hotels I’ve stayed in allow you to do that. I wait, wondering if I’m about to hear her voice. Wondering what it might say.
Please leave a message after the tone, and, yes, I am having an affair with your husband.
‘Hello?’
Oh, God. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What do I do now?
You want to talk to her, don’t you?
‘Is that Selina Gane?’
‘Speaking.’
I can’t do this. Can’t. Have to.
‘It’s me. Connie Bowskill. I’m the one who’s been . . .’ I stop. What have I been doing, exactly? ‘I’m the woman who—’
‘I know who you are,’ she cuts me off. ‘How did you find out where I’m staying? How did you get a key to my house?’
‘I haven’t—’
‘Leave me alone! You’re sick! I don’t know what’s wrong with you, or what your game is, and I don’t want to know. I’m phoning the police.’
There’s a click, then the line goes dead.
I start to shiver, suddenly ice-cold in the pit of my stomach. When I try to subdue the shaking, it gets worse. My first impulse is to ring Sam, to get to the police before Selina Gane does and tell them it’s not true – I haven’t got a key to her house, I don’t know what she’s talking about. I can’t think straight. If the dead woman was real, am I about to be accused of her murder? How can that be, when I’ve done nothing, when I know nothing? Maybe Selina Gane’s not lying deliberately; maybe it’s a mistake. I need to explain . . .
No. Think, Connie. If you ring Sam, he’ll persuade you to go back to the police station, back to Grint. And Grint won’t take you where you want to go.
I need to get into that house. It’s the only way. I’ve looked at the pictures again and again and I still can’t bring to mind the missing detail, the shadow that moves out of sight whenever I try to focus on it. I need to be there in person – stand in that lounge myself, however much I don’t want to, however sick I feel at the prospect. Maybe then the missing piece will slot into place.
I wish I did have a key to 11 Bentley Grove. If I did, I wouldn’t need to make the call I’m about to make. I fumble in my bag, pull out an old Sainsbury’s receipt. There’s a phone number written on the back of it: 0843 315 6792. I saw it on Grint’s computer screen about an hour and a half ago, wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before on Roundthehouses: the number to ring to arrange a viewing of 11 Bentley Grove, or to ask for further information. While Grint, Sam and Kit were busy staring at the blurred black car, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and wrote it down.
I key in the number and press dial.
‘Connie!’
Kit is sprinting towards me. There’s no time to run away. I curl into a ball, wrap my arm around my knees and tighten my grip on my phone. He’s not going to stop me from doing this.
‘Thank God. I thought you’d—’
‘Quiet.’
‘Who are you phoning?’
‘I said be quiet.’ Pick up. Pick up.
‘Who are you phoning, Connie?’
‘Lorraine Turner,’ I say, my voice hard. ‘She’s got a house to sell. I’m going to arrange a viewing.’
Kit hisses an obscenity under his breath, shakes his head. I try to hear only the ringing, preferring it to the sound of my husband’s disgust. Pick up. Please.
‘You think they’re going to be showing people round? A woman gets murdered there, and the police don’t think to tell the agent to hold off on viewings? What the fuck’s wrong with you? Look at you, crouched on the pavement like a . . . Do you actually have any idea what you’re doing?’
He’s right. I didn’t think. Of course Grint will have told them not to show anyone round 11 Bentley Grove; it must be full of police. ‘You don’t know anything,’ I say, keeping my phone clamped to my ear. I won’t give up, not while Kit’s watching me.
The ringing stops. Someone’s picked up. A woman’s voice says, ‘Lasting damage.’
I can’t speak. The breath in my throat has set, turned to concrete.
‘Lasting damage,’ she repeats, louder this time. Sing-song. As if she’s taunting me.
Do you actually have any idea what you’re doing?
Lasting damage. Lasting damage. Lasting damage.
I cry out, throw my phone into the road. I don’t want it anywhere near me.