of a school assembly hall, hemmed in on all sides by the sound of trays clattering, dishwashers whirring, loud conversations on both sides of the serving hatch, as well as across it – two elderly scarecrow-like dinner-ladies, if that’s what they’re called, giggling uncontrollably at a joke made by a young, shiny-faced policeman in uniform. Along one wall there’s a row of arcade-style machines, flashing their lights and bleeping.
I feel invisible. My throat is already sore from shouting to make myself heard; the combination of the intense heat in here and the sausage and egg smell is making me nauseous.
‘Connie?’ Sam says reasonably. Everyone is oh-so-reasonable, apart from me. ‘Look at the picture.’
Do you want only part of the truth, or do you want all of it? What if it was all or nothing?
I force myself to look at the laptop’s screen. There it is again: 11 Bentley Grove’s lounge. No dead woman on the floor, no blood. Sam leans over and points to the corner of the room, by the bay window. ‘Do you see that circle, on the carpet?’
I nod.
‘I don’t see it,’ says Kit.
‘A very faint brown curved line – almost a circle, but incomplete,’ says Sam. ‘Within it, the carpet’s a slightly different colour – see?’
‘The line, yes,’ Kit says. ‘Just. The colour looks the same to me, inside and out.’
‘It’s darker inside the ring,’ I say.
‘That’s right.’ Sam nods. ‘The mark was made by a Christmas tree.’
‘A Christmas tree?’ Is he joking? I wipe sweat from my upper lip.
Sam lowers the lid of the laptop, looks at me.
Just say it, whatever it is. Tell me how you’ve managed to prove I’m wrong and mad and stupid.
‘Cambridge police have been very cooperative,’ he says. ‘Far more so than I expected. Thanks to their efforts, I hope I’ll be able to allay your concerns.’
I hear Kit’s relieved sigh. Resentment hardens inside me. How can he do that, before he’s heard anything, as if it’s all over? Any minute now he’ll whip out his BlackBerry and start muttering about having to get back to work.
‘The owner of 11 Bentley Grove is a Dr Selina Gane.’
So that’s her name. Sam has found out more useful information in forty-eight hours than I have in six months.
‘She’s an oncologist, works at Addenbrooke’s hospital.’
‘Know it well,’ says Kit. ‘I did my undergraduate degree at Cambridge. Addenbrooke’s relieved me of a putrid appendix, about an hour before it would have killed me.’
Kit’s undergraduate degree is his only degree. He could have said, ‘my degree’, except then Sam Kombothekra wouldn’t have assumed it was one of many.
If the University of Cambridge offered an MA course in Thinking the Worst of People, I’d graduate with distinction.
‘Dr Gane bought the house in 2007, from a family called the Beaters. They bought number 11 from the developers when it was first built in 2002. Bentley Grove didn’t exist before then. The Beaters’ sale of the property to Dr Gane was handled by a local estate agent called Lorraine Turner. Lorraine is also the agent marketing the property now, coincidentally.’
‘Not coincidentally at all,’ Kit corrects him. ‘If you want to sell your house, why not put it on with the person you know sold it successfully last time – to you? That’s what I’d do, if I were selling Melrose Cottage.’
‘You wouldn’t be selling Melrose Cottage,’ I can’t help saying. ‘We would be selling it.’ I want to apologise to Sam for Kit’s interruption; I hate it when he shows off.
‘Cambridge police spoke to Lorraine Turner yesterday. I spoke to her on the phone this morning. I think you’ll be reassured when I tell you what she told me. In December 2006, the Beaters decided to put 11 Bentley Grove on the market – they wanted to move out to the countryside.’
Why, for God’s sake?
‘The day they made their decision was also the day Mrs Beater sent Mr Beater out to buy a Christmas tree.’
‘Shall I get us each a mug of cocoa?’ says Kit. ‘This sounds like the beginning of a bedtime story.’
‘You’ll see why it’s relevant shortly,’ Sam tells him.
In other words, don’t interrupt again.
‘She wasn’t in when he got back, and so wasn’t able to remind him to put something down to protect the carpet before setting the tree down on it, in its pot. The pot had holes in the bottom, the earth in it was wet . . .’
‘What a fool.’ Kit laughs. ‘I bet Beater wife gave Beater husband a tongue-lashing he’ll