a supplier yesterday. She helped me bring the bits I wanted in from the van. I don’t remember the frame, but it can only have come from her.”
“Who is she? Who did you buy it from?”
“It’s not stolen.” He takes a small step back.
“I didn’t say that it was. I just need to know how it got here.”
“It got here the same way most of these goods do … dead people.”
The hot room seems to cool a little. “What?”
“House clearance. People’s unwanted things after they’ve gone. You can’t take it with you.”
I think for a moment. “And this woman, she runs a house-clearance company?”
“That’s right. All legit. Nothing illegal about it. She brings in some good pieces, too, knows her stuff.”
“Who? Who is she?”
“I’m not so good with names. I have her card here somewhere.” He shuffles behind a small desk. I can see that despite his dapper appearance, he is still wearing his slippers. “Here you go, I’m happy to recommend her, she’s very good.”
I stare down at the card he has put in my hands, not able to stop them from shaking as I read the name printed on it.
Maggie O’Neil.
It can’t be.
“Can I buy this picture?” I can’t hide the tremor in my voice.
“Of course,” he says with a grin. I give him my credit card, not caring how much he plans to charge me, and remove the photo from the frame before I’ve even left the shop. I turn it over, unable to take another step when I read what is written on the back of it in a childlike scrawl:
John Sinclair. Age 5.
Sixty-eight
Maggie lets the phone ring and doesn’t answer.
Whoever it is calls three more times without leaving a message.
She is sure it is Aimee calling. It’s as though Maggie knows it. She holds the three smallest fingers of her left hand inside her right and squeezes them hard, until they hurt.
The ringing starts again. The caller has perhaps thought of something to say now, and Maggie leans right down, until her face is next to the answerphone, her ear turned and tuned to the little speaker. Pleasure ripples through her entire body when she hears that beautiful voice coming out of the machine; it’s like a song she’s missed hearing.
“Hello, my name is Aimee. I wonder if you could give me a call back…”
Maggie listens to the whole message thirteen times. She turns her face to kiss the phone, leaving red lipstick all over it, and starts to moan a little, as though the sound of the voice in the recording is caressing her in return. Giving the girl elocution lessons might not have been her idea, but it was a good one.
She pictures Aimee’s face crinkling with confusion, dripping in disbelief. She is tempted to return the call, but she knows that she mustn’t. She’d be willing to bet that Aimee will come to find her now, and the odds of that happening soon are quite high. She just needs to wait a little while longer. Some conversations are better had in person.
Sixty-nine
I let myself back into Jack’s house and head straight for the shower, doing my best to wash the sweat and fear away.
I thought Maggie and John were dead but this is too much of a coincidence, it all has to be linked, I just don’t know how. The police have already confirmed that John survived the shooting. Why did he never get in touch? I thought he cared about me, in his own way. Did he blame me for what happened? The memory of John’s face had smudged over the years, but now that I’ve seen his name written on the back of the black-and-white photo, I know it is him, I recognize his eyes. Why would the man I married have a picture of John as a child and pretend it was him? I should go to the police, but I can’t trust them. I can’t trust anybody. I try to think it all through, but none of it makes any sense to me.
My husband was pretending to be Ben Bailey, but that isn’t who he was.
I’m pretending to be Aimee Sinclair, but I’m not really her either.
Someone is pretending to be Maggie O’Neil; at least I think they are pretending. If John is alive, then what if she is too?
We’re all just pretending to be someone we’re not, but I still don’t know why.
The bathroom fills with steam, and I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t