I dropped it. It made a crunching noise. The screen was already cracked; now it’s probably damaged beyond repair. In normal circumstances, I’d be feeling sick about the cost of a new phone.
Amazingly, it still works, though it looks like something anyone sensible would chuck in the bin. Dom has tried to call me four times. I send him a quick message saying, ‘Out for the day. Don’t worry, all fine!’ and end up with a small piece of glass in my forefinger. Parts of the screen are missing around the button at the bottom. I can see silver-grey innards. And more silver in front of me, now that I’ve turned round: Flora’s Range Rover, standing out glossily in a row of smaller, less shiny cars. I must have walked straight past it and not noticed – because I wasn’t looking out for it, not here.
To be strictly accurate, I suppose I should say, ‘Asilver Range Rover’. I didn’t notice the number plate on Saturday, so there’s no way of knowing if this one is Flora’s.
It is. It’s her car. She was on her way back to it, walking across the car park, when she saw you and turned and ran.
A text arrives from Dom.‘No clients today? Out where?’
‘I rearranged two appointments,’ I text back.
‘Why? What are you doing?’ is his response. Then, ‘When back?’
If I set off now, I could be back by noon. I send a reply saying, ‘Not sure when back yet, will keep you posted!’, put my smashed phone back in my bag and walk over to the silver Range Rover. The windows are tinted, making it hard to see what’s inside, though I can see the outlines of car seats.
I don’t know what makes me try the door. It opens with a soft and fluid thunking sound. I close it, then open it again.Thunk-thunk. My car doors make a much harsher noise. No one would leave a car like this unlocked. It must be worth at least fifty grand.
The answer comes to me straight away: she didn’t. Flora didn’t leave the car unlocked while she went and did whatever she had to do in Huntingdon. She unlocked it just now, thinking she was about to drive home, and then, in her shock at seeing me, she forgot to lock it again before running away.
I walk round to the other side of the car, open the door, get in and sit in the driver’s seat. If Flora wants to come back and ask me to get out, let her do that. I’ve got plenty to ask her; she can give me some answers and maybe then I’ll agree to move.
I open the glove compartment and find nothing useful, only the Range Rover’s official manual. I get out again, open the boot and see a black rucksack with green straps and zips, a pink and white duvet with white press-studs along one edge, a creased sheet of paper with some writing on it in large handwriting. This turns out to be a spelling test. There’s no name at the top, only the numbers one to five in the margin and the answers written in a child’s hand: ‘friend, school, house, father, shugar’. All have red ticks beside them apart from ‘shugar’. Next to it, the correct spelling of the word is written in smaller, adult handwriting.
Is this a test that Thomas Braid, or Thomas Cater, was set at school? My eyes linger on the words ‘house’ and ‘father’. There’s nothing here to identify who the Range Rover belongs to – no ‘Braid’ or ‘Cater’ written on anything. Also no mud, dirt, crisp crumbs, no empty biscuit packets. The boot looks as if it has been recently valeted, which is what I’d expect from a car belonging to the Braids. They used to hire carpet cleaners every two months when we all lived in rented flats in Newnham. Dominic used to rib Lewis about it. ‘You’re paying, out of your own pocket, to have a carpet professionally cleaned that’s still clean from the last time?’ he would say, and Lewis would shake his head and say, ‘You live in filth if you want to, mate. Some of us have higher standards.’
On the back seat, there’s a bunched-up navy-blue raincoat that would fit a woman of Flora’s size, and two child car seats. They’re not baby seats. They’re the kind that a five-year-old and a three-year-old would need.
Two car seats. Not three.
I’m not crazy. I didn’t imagine anything. This is all real.
This is where two small children were sitting on Saturday morning, in these car seats, when Flora opened the door and said, ‘Thomas! Emily! Out you get!’ And that’s what she said. I didn’t mishear or misremember. She called them Thomas and Emily, and they were wearing Thomas and Emily Braid’s old clothes.
I open the driver door again, get in and close my eyes. Next thing I know, I’m waking up with a sharp pain down one side of my neck. How long was I asleep for?Shit. I guess that’s what happens when you get up at 5 a.m. after sleeping for less than three hours. What if Flora had come back and caught me in her car? She’s going to have to come and get it at some point.
I pull my phone out of my bag. I’ve only missed twenty minutes. Not too long, but still, what if …
It occurs to me for the first time since this started that I might be in danger. I force myself to laugh out loud.Don’t be ridiculous, Beth. Danger? Seriously?
I try to feel light-hearted and brazen about it, and fail. People who are hiding something will sometimes go to extremes in order to protect their secrets. Indulging my curiosity is one thing, but Zannah and Ben need a mother who hasn’t been strangled in a car by an assassin sent from Florida. Or maybe there are more affordable hit men for hire in Huntingdon, who knows?
The trouble is, it’s not only curiosity. On Saturday morning, when I saw Flora, I thought that something was badly wrong. Now, two days later, I know something must be. Because of everything that’s happened, because she ran away from me. And there are children involved …
Before I can think it through any further, there’s a sharp knock on the window next to my head. It’s a woman I’ve never seen before.
I open the car door, my heart hammering, and get out. She’s a few inches taller than me – with thin, straight dark hair, chin-length, cut in an angular style. ‘Would you care to explain yourself?’ she says in an accent I can’t place. Italian, maybe.
‘Pardon?’ I stammer.
‘What are you doing sitting in my car? How did you get in?’
‘It was unlocked. It’s … it’s not your car.’
‘Not mine?’ She produces a set of keys from her pocket and dangles them in front of me. She slams the driver door, locks the car, then unlocks it again. ‘This is not my car, you think?’
‘This is Flora Braid’s car.’
‘Who?’
