'My stupid father.'

My phone vibrated in my pocket. We aren't allowed to have our phones on at school. We're supposed to turn them off when we arrive, and not look at them all day. This is a ridiculous rule and of course we all break it. The teachers turn a blind eye, but I had a dilemma now because to get out my phone and read a text when sitting right in front of the headmistress was asking for trouble.

But I had to. I just had to.

'I've got a message,' I said desperately, pulling it out. 'It's life or death. Please can I look at it?' I didn't wait for her to reply.

The text was from Hannah.

Fifteen.

Hannah 'Go ahead,' said Jane to the security man. 'Give us the good news first.'

He obviously had a soft spot for her. If he'd had a tail, it would have been wagging. 'The good news is that Joseph Scott is here! Came dashing in off the street three minutes ago.'

'Oh no,' I whispered.

Jane touched my arm before turning back to him. 'And the bad?'

'The bad news is that you won't have time to talk, because His Honour wants to see all parties in court immediately.'

'Isn't there another case in there at the moment?'

'They're negotiating. They want more time.'

Jane sailed towards the door. 'Thank you, Malcolm. Come along then, Hannah, Frederick-let's go!'

We followed her out and across the lobby. I heard another door open behind us, followed by the rumble of male voices. I didn't look back. Freddie took my arm, and we almost ran into the courtroom. It was a modern space; windows ran along one side, overlooked by the skeletons of leafless trees under a colourless winter sky. The electric lighting seemed gaudy.

Jane led us to the far side of the room, parking us in a row of seats while she set up shop directly in front of us. There was a raised area at the front, upon which stood the judge's bench. No judge.

Frederick squinted up at the royal coat of arms. 'Dieu et mon droit,' he murmured. 'Quite a claim.'

I sensed Scott's presence nearby. Any second now, and he'd be in the room with us. 'I can't do it,' I whispered to Frederick. 'I can't sit here when he comes in.'

Jane turned around and met my eye. 'Yes you can. Hannah, you are better than him. Stand your ground.'

The words weren't out of her mouth before the door from the lobby clunked open, and Frederick's fingers tightened around mine. I didn't look. I wouldn't look. I stared rigidly ahead, listening to their footsteps.

Then there was someone else at the far end of our row. Frederick sat to my left, and now there was someone to my right. I heard the seats creak, saw a shadow. It was as though someone had dropped a tarantula beside me. It took all my will just to sit still.

By turning my head very slightly I could watch his solicitor, who was at the other end of Jane's row of seats. The man was middle-aged, tall, with a square forehead. He wasn't quite ugly and yet he reminded me irresistibly of Frankenstein's monster.

He cleared his throat and took a pen from his breast pocket. 'Do we need to ask for more time, Mrs Whistler?'

'You tell me,' replied Jane tartly. 'It's your client who arrived late.'

'Anything we can agree?'

She flapped a hand. 'You've got my draft directions, Richard. If you're really going ahead with this it will have to be set down for final hearing. I want the criminal papers and a report from Nanette Marsden. We'll probably be calling schoolteachers. Time estimate of two days.'

'That can all be agreed.' He leaned closer and dropped his voice. 'But what about interim contact?'

'No,' I bellowed. The word erupted from me, echoing around the big room. I felt my face flaming.

O'Brien cast a startled glance over his shoulder before subsiding into his seat. Perhaps it was fortunate that a woman chose that moment to burst in as though she owned the place. Jane told me later that this was Vera Taylor, court clerk and supreme Ruler of the List. She was voluptuously overblown, sporting a winter tan.

'Everybody ready? I'll wheel him in,' she promised brightly, and banged her way through a door behind the judge's bench.

The next minute passed in grim silence. We sat rigidly in our tableau, aware of every sniff, every movement in the room. It was a strange suspension of time, an echoing last breath before battle was to be joined. Then the buxom clerk reappeared, calling to us to rise. She was followed by a man who strode in, nodded to us all and sat down at the bench. I was reminded of an elegant Siberian husky my sister Eliza used to keep: dapper but shrewd, with oddly pale eyes. I never trusted that dog.

'Mr O'Brien,' he said briskly. 'Mrs Whistler. I've read the papers. Any agreement on contact? No?'

Jane hadn't sat down. 'If Mr Scott cannot be persuaded to withdraw his application, we'll have to have a full hearing. I do hope that won't be necessary because of the destabilising effect this is already having on the children. If I could describe-' The judge held up a hand. 'It would be disingenuous of me to pretend I'm not aware of the background to this matter, Mrs Whistler. The criminal proceedings were reported in minute detail in the press. You can ask me to disqualify myself if you like, but I doubt you'll find a judge on this circuit who doesn't remember the case.'

Jane pressed on. 'Indeed, Your Honour. So you will understand that these children witnessed the violent death of their mother at the hands-' He interrupted her again. 'We don't need that kind of emotive language, do we? It really doesn't help.'

