‘You think I invented the whole thing, don’t you? You want to hear the story again so that you can check I don’t slip up and change some of the details.’
‘Do you have an objection to telling me again?’ Laskey asks.
Yes. It’s a waste of time. I force myself to subdue my anger. ‘No,’ I say, then can’t resist adding, ‘As long as you’re aware of the flaw in your logic.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If I tell you again and my story doesn’t change, you’re no further forward. I might be telling the truth, or I might be a liar with a brilliant memory.’
She smiles. ‘Whichever you are, you need something to eat. Your stomach’s been rumbling for the last fifteen minutes. Wait here.’
At the door, she stops, turns back. ‘Stealing a set of keys from someone’s house is a crime, by the way. If you’re planning on changing any part of your story, that’s the bit I’d start with.’ Still smiling, she leaves the room.
What does she mean? Is she suggesting I lie to avoid trouble? Or giving me notice that, after the food she’s forcing on me, I’m going to be arrested? It didn’t occur to me not to tell her that I took the keys from the mug in Selina Gane’s kitchen. How can she care about that, after what I’ve just told her?
Because she doesn’t believe you about the dead woman and never will. She probably doesn’t believe you about stealing the keys either, or she’d have arrested you already.
I had to take those keys. Didn’t I? What if I’m wrong, and they don’t belong to Selina Gane’s American friend? What if the number on the label doesn’t mean what I think it means? Maybe it’s a different street. The label didn’t say Bentley Grove, or a name, just the house number.
No. You’re not wrong.
When she talked about her American friend, Selina Gane looked straight at that mug. The keys are to the friend’s house – they must be. And the number with no street name, that has to mean Bentley Grove – you’d only do that with your own street.
And the houses on Bentley Grove are more or less identical. The lounges are more or less identical . . .
Suddenly, the thought of staying here a moment longer, to be patronised and subtly threatened, makes me feel ill. I don’t need this kind of help. I’ve got a better idea, one that doesn’t involve trying to ingratiate myself with Alison Laskey.
I grab my bag and make my way out of the building as quickly as I can, then walk until I come to a phone box. Pressing the buttons, I wonder if I will always remember Kit’s mobile number, even in ten or twenty years.
He answers on the second ring. ‘It’s me,’ I tell him.
‘Connie.’ He sounds pleased to hear from me. His voice is thick, swollen. Has he been crying? He never used to cry. Maybe he does it all the time, now that he’s got the knack. ‘Where are you?’
‘Where I am now is irrelevant. It’s where I’m going to be in twenty minutes that matters. I’m going to be at 11 Bentley Grove.’
‘What are you . . . ?’
‘You know where I mean, don’t you, Kit?’ I talk over him. ‘11 Bentley Grove, not Selina Gane’s house. That’s where I’m going to be. Your 11 Bentley Grove.’
Silence from Kit.
‘I’ve got a set of keys in my hand,’ I tell him. ‘I’m looking at them now.’
I put the phone down, leave the booth, panic as I try to remember where I left my car. That’s right: the multi-storey car park next to the glass-fronted swimming pool with the tube-like slides.
I move as fast as I can, knowing that Kit, wherever he was when I spoke to him, will now be making his way to the house. I couldn’t explain to someone like Alison Laskey how I know this, but I do. When you’ve been with someone for as long as I’ve been with Kit, you can predict a lot of their behaviour.
I have to get there before he does. I need to let myself in and see it for myself, whatever it is. However bad it is.
What are you going to do when Kit turns up? Kill him? Say ‘I told you so’?
It doesn’t seem to matter what happens next. All that matters is what I’m doing now – trying to get to the house, so that I can put the key in the lock and