Twenties Girl

THREE

It turns out they take murder quite seriously at police stations. Which I suppose I should have guessed. They’ve put me in a little room with a table and plastic chairs and posters about locking your car. They’ve given me a cup of tea and a form to fill in, and a policewoman told me a detective would be along in a moment to talk to me.

I want to laugh hysterically. Or climb out the window.

“What am I going to say to a detective?” I exclaim, as soon as the door has closed. “I don’t know anything about you! How am I going to say you were murdered? With the candlestick in the drawing room?”

Sadie doesn’t even seem to have heard me. She’s sitting on the window ledge, swinging her legs. Although when I look more closely, I notice that she’s not actually on the ledge, she’s floating about an inch above it. Following my gaze, she sees the gap and flinches with annoyance. She adjusts her position carefully until she looks as though she’s sitting right on the ledge, then insouciantly starts swinging her legs again.

She’s all in my mind, I tell myself firmly. Let’s be rational here. If my own brain has conjured her up, then my own brain can get rid of her.

Go away, I think as strongly as I can, holding my breath and clenching my fists. Go away, go away, go away-

Sadie glances over me and gives a sudden giggle.

“You do look peculiar,” she says. “Do you have a pain in your stomach?”

I’m about to make a retort when the door opens-and my stomach really does twinge. It’s a detective, wearing plain-clothes, which makes it almost more scary than if he was in uniform. Oh God. I am in such trouble.

“Lara.” The detective holds out his hand. He’s tall and broad, with dark hair and a brisk manner. “DI James.”

“Hi.” My voice is squeaky with nerves. “Nice to meet you.”

“So.” He sits down in a businesslike way and takes out a pen. “I understand you stopped your great-aunt’s funeral.”

“That’s right.” I nod with as much conviction as I can muster. “I just think there was something suspicious about her death.”

DI James makes a note, then looks up. “Why?”

I stare blankly back at him, my heart pounding. I have no answer. I should have made something up, very quickly. I’m an idiot.

“Well… don’t you think it suspicious?” I improvise at last. “Her just dying like that? I mean, people don’t just die out of the blue!”

DI James regards me with an unreadable expression. “I believe she was one hundred and five years old.”

“So what?” I retort, gaining confidence. “Can’t people of a hundred and five be murdered too? I didn’t think the police were so ageist.”

DI James’s face flickers, whether with amusement or annoyance I can’t tell.

“Who do you think murdered your great-aunt?” he says.

“It was…” I rub my nose, playing for time. “It’s… rather… complicated…” I glance helplessly up at Sadie.

“You’re useless!” she cries. “You need a story or they won’t believe you! They won’t delay the funeral any longer! Say it was the staff at the nursing home! Say you heard them plotting.”

“No!” I exclaim in shock before I can help myself.

DI James gives me an odd look and clears his throat.

“Lara, do you have a genuine reason for believing something was amiss with your great-aunt’s death?”

“Say it was the staff at the nursing home!” Sadie’s voice is in my ear like a screeching brake. “Say it! Say it! SAY IT!”

“It was the staff at the nursing home,” I blurt out in desperation. “I think.”

“What grounds do you have for saying this?”

DI James’s tone is even, but his eyes are alert. In front of him, Sadie is hovering, glowering at me and wheeling her hands around, as though to crank the words out of me. The sight is totally freaking me out.

“I… er… I overheard them whispering in the pub. Something about poison and insurance. I thought nothing of it at the time.” I swallow feebly. “But the next moment, my great-aunt’s dead.”

I’ve lifted this entire plot from a daytime soap opera that I watched last month when I was off sick, I abruptly realize.

DI James gives me a penetrating look. “You would testify to this.”

Oh God. Testify is one of those very scary words, like tax inspector and lumbar puncture. I cross my fingers under the table and gulp, “Ye-es.”

“Did you see these people?”

“No.”

“What’s the name of the nursing home? What area is it in?”

I stare back at him steadily. I have no idea. I glance up at Sadie, who has her eyes closed as though recalling something from a long, long way away.

“Fairside,” she says slowly. “In Potters Bar.”

“Fairside, Potters Bar,” I repeat.

There’s a short silence. DI James has finished writing and is flicking his pen backward and forward.