'I'm simply outlining the unpalatable facts,' retorted Jane. 'It's difficult to describe the manslaughter of a woman without using words such as death and violent.'

He regarded her with those lupine eyes. 'It strikes me that what we have to focus on is whether it is in these children's best interests to have a relationship with their father. Now, I read in the application-and I doubt whether you can gainsay this-that he had a close bond with all three, and there is no suggestion he was ever violent towards any one of them. Nor, indeed, that he'd ever raised a hand against the mother before that fateful moment.'

Jane was obviously riled. 'He certainly made up for that, didn't he?'

The judge sighed and turned to Scott's solicitor. 'Mr O'Brien, what's the applicant actually wanting?'

It was like a children's game. Jane sat down, O'Brien stood up. See Saw, Margery Daw. O'Brien had an irritating habit of buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket while he talked.

'At this stage, he merely seeks to re-establish contact. Otherwise the children will effectively be orphaned-another tragedy for them.'

Jane was back on her feet. 'What does Mr O'Brien mean by at this stage? Are we to understand that the father's true agenda is to seek a change of residence?'

'I never said that,' protested O'Brien.

Jane cast him a sceptical glance. 'These children want nothing to do with Joseph Scott. Scarlet declares quite categorically that she will not see him-no matter what the court decides.'

The judge grinned at her, his head to one side. It occurred to me that he liked Jane. He'd probably crossed swords with her hundreds of times. 'Come, Mrs Whistler. You and I know that children are routinely said to be reluctant to see their absent parent. I'd say I encounter it in-ooh, fifty per cent of contact applications? And generally, their reluctance is easy to overcome. Sometimes'-he emphasised the word, blinking innocently-'they're merely reflecting the negative feelings of whoever is taking care of them.'

I really thought Jane was going to bang her fist on the desk. Her voice rose by several decibels. 'But not in this case! It's hardly run-of-the-mill when the father has just served three years for manslaughter.'

'All right. Thank you. You've made your point.' He motioned to her to sit down, and she did so with a huff of exasperation. Then he leaned over his desk and stage-whispered to Vera, 'Is Mr Hardy still here? Could you get him in? I'd like to know how quickly he can file a report.'

As Vera bustled out, he said, 'I'm going to ask for a report from the family court adviser. Now, let me make this very clear: it is my expectation that Mr Hardy will observe one or more contact visits between these children and their father. More, I hope.'

The floor fell away, and I felt Frederick clutching at my arm.

Jane shot to her feet. 'Then I insist upon your hearing evidence today!'

'And raise the emotional temperature even further? No, Mrs Whistler, I'm against you. If Mr Hardy has concerns, I have no doubt he will have the matter relisted before me.'

'You cannot properly make such a decision without-' 'Mrs Whistler!' There was an edge to the judge's voice now.

He wanted all the nastiness brushed under the carpet, nice and tidy. 'How can these children's fear of their father be assuaged if they do not meet him?'

That did it. I could feel my heart thumping. 'This is simply crass,' I cried, in my lecture-hall voice. 'You don't know me, you don't know Frederick and you've no intention of meeting three very intelligent children. They went through hell when Joseph Scott murdered our daughter, and they'll be back there again when your namby-pamby social experiment goes wrong!'

'Shh, Hannah,' murmured Jane, leaning over the back of her seat. 'You can't do this.'

'The man's an idiot,' I argued loudly.

'Indeed; but it doesn't help to tell him so.'

At that moment, the door to the lobby opened. I glanced around-and found myself staring straight at Joseph Scott, sitting not four feet away from me, looking truculent. He was wearing a dark coat and those round-rimmed glasses I remembered so loathsomely well. I had to summon every ounce of self-control not to spit at him. I forced myself to turn away. There was some kind of conversation going on between the judge and a bearded man in his fifties, but I was past caring.

Suddenly, it was all over. The judge had gone; the clerk was getting ready to call on the next case, and Jane was guiding us back into our horrible hen coop of a room.

'Outrageous!' she exploded. 'I'm tempted to appeal, but it won't get us anywhere. We'll have to wait and see what line Lester Hardy takes.'

I looked at Frederick, who was shaking his head in utter bewilderment. 'This adviser,' I said, 'what if we refuse to talk to him?'

'You'd shoot your own feet right off.' Jane held up warning hands. 'That's the worst thing you could do. The family court adviser is the oracle. You need to get him on your side.'

It wasn't a tactful moment for Richard O'Brien to intrude: Frankenstein's monster, his square face looming up at the glass panel in our door. Jane quickly stepped out to meet him, pulling the door shut behind her. She was fast, but not fast enough. I heard his opening gambit, and it drove me right over the edge.

'Ah, Jane!' he exclaimed jauntily. 'Progress at last! Now can we talk about contact?'

Sixteen.

