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‘Well, that’s good,’ I say.
‘I… It was out of character.’
‘Right.’
‘Look…’
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘It’s just, I don’t know for sure if this means anything, but I’m not getting as many replies from the students as I would expect in this situation.’ He winces.
‘What could it mean?’ I ask.
His lips turn down.
I look at my hands and see on my left index finger where the quick has been pushed too far back under my nail. ‘It could mean that they know something, and they’re not saying.’
‘Mmm,’ he says.
‘Have you spoken to Georgia again?’
Mr Whitlow sighs and leans against Argus’s desk. ‘Frances, Miss Smith is a good teacher. She gets on well with Jenna. There’s nothing to?—’
‘Gets on well with her?’
‘I believe they have a good relationship.’ He says it like that’s what I want to hear. But he knows we have history. He said Georgia had mentioned I might have a problem with her joining PES. How much did she tell him? What does he know?
I wipe away the sweat from my neck. ‘Mr Whitlow, you do understand that Georgia isn’t exactly on good terms with my family?’
He nods. ‘I do.’
‘And you don’t think it’s strange that she has a good relationship with my daughter?’
‘Miss Smith is a professional. I can tell you, honestly, that she’s an excellent teacher. Whatever happened?—’
‘So, you don’t know what happened?’
‘I’m not sure it’s relevant. Knowing Miss Smith, I can’t imagine it plays any part in her work.’
So, does he know or not?
‘Jenna is a student, like any other. Miss Smith provides her with the support she needs, and I think you’re aware that Jenna struggles with some aspects of drama. In any case, Georgia’s been teaching all day and only went home about half an hour ago.’
I take another breath. She was here while I was here earlier? I thought Sarah had tried to call Georgia but she’d been on her way home. Why would Mr Whitlow have been talking to her on the phone if she’d been in the building? Were they covering for her? But I don’t want a fight – I want to call the police.
I check my watch. It’s coming up to seven thirty: dinner time.
‘I should go,’ I say.
Mr Whitlow pats my shoulder and I resist the urge to slap his hand away.
I want to ask if he knows why Georgia left her last school, show him the Mumsnet message. I can’t describe that as ‘treading lightly’, but surely the time for treading lightly has passed? I grit my teeth. ‘Thank you.’ I push out of the hut.
Back in my car, it’s like a sauna. I check my reflection out of habit. My cheeks have gone pink from the sun. And the anger. I accelerate out of the drive and into the lane, a high-pitched drill piercing into my temple.
She gets on well with Jenna.
Ten minutes to home. Check with parents. Call police.