“I’m just going to consult with a colleague.” He stands up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The moment he’s left the room, Sadie gives me a contemptuous look.

“Is that the best you could do? He’ll never believe you! You were supposed to be helping me.”

“By accusing random people of murder?”

“Don’t be such a goose,” she says dismissively. “You didn’t accuse anyone by name. In fact, your story was utterly hopeless. Poison? Whispered conversations in pubs?”

“You try making something up on the spot!” I reply defensively. “And that’s not the point! The point is-”

“The point is, we need to delay my funeral.” She’s suddenly about two inches away from me, her eyes intense and pleading. “It can’t happen. You can’t let it. Not yet.”

“But-” I blink in surprise as she disappears right before my eyes. God, this is annoying. I feel like I’m Alice in Wonderland. Any minute she’ll reappear with a flamingo under her arm, shouting, “Off with her head!”

Leaning gingerly back in my chair, half expecting that to disappear too, I blink a few times, trying to process everything. But it’s too surreal. I’m sitting in a police station, inventing a murder, being bossed around by a nonexistent phantom girl. I never even got any lunch, it occurs to me. Maybe this is all due to low blood sugar. Maybe I’m diabetic and this is the first sign. My mind feels like it’s tying itself up in knots. Nothing makes any sense. There’s no point trying to work out what’s going on. I’ll just have to go with the flow.

“They’re going to pursue it!” Sadie appears again, speaking so fast I can barely follow her. “They think you’re probably deluded, but they’re going to follow it up anyway, just in case.”

“Really?” I say incredulously.

“That policeman’s been talking to another policeman,” she explains breathlessly. “I followed them. He showed him your notes and said, ‘Got a right one here.’”

“A ‘right one’?” I can’t help echoing indignantly.

Sadie ignores me. “But then they started talking about some other nursing home where there was a murder. Sounds too ghastly. And one policeman said maybe they should put in a phone call just in case, and the other agreed. So we’re all right.”

All right?

“You may be all right! But I’m not!”

As the door swings open, Sadie adds quickly, “Ask the policeman what’s going to be done about the funeral. Ask him. Ask him!”

“That’s not my problem-” I begin, then hastily stop as DI James’s head appears around the door.

“Lara, I’m going to ask a detective constable to take a statement from you. Then we’ll decide how to progress.”

“Oh. Er… thanks.” I’m aware of Sadie glaring meaningfully at me. “And what will happen to…” I hesitate. “How does it work with the… body?”

“The body will be kept at the mortuary for now. If we decide to proceed with an investigation, it will remain there until we file a report to the coroner, who will demand an inquest, should the evidence be sufficiently credible and consistent.”

He nods briskly, then heads out. As the door closes I subside. I’m suddenly feeling shaky all over. I’ve invented a murder story to a real policeman. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done. Even worse than the time I ate half a packet of biscuits aged eight and, rather than confess to Mum, hid the whole biscuit tin in the garden behind the rosebush and had to watch her search the kitchen for it.

“You realize I’ve just committed perjury?” I say to Sadie. “You realize they might arrest me?”

“‘They might arrest me,’” Sadie echoes mockingly. She’s perched on the window ledge again. “Have you never been arrested before?”

“Of course I haven’t!” I goggle at her. “Have you?”

“Several times!” she says airily. “The first time was for dancing in the village fountain one night. It was too funny.” She starts to giggle. “We had some mock handcuffs, you know, as part of a fancy dress costume, and while the policeman was hauling me out of the pond, my friend Bunty locked her handcuffs round him as a lark. He was livid!”

She’s in paroxysms of laughter by now. God, she’s annoying.

“I’m sure it was hilarious.” I shoot her a baleful look. “But, personally, I’d rather not go to jail and catch some hideous disease, thank you.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to if you had a better story.” Her laughter stops. “I’ve never seen such a ninny. You weren’t credible or consistent. At this rate they won’t even proceed with the investigation. We won’t have any time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to find my necklace, of course.”

I drop my head down on the table with a clunk. She doesn’t give up, does she?

“Look,” I say at last, raising my head an inch. “Why do you need this necklace so badly? Why this one particular necklace? Was it a present or something?”