I, Lester Brian Hardy, was appointed family court adviser in this matter on 7 January by His Honour Judge Cornwell sitting at York County Court. The children are Scarlet Scott, aged thirteen years and ten months; Theodore Scott, aged ten years and six months; and Benjamin Scott, aged four years and seven months. I was asked to report on the issue of contact between the children and their father, Joseph Scott. Judge Cornwell expressed the view that interim contact should take place, supervised by myself, unless there were very pressing reasons to militate against such contact.

I met Joseph Scott in the court building directly after the hearing. As he lives some distance away, I took the practical step of having a detailed discussion with him on that day.

Mr Scott is thirty-seven years old. He told me that he was born in Tyneside. His father, John Scott, was a butcher; his mother Irene worked part time in a fish and chip shop throughout his childhood. He reports that the marriage was not a happy one and his parents separated once he and his sister had left home. Mr Scott was close to his mother, and she represented a very significant figure in his early life. He describes his father as 'pathologically selfish' and 'a man with zero imagination or humour'. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Joseph Scott is estranged from his father, who now lives in Spain.

Irene Scott died suddenly, eighteen months ago. This is a great sadness to Joseph, especially as she appears to have been his only family support. He fears that she died 'of shame' due to his conviction and incarceration. He has an older sister, Marie, who currently manages a women's refuge in Gateshead. She has cut all ties with her brother since the death of Zoe Scott, and is thought to be unaware of the present application. I have not made contact with her.

Joseph Scott has recently been released from HM Prison Leeds, having served three years of a six-year sentence for the manslaughter of the children's mother, Zoe Scott. He is therefore on licence. Mr Scott described Zoe's death as 'the greatest regret any man could ever have'. During our conversation, he appeared acutely aware of the distress he has caused his children. He expressed his fear that the present application may be damaging for them. However, he fervently hopes to re-establish a relationship with them that will be healing for all concerned.

I have had access to the papers in the criminal proceedings against Mr Scott. In his police interview he candidly admitted striking Zoe Scott two blows. He expressed deep remorse. Zoe Scott suffered a bleed to the brain and was pronounced dead upon arrival at York District Hospital. Mr Scott was initially charged with murder. Shortly before trial, a guilty plea to manslaughter was accepted by the prosecution. Medical evidence indicated that the bleed was caused when Zoe Scott's head impacted with a marble fire surround, and that her alcohol intake could not be ruled out as a factor in her death. Tragically, this event was witnessed by the children. Ben was actually in Zoe Scott's arms. Theo ran to hide behind the sofa, while Scarlet tried unsuccessfully to stop her father.

The Wildes found the hearing of 7 January difficult, and left the building before I could speak to them.

'They walked out.' Joseph was sitting at Abigail's kitchen table, a mug of very strong tea and one of her rock buns at his elbow. He felt deafened, as though he'd narrowly made it through the mortar fire of an enemy bombardment. 'Just stormed past my solicitor. There was a social worker waiting to meet us all but he couldn't because they'd gone.'

Richard O'Brien had arrived back in their meeting room looking bemused. 'Well, I'm public enemy number one,' he'd announced, scratching his head.

'You're definitely not,' sighed Joseph. 'That's my honour.'

'Grandma Wilde led the charge. If looks could kill, I'd be dead as a doornail right now.'

When Joseph relayed this conversation to Abigail, she raised her eyebrows. 'I bet she wishes you were dead, Joseph Scott.'

'I couldn't even look the Wildes in the eye.' He grimaced ruefully. 'I know what I'd think of any bastard who laid a finger on Scarlet. I'd throttle him with my bare hands. But that judge-it was like he was on my side. It was . . . I felt as though he forgave me.'

'Ah, forgiveness.' Removing her glasses, Abigail rubbed her eyes. 'There's a prize to be treasured.'

And that was true, thought Joseph. It was something he hadn't valued at all, until he himself committed the unforgiveable.

Abigail replaced her glasses and stood up. Joseph watched her moving quietly around the kitchen, gathering ingredients for some concoction. He sat with his palms wrapped around the mug.

'They wanted to tell me,' he said thoughtfully. 'Hannah and Frederick. I really think they did.'

Abigail looked confused. 'Tell you what?'

'About Zoe.'

Joseph's first sight of the Wildes was at York Station, waiting side by side under the clock and presenting a graciously intimidating united front. They politely greeted the young teacher their daughter had brought home, but they had eyes only for Zoe.

Frederick would have been about sixty then, with a long, lined face and mud on his trousers from gardening. Joseph immediately felt drawn to him. Hannah was a handsome forty-something: energetic, blue-stocking and distant. She and Joseph disliked one another on sight.

Joseph was too embarrassed even to touch Zoe's hand with her parents around, and was appalled when she came creeping into the spare room during the night. She mocked his protests with her low laughter, peeling her T-shirt over her head in one lithe movement.

'Why are you winding my poor mother up?' she murmured, crawling cat-like onto his bed.

'Ssh! They'll hear you . . . I'm not winding your mother up.'