Kevin and Jeanette Cater have to be involved in it, whatever it is. She was wearing the same clothes.’
The door opens. Kevin Cater walks in, followed by the woman I first met yesterday in the car park in Huntingdon. She’s wearing a knee-length black pleated skirt with a red and black leopard-print top and black slip-on pumps.
She’s taller than Flora, who’s the same height as me. The black trousers she had on yesterday were probably much too short for her legs, but the black boots hid the problem. Convenient for her.
Pleasantries are exchanged by everyone apart from me. The woman offers us drinks; Dom and I both say no. He adds a ‘Thank you’. As I listen to the small talk they’re all using to ward off the moment when things might turn awkward, I wonder if Dom has noticed that the Kevin who has returned to the room is considerably friendlier than the one who left it a few minutes ago.
It’s all a show.
‘So, Beth,’ says the woman eventually. Is she Jeanette? Didn’t Marilyn Oxley tell me that Jeanette Cater had wavy hair, like Flora? This woman’s hair is ruler-straight. I wish I could remember exactly what Marilyn said. Not that it matters. Hair can be artificially straightened. ‘We should talk about what happened yesterday. I … perhaps I did not react to you in the best way. I am afraid I was very shocked to find you in my car.’
I swallow the urge to tell her it’s not her car, it’s Flora’s. Instead, I say, ‘I understand. May I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where were you on Saturday morning, and where was your car?’
‘I went out, with the children, early, to do some shopping. We arrived back at about nine thirty, I think, or just after.’
Her getting the time right means nothing. Marilyn Oxley could have told her what time I returned to Wyddial Lane, or Flora, if she saw me there. I don’t think she did, but I can’t absolutely rule it out.
‘In the silver Range Rover?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s your accent from?’
‘Beth!’ Dom barks at me.
‘It’s okay,’ Jeanette says. ‘The Ukraine. I was born there and grew up there.’
‘With a name like Jeanette?’
‘Actually, that is what I named myself when I moved to England.’ She smiles at Dominic. ‘My real name is a full-of-mouth for an English person to say, so …’ She shrugs.
‘I’m so sorry about the interrogation,’ Dom gushes, determined to ingratiate himself. ‘I’m assuming you know the, er, situation?’
‘Kevin told me what happened, yes.’ To me, she says, ‘You were here on Saturday and you saw me with my children. You mistook me for your friend.’
‘That’s right,’ says Dom. Kevin Cater nods.
I say nothing, determined not to agree with her version of what happened.
‘How old are your children?’ I ask.
‘Five and three years old.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Toby and Emma.’
I have the same feeling I had in the car park in Huntingdon: the ground falling away beneath me. Those weren’t the names I heard. They weren’t the names she called out and it wasn’t her who did the calling. Toby and Emma, Thomas and Emily – just similar enough to make me think I could have misheard.
Right, Kevin?
I’ll never think that. I don’t trust these people. I trust myself: what I saw and heard.
‘Which is the older one?’ I ask.
‘Toby. He is five. Would you like to see a photograph of them?’
‘Is that necessary?’ Kevin Cater asks.
‘No,’ says Dom, at the same time as I say, ‘Yes, please.’
‘It’s all right, Kevin.’ His wife lays a hand on his shoulder as she leaves the room. Kevin takes the opportunity to tell us again how big the house is, which leads to a discussion – one in which I play no part – about whether having too much space can actually be as inconvenient as having too little, if not more so.
Jeanette returns with a photograph in a frame and brings it over to me. I want to scream.
‘Well?’ says Dom impatiently. ‘Beth?’
I pass the photograph to him. He holds it close to his face, then at a distance.
‘Right, well!’ He laughs. He sounds relieved. ‘These children are not Thomas and Emily Braid, I think we can safely say. Not as they are now and not as they were at three and five.’
‘No, they’re not,’ says Kevin Cater, looking at me. ‘They’re Toby and Emma Cater. My children.’
Dominic turns to me and says, ‘I remember quite clearly what the Braid children looked like when I knew them,