For a moment she’s silent, her eyes distant. The only movement in the room is her feet, swinging rhythmically back and forth.

“It was a present from my parents for my twenty-first birthday,” she says at last. “I was happy when I wore it.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I say. “But-”

“I had it all my life. I wore it all my life.” She sounds suddenly agitated. “No matter what else I lost, I kept that. It’s the most important thing I ever had. I need it.”

She’s fidgeting with her hands, her face tilted down so all I can see is the corner of her chin. She’s so thin and pale, she looks like a drooping flower. I feel a pang of sympathy for her, and am about to say, “Of course I’ll find your necklace,” when she yawns elaborately, stretching her skinny arms above her head, and says, “This is too dull. I wish we could go to a nightclub.”

I glare at her, all my sympathy gone. Is this the gratitude I get?

“If you’re so bored,” I say, “we can go and finish your funeral if you like.”

Sadie claps a hand over her mouth and gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

A knock at the door interrupts us, and a jolly-looking woman in a dark shirt and trousers puts her head around it. “Lara Lington?”

An hour later, I’ve finished giving my so-called “statement.” I’ve never had such a traumatic experience in my life. What a shambles.

First I forgot the name of the nursing home. Then I got my timings all wrong and had to convince the policewoman it had taken me five minutes to walk half a mile. I ended up saying I was training to be a professional speed walker. Just thinking about it makes me cringey and hot. There’s no way she believed me. I mean, do I look like a professional speed walker?

Then I said I’d been to my friend Linda’s before visiting the pub. I don’t even have a friend called Linda; I just didn’t want to mention any of my real friends. She wanted Linda’s surname, and I blurted out “Davies” before I could stop myself.

Of course, I’d read it off the top of the form. She was DC Davies.

At least I didn’t say “Keyser Söze.”

To her credit, the policewoman didn’t flicker. Nor did she say whether they would proceed with the case. She just thanked me politely and found me the number of a cab firm.

I’ll probably go to jail now. Great. All I need.

I glower at Sadie, who’s lying full length on the desk, staring up at the ceiling. It really didn’t help having her in my ear the whole time, constantly correcting me and adding suggestions and reminiscing about the time two policemen tried to stop her and Bunty “racing their motors over the fields” and couldn’t catch up with them; it was “too funny.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “Again.”

“Thank you.” Sadie’s voice drifts idly over.

“Right, well.” I pick up my bag. “I’m off.”

In one quick movement, Sadie sits up. “You won’t forget my necklace, will you?”

“I doubt I will, my entire life.” I roll my eyes. “However hard I try.”

Suddenly she’s in front of me, blocking my way to the door. “No one can see me except you. No one else can help me. Please.”

“Look, you can’t just say, ‘Find my necklace!’” I exclaim in exasperation. “I don’t know anything about it, I don’t know what it looks like…”

“It’s made of glass beads with rhinestones,” she says eagerly. “It falls to here…” She gestures at her waist. “The clasp is inlaid mother-of-pearl-”

“Right.” I cut her off. “Well, I haven’t seen it. If it turns up, I’ll let you know.”

I swing past her, push the door open into the police-station foyer, and take out my phone. The foyer is brightly lit, with a grubby linoleum floor and a desk, which right now is empty. Two huge guys in hoodies are having a loud argument while a policeman is trying to calm them down, and I back away to what looks like a safe corner. I get out the minicab firm number DC Davies gave me and start keying it into my phone. I can see there are about twenty voice messages on there, but I ignore them all. It’ll just be Mum and Dad, stressing away…

“Hey!” A voice interrupts me and I pause midway through. “Lara? Is that you?”

A guy with sandy hair in a polo neck and jeans is waving at me. “It’s me! Mark Phillipson? Sixth-form college?”

“Mark!” I exclaim, suddenly recognizing him. “Oh my God! How are you doing?”

The only thing I remember about Mark is him playing bass guitar in the college band.

“I’m fine! Great.” He comes across with a concerned expression. “What are you doing at the police station? Is everything OK?”

“Oh! Yes, I’m fine. I’m just here for a… you know.” I wave it off. “Murder thing.”

“Murder?” He looks staggered.

