I nod.
‘Weren’t you embarrassed?’
‘Why would I be?’
‘It’s such a crazy-sounding story. It’s … I mean it’soutrageous.’ She stresses the word. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I couldn’t sit there and say all that to the police.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve been outrageous,’ I tell her. ‘Sometimes you have to do the things no one else would do to get a result. My husband only got his first job because I applied for it on his behalf. Without telling him.’
‘As his wife?’
‘No. Pretending to be him.’
‘Wow.’
I can’t tell if she’s impressed or repelled. ‘I’d shown him the advert and he’d said, “There’s no way I’d get that. I’m too inexperienced.” And he was right, he wouldn’t have got it, because he’s not the sort of person who’d really sell himself in the bold wayIcould tell that particular company wanted. It was obvious from their ad. So I wrote an application letter basically saying “I’m brilliant and you won’t find better” – more subtly than that. It was a great letter, if I say so myself – witty, charming, but it made the point: “I’m the best you’ll get”. And he got the job!’
‘You’re very different from me,’ says Lou. ‘I feel terrible for being here.’
‘Then why are you?’
She stares into her empty teacup. I’m starting to feel the first prickle of impatience when she says, ‘If I talk to you about the Caters, will you swear never to tell anyone that the information came from me?’
‘I can’t promise to tell nobody,’ I say. ‘If the police do end up looking into it and they come back to me with—’
‘I don’t mean the police. If there’s an official investigation, that’s different.’
‘I promise that whatever you tell me won’t lead to you losing your job. You can trust me. I’m not going to land you in any trouble.’
She nods. ‘Yesterday, you asked me about Jeanette Cater’s accent, or your daughter did.’
I wait.
‘Jeanette Cater – the woman I know by that name – has an English accent. Like yours.’
I show her the photo I took in the car park of the other woman. ‘Then who’s this?’
‘Yanina. She’s the Caters’ nanny. I don’t know her last name. I think she’s Ukrainian.’
‘And the woman you know as Jeanette – does she look a lot like Thomas, facially?’
‘Yes. Oh! I might have a photo, from sports day.’ Lou rummages in her bag. ‘I’m terrified I’ll lose my phone and then all my pictures’ll be gone. I’ve got hundreds on there. Should back them up, really.’ When she pulls out her phone, a crumpled tissue and a hair clip fall out with it. She picks them up and stuffs them back in.
I sip my cold tea while she scrolls through her photos. ‘Here we are,’ she says eventually. ‘This is Jeanette.’ She passes the phone across the table to me.
It’s Flora. Her face is flushed and she’s wearing grey and blue trainers, grey jogging trousers and a red T-shirt. There are two women standing to her right, also wearing running gear. All three of them are smiling. Two of the smiles look natural and convincing. Flora’s is the odd one out: stiff and uncomfortable, as if it’s hurting her lips to make that shape.
‘That was after the mums’ race.’
‘This is Flora Braid,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘That’s so odd,’ says Lou. ‘I wonder why she changed her name.’
Another peculiar aspect of this whole bizarre business has just struck me: many of the strangest details involve names. The Ukrainian nanny, Yanina, pretended her name was Jeanette. Either Flora’s doing the same in her dealings with her son’s school and her next-door neighbour, or else she really has changed her name to Jeanette Cater. And, since Thomas and Emily Braid can’t possibly have been frozen at the ages of five and three, then the Thomas and Emily I saw last Saturday in Hemingford Abbots must have been two different children – but their names are the same.
