onto his toes. He stares at her, eyes unfocused.
He stands and pulls out his phone.
‘Guv? I’ve had a thought …’
*
11.58 p.m. Barton-on-Humber.
The last town before North Lincolnshire hits the water. A decent, likeable place. Pleasant. Arty. A mingling of sturdy, centuries-old merchant homes and newly built estates. A place where cosy restaurants sit comfortably beside kebab shops; where slick Mercedes park next to rusted hatchbacks while the owners of both drink happily in real-ale pubs.
This wide road leading out of the town centre, up towards the roundabout and the last stretch of motorway that leads across the bridge.
A modern, detached house with neat front lawn and a sensible car parked on a newly tarmacked drive …
Yvonne Dale. Forty-six. Mother of two and gratefully divorced. She’s lounging at the apex of an L-shaped sofa in a long, white-painted living room. The walls serve as a timeline of her children’s lives. Above the flat-screen TV are baby pictures. Jacob, restless on the photographer’s cloud of tousled silk. Andrew, two years later, placid and uncrying as the same photographer manipulated his chunky limbs and soft curls into a more pleasing pose. Above the fireplace, their first holidays, all muddy welly boots and rain-streaked cheeks. First days at school. Almond-coloured skin between grey socks and shorts. Their tripto Kefalonia three years ago. Jacob then six, Andrew four. Yvonne in some of these pictures, lounging by the poolside in the rented villa, large floppy hat casting a shadow on rosy cheeks and ample skin spilling out of a black swimsuit. Behind her, pixelated on a huge canvas, both boys laughing, Jacob’s arm thrown carelessly over his little brother’s shoulder as they sit cross-legged and side by side on Cleethorpes seafront reading the same book; Jacob patient with his younger sibling when he struggled with longer words.
Here, now, Yvonne is wearing a baggy American football vest and pyjama trousers. She is a large lady. Always was, even when she was slim. She stands nearly six feet tall and would be considered formidable by the primary school children she teaches were it not for her big smile and silly sense of humour. She has been a teacher most of her life. Had been working with kids for thirteen years before she had one of her own. Had been content enough, too, before a supply teacher took a fancy to her. She was wooed, wed, knocked up twice, and then divorced before Andrew’s first birthday. Her ex is abroad now, teaching English as a foreign language to uncomprehending teens in Jakarta, the Child Support Agency proving bloody useless in making him cough up his maintenance payments with any kind of regularity. He phones the kids once in a while. Carries their pictures in his wallet. But they haven’t seen him in over a year, and the weekend he visited had been awkward, full of stilted conversation and stored-up arguments.
She pushes her scruffy blonde hair back from her face and drinks the last of her hot chocolate. At her feet are the crusts from a meat-feast pizza. She has some garlic mayonnaise left in the fridge and half-heartedly thinks of going to get it. Then she imagines sitting up in bed dipping cold pizza crusts in a pot offattening gunk, and doesn’t like the image of herself, so decides against it.
A sigh: ‘Bloody carbs.’
She takes another look at her phone. Decides it’s time for bed. She put the kids down just after nine. They’d watched a few episodes of some light-hearted American drama, eating popcorn chicken and spicy fries, drinking pint glasses of orange squash, wriggling in their matching cotton pyjamas until the fleece blanket that covers their half of the sofa looked like a whirlpool. Yvonne hadn’t given the show her full attention. The story on the local news kept slipping into her thoughts. The picture they showed. Older, certainly. A few more wrinkles. Shading beneath her eyes. But unmistakably
her
. So sad. Such a
He stands and pulls out his phone.
‘Guv? I’ve had a thought …’
*
11.58 p.m. Barton-on-Humber.
The last town before North Lincolnshire hits the water. A decent, likeable place. Pleasant. Arty. A mingling of sturdy, centuries-old merchant homes and newly built estates. A place where cosy restaurants sit comfortably beside kebab shops; where slick Mercedes park next to rusted hatchbacks while the owners of both drink happily in real-ale pubs.
This wide road leading out of the town centre, up towards the roundabout and the last stretch of motorway that leads across the bridge.
A modern, detached house with neat front lawn and a sensible car parked on a newly tarmacked drive …
Yvonne Dale. Forty-six. Mother of two and gratefully divorced. She’s lounging at the apex of an L-shaped sofa in a long, white-painted living room. The walls serve as a timeline of her children’s lives. Above the flat-screen TV are baby pictures. Jacob, restless on the photographer’s cloud of tousled silk. Andrew, two years later, placid and uncrying as the same photographer manipulated his chunky limbs and soft curls into a more pleasing pose. Above the fireplace, their first holidays, all muddy welly boots and rain-streaked cheeks. First days at school. Almond-coloured skin between grey socks and shorts. Their tripto Kefalonia three years ago. Jacob then six, Andrew four. Yvonne in some of these pictures, lounging by the poolside in the rented villa, large floppy hat casting a shadow on rosy cheeks and ample skin spilling out of a black swimsuit. Behind her, pixelated on a huge canvas, both boys laughing, Jacob’s arm thrown carelessly over his little brother’s shoulder as they sit cross-legged and side by side on Cleethorpes seafront reading the same book; Jacob patient with his younger sibling when he struggled with longer words.
Here, now, Yvonne is wearing a baggy American football vest and pyjama trousers. She is a large lady. Always was, even when she was slim. She stands nearly six feet tall and would be considered formidable by the primary school children she teaches were it not for her big smile and silly sense of humour. She has been a teacher most of her life. Had been working with kids for thirteen years before she had one of her own. Had been content enough, too, before a supply teacher took a fancy to her. She was wooed, wed, knocked up twice, and then divorced before Andrew’s first birthday. Her ex is abroad now, teaching English as a foreign language to uncomprehending teens in Jakarta, the Child Support Agency proving bloody useless in making him cough up his maintenance payments with any kind of regularity. He phones the kids once in a while. Carries their pictures in his wallet. But they haven’t seen him in over a year, and the weekend he visited had been awkward, full of stilted conversation and stored-up arguments.
She pushes her scruffy blonde hair back from her face and drinks the last of her hot chocolate. At her feet are the crusts from a meat-feast pizza. She has some garlic mayonnaise left in the fridge and half-heartedly thinks of going to get it. Then she imagines sitting up in bed dipping cold pizza crusts in a pot offattening gunk, and doesn’t like the image of herself, so decides against it.
A sigh: ‘Bloody carbs.’
She takes another look at her phone. Decides it’s time for bed. She put the kids down just after nine. They’d watched a few episodes of some light-hearted American drama, eating popcorn chicken and spicy fries, drinking pint glasses of orange squash, wriggling in their matching cotton pyjamas until the fleece blanket that covers their half of the sofa looked like a whirlpool. Yvonne hadn’t given the show her full attention. The story on the local news kept slipping into her thoughts. The picture they showed. Older, certainly. A few more wrinkles. Shading beneath her eyes. But unmistakably
her
. So sad. Such a
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