I nod and take a seat in what was probably once a fisherman’s front room, which is now dominated by a large desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. Sergeant Carter disappears into an adjacent room, where I hear the sound of mugs clinking together and a kettle. He clearly doesn’t believe me, which makes me think he won’t be able to help me, but I am at least grateful for the hot drink. A ribbon of steam rises from the cup he puts on the table, and I greedily gulp down the tea, burning my mouth but not caring.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Perhaps we could start at the beginning?” he suggests, then offers a head tilt of sympathy as though I might be confused or lost or unwell.
But I am none of those things.
“I told you already,” I tell him, unable to hide my frustration. “There is a woman pretending to be me. I went for a run, the same way I do every Thursday evening, and when I got home, tomyhouse, she was in it. My key didn’t work in the door—she must have changed the locks—and somehow she has tricked my husband into going along with it. And all those people at the art gallery who also seem to think she is me! I don’t understand what is happening, but she’s the one you need to arrest.”
“Nobody is being arrested. We’re just here to have a chat. Hopefully we can get this straightened out in no time. I’m afraid there is an abundance of admin with all police work these days, so let’s start with the paperwork.” He takes a black pen with a chewed lid from the pot on his desk, then his hand hovers over a blank form.
“Name?” he asks, staring at the page.
“Eden Fox.”
He frowns. Looks up. “Well, there’s our first problem. The lady who lives in Spyglass and is having an exhibition tonight is called Eden Fox. It’syourname I’m after.”
“Thatismy name.”
“Okay then. Let’s suppose for a moment that it is. You must have some ID on you? A driver’s license perhaps?”
“I left my purse at home, along with everything else when I went for my run.”
“How about online?” he says, opening up a laptop. “You must have a social media account? Something with your name and a picture of you?”
“I don’t do social media,” I tell him.
“Well, let’s just see, shall we?” He starts to type my name into a search engine. “A digital footprint is often more useful than fingerprints these days.”
I really hope he isn’t going to scan my fingerprints.
“This is a waste of time. I already told you. I value my privacy and I don’t do Facebook or Twitter—”
“But youdohave an Instagram account,” he interrupts, turning the laptop around so that I can see the screen. “Or at least the Eden Fox who is at the art gallery this evening does.” My chest feels tight as I stare at the Instagram account I have never seen before. It belongs to someone called “Eden Fox Artist” and there is a picture of the woman pretending to be me at the top. I don’t understand what I am seeing. “And this isn’t a new account by the looks of things,” he adds, looking at a patchwork screen of square images. He scrolls down the page and I see endless pictures of my paintings and photos of our new home. Before and after shots of all the renovations. There is even one of me in my overalls on a ladder, painting the walls in the kitchen, but you can’t see my face. And from the back, I suppose I do look a bit like her. Harrison must have taken the photo without me knowing, but the rest are all mine, and there must be a hundred of them. All from the last few weeks. All from my phone.
But I didn’t post them.
I don’t even have an Instagram account.
“I don’t understand—”
“Looks pretty definitive to me. These are pictures of her work, her home, her life. I have no reason to think that Eden Fox isn’t who she claims to be,” he says. “You, on the other hand—”
“Those are pictures of my work, my home, taken onmyphone.”
“But you can’t show me your phone?”
“Because I—”
“And you’re saying that youdidn’tshare these pictures online?”
“No. She must have.”
He sighs. “Why would she do that? How would she? These pictures have been posted over several weeks. There is even a picture of her husband—”
“Myhusband.”
The head tilt of sympathy is replaced with a look of irritation.
