tell her she looks nice or she’s pretty – ’
‘My mother never told me I was pretty when I was a child.’
‘That’s not the bloody point. Just because your mother was a cow doesn’t mean you have to be.’
‘Daisy’s quite spoilt enough without me joining in. She needs to learn she can’t go through life expecting the whole world to revolve around her. She’s not some little princess, despite what you tell her every hour of every bloody day.’
Barry walks to the fireplace, then turns to face his wife. ‘Are you actually telling me you do it deliberately? That you do it to teach her a lesson?’ He shakes his head. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether you love her at all.’
Sharon’s chin lifts. ‘You give her far too much love. I’m just evening up the balance. She’ll thank me in the end.’
‘Jesus. After everything you had to go through to have her – what we both went through – that’s what you come out with. Sometimes I think I don’t bloody understand you at all.’
Sharon says something, but it’s too low to hear. Her face reddens.
‘What did you say?’
She turns to him and her chin lifts again in defiance. ‘I said it’s hard to love someone who despises you.’
Barry sighs theatrically. ‘She doesn’t despise you – she bends over backwards to please you. We all do. It’s like walking on eggshells in this bloody place.’
‘You don’t know the things she says. Nasty bitchy things. You don’t see it because she never does it when you’re around. She’s too clever for that.’
Barry puts his hands on his hips. ‘Like what?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You say she doesn’t do it in front of me, so give me an example. Something she said.’
Sharon opens her mouth and shuts it again. Then, ‘She said Portia’s mother was setting up a book club and they were going to start with Pride and Prejudice but she’d already told Portia I wouldn’t be interested.’
‘Well, you’re not, are you? You hate that sort of crap. You wouldn’t go if they begged you on their hands and knees, so what’s the problem?’
‘It’s the way she said it. Like I wouldn’t be interested because I was too thick to understand Jane Austen.’
‘You’re reading way too much into all of this. She’s only bloody eight – ’
‘And another time she said how Nanxi Chen’s mother was a Rhodes scholar or something, and she’d told them I was once runner-up for Miss South London.’
‘So? What’s wrong with that? She’s proud of you. And Nanxi would have been really impressed – she’d see it as Homecoming Queen or something. That’s a big deal in the US.’
Sharon looks at him with contempt. ‘You really don’t get it, do you? Daisy would have made it sound like some pathetic cattle market full of useless airheads walking up and down in bikinis.’
Barry throws up his hands. ‘I give up. I really do. I just don’t think eight-year-olds think that way. You’re her beautiful mum and she’s showing off about you and all you can do is look for some nasty non-existent put-down.’
‘How would you know what’s she’s doing – you’re never here to see.’
‘Christ, do you blame me.’
She moves towards him. ‘So you’re admitting it? That’s why you’re always getting back late? You’re playing around?’
‘I’m at the bloody gym. Or working.’
‘So if I rang the gym, that’s what they’d say, would they? That you’re there three or four evenings a week?’
‘You really want to do that, go ahead, knock yourself out. But before you do, ask yourself what that would look like – what would they think? Desperate housewife or what.’
‘You’ve had enough of me. I’m getting fat and you want to trade me in for a younger model. Some skinny seccy with big tits. I see the way you look at women like that.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, not that again. Is that why you go through my jackets? Looking for receipts? Well, you won’t find any. And for the last time, for the record, you are not fat.’
‘I’m three sizes larger than I was when we got married. And after I had Daisy – ’
‘You can’t blame it on that. Jesus, Shaz – ’
‘Don’t call me that!’
There’s a pause.
‘I’m sorry.’
He swallows, takes a step forward. ‘Look, I know you’re not – not quite as thin as you used to be. But you know what I think about that. I don’t think having Daisy was anything to do with it. I keep telling you to go and see the doctor. You eat nothing and yet – ’
There are tears in her eyes now. Tears of rage. ‘And yet I’m still fat. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’
‘No, not fat. Just not like you were – ’
‘Before Daisy,’ she says as she crushes the paper in her fist. ‘Before I had bloody Daisy – ’
There’s a noise then, from outside the room, and Barry swivels round. ‘Christ almighty, that’s not her, is it – you know what she’s like, listening at keyholes.’
He flings open the door to see his daughter disappearing up the stairs.
She stops at the turn and looks back down at him, her small face covered with tears. ‘I hate her – I hate her! I wish she was dead so I could have another mummy – a mummy who’d love me – ’
‘Daisy, princess,’ he says, starting up the stairs and reaching out for her. ‘Of course we love you – we’re your mum and dad.’
‘I don’t want to be your princess – I hate you – leave me alone!’
And then his daughter is gone and her bedroom door slams shut.
*
‘So where are we on the forensics?’
It’s 11.30 and we’re back in the St Aldate’s incident room. Including Everett, who’s got Mo Jones to take her place at the B&B. She says she has to take her dad to the doctor’s later, hence the delegation, but if she’s had enough of Sharon, I can’t say I blame her. Quinn puts down his phone. ‘Just got some preliminaries. No prints on the newspaper but the blood on the gloves – it’s definitely Daisy’s.’
I take a deep breath. So she really is dead. There’s no question about that now. I’ve known it a long time – I think we all have. But knowing, and finding proof, are not the same. Even when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have.
‘There’s also other DNA,’ says Quinn into the silence. ‘It’s inside and outside the gloves, and it’s a match for Barry Mason.’
A ripple of success goes through the room at that. Not triumph – how could it be, in the circumstances – but we all know there’s no good reason for that man’s gloves to be in a random skip, over a mile from his house, covered with his daughter’s blood.