24 Hours: An intense, suspenseful psychological thriller by Claire Seeber Page A

him – and then he’d be utterly aloof and unfriendly, cleverly drawing attention to himself.
    But actually it was me who arrived late and flustered. My last client had been inconsolable and I’d had to calm her down and put her in a cab – and then my own car wouldn’t start because I’d left the lights on all day, and there was no one around with jump leads, so I’d got the bus, arriving at the school with minutes to spare.
    Making my way across the busy hall, Sid didn’t see me. He was studying the little programme the children had made, and in repose his face was almost soft. His dark hair was as tousled as usual, but for once he didn’t look sulky or cross, or lit up and euphoric, he just looked … like Polly’s father. Like the man I had loved so deeply. And then he did look up, and my heart almost skipped a beat until I remembered that it was too late.
    Much too late.
    ‘Phew,’ I slid in next to him, sitting on the corner of next-door’s anorak; apologising; dropping my woolly hat under the chair.
    ‘Clumsy Laurie.’ Hawk-like, he bomb-dived my weakness. ‘Nothing changes, does it?’
    ‘Some things do,’ I retorted, reaching for his programme.
    I wasn’t clumsy. I was nervous.
    He held it away from me.
    ‘I’m still reading it.’
    ‘Okay,’ I shrugged. There was really nothing to read but I wasn’t going to argue.
    ‘Appalling illustrations,’ he muttered darkly. ‘Load of shite.’
    The mother in front of us turned round indignantly.
    ‘Sid, for goodness sake,’ I gave her a weak smile. ‘They’re all under eight.’
    ‘So?’ his turn to shrug. ‘They’re not babies. No one has Polly’s eye. Not one of them.’
    Oh God.
    ‘So why didn’t they put her pictures in?’
    ‘Because—’ I was saved by Mrs Evans thumping out the opening chords to ‘Morning Has Broken’ on the piano, and Polly’s class entering, dressed as various fruit and vegetables.
    ‘Jesus,’ Sid muttered, ever louder. ‘Who the hell is that fat turnip?’
    If I hadn’t been so tense I might have laughed. We did used to laugh, a lot, once, Sid and I. But I couldn’t now; I just heard his cruelty. Staring ahead of me, I prayed he would shut up now.
    And then suddenly I spotted Mal on the other side of the hall. So Leonard must have got a place after all. I felt a jag of adrenaline: studiously I avoided eye contact and concentrated on Polly.
    At the end of an hour of fairly atrocious singing and dancing, Sid was already zipping up his leather jacket during the grand finale that involved Polly lying down at the front of the stage as part of a vegetable tableau, and then not being able to get up again thanks to her unwieldy costume. Sid began to laugh. I shoved him hard in the ribs, already anticipating Polly’s tears.
    ‘I’ll meet you outside,’ Sid shot out as the audience were still applauding, no doubt to smoke.
    I collected a thoroughly overexcited Polly who’d already forgotten about her trauma on stage, and we wandered outside. By now it was dark, and Sid was nowhere to be seen.
    ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Polly was first puzzled, then put out.
    ‘I don’t know.’ I looked up and down the pavement, filled now with chattering children and their parents. ‘But I’m sure he’s here somewhere. You did brilliantly, Pol. He was ever so proud.’
    ‘So where is he then?’ her bottom lip jutted out dangerously.
    Opposite, a sleek black car was parked, blatantly across the Keep Clear signs, music floating from the partially open window. I knew the tune but I couldn’t place it … until suddenly Sid got out, waving at his daughter. As I raised a hand in greeting the far door opened too. A young woman emerged, a young woman I recognised from our brief meetings.
    I clutched Polly’s hand, glad of the contact.
    ‘Pol!’ Sid waved, and Polly’s face lit up.
    ‘Daddy.’
    He bounded across the road and grabbed Polly, swinging her up to face height. ‘I’ve never seen such an amazing corn on the