“Yeah. But it’s no big deal. I mean, obviously it is a big deal…” I correct myself hastily at his expression. “I’d better not say too much about it… Anyway, how are you doing?”

“Great! Married to Anna, remember her?” He flashes a silver wedding ring. “Trying to make it as a painter. I do this stuff on the side.”

“You’re a policeman?” I say disbelievingly, and he laughs.

“Police artist. People describe the villains, I draw them; it pays the rent… So how about you, Lara? Are you married? With somebody?”

For a moment I just stare back with a rictus smile.

“I was with this guy for a while,” I say at last. “It didn’t work out. But I’m fine about it now. I’m in a really good place, actually.”

I’ve clenched my plastic cup so hard, it’s cracked. Mark looks a bit disconcerted.

“Well… see you, Lara.” He lifts a hand. “Will you be OK getting home?”

“I’m calling a cab.” I nod. “Thanks. Nice to bump into you.”

“Don’t let him go!” Sadie’s voice in my ear makes me jump out of my skin. “He can help!”

“Shut up and leave me alone,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, shooting an even brighter smile at Mark. “Bye, Mark. Give my love to Anna.”

“He can draw the necklace! Then you’ll know what you’re looking for!” She’s suddenly right in front of me. “Ask him! Quickly!”

“No!”

“Ask him!” Her banshee voice is coming back, piercing my eardrum. “Ask-him-ask-him-ask-him-”

Oh, for God’s sake, she’s going to drive me insane.

“Mark!” I call, so loudly that the two guys in hoodies stop fighting and stare at me. “I’ve got this tiny favor to ask you, if you have a moment…”

“Sure.” Mark shrugs.

We go into a side room, with cups of tea from the machine. We pull up chairs to a table and Mark gets out his paper and artist’s pencils.

“So.” He raises his eyebrows. “A necklace. That’s a new one.”

“I saw it once at an antiques fair,” I improvise. “And I’d love to commission one like it, but I’m so bad at drawing things, and it suddenly occurred to me that maybe you could help…”

“No problem. Fire away.” Mark takes a sip of tea, his pencil poised over the paper, and I glance up at Sadie.

“It was made of beads,” she says, holding up her hands as though she can almost feel it. “Two rows of glass beads, almost translucent.”

“It’s two rows of beads,” I say. “Almost translucent.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods, already sketching circular beads. “Like this?”

“More oval,” says Sadie, peering over his shoulder. “Longer. And there were rhinestones in between.”

“The beads were more oval,” I say apologetically. “With rhinestones in between.”

“No problem…” Mark is already rubbing out and sketching longer beads. “Like this?”

I glance up at Sadie. She’s watching him, mesmerized. “And the dragonfly,” she murmurs. “You mustn’t forget the dragonfly.”

For another five minutes, Mark sketches, rubs out, and sketches again, as I relay Sadie’s comments. Slowly, gradually, the necklace comes alive on the page.

“That’s it,” says Sadie at last. Her eyes are shining as she gazes down. “That’s my necklace!”

“Perfect,” I say to Mark. “You’ve got it.”

For a moment we all survey it in silence.

“Nice,” says Mark at last, jerking his head at it. “Unusual. Reminds me of something.” He frowns at the sketch for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. Lost it.” He glances at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to dash-”

“That’s fine,” I say quickly. “Thanks so much.”

When he’s gone, I pick up the paper and look at the necklace. It’s very pretty, I have to admit. Long rows of glassy beads, sparkling rhinestones, and a big ornamental pendant in the shape of a dragonfly, studded with even more rhinestones.

“So this is what we’re looking for.”

“Yes!” Sadie looks up, her face full of animation. “Exactly! Where shall we start?”

“You have to be joking!” I reach for my jacket and stand up. “I’m not looking for anything now. I’m going home and having a nice glass of wine. And then I’m having a chicken korma with naan. New-fangled modern food,” I explain, noticing her bemused expression. “And then I’m going to bed.”

“So what shall I do?” says Sadie, suddenly looking deflated.

“I don’t know!”

I head out of the side room, back into the foyer. A taxi is offloading an elderly couple onto the pavement outside, and I hurry out, calling, “Taxi? Can you take me to Kilburn?”

As the taxi moves off, I spread out the sketch on my lap and look at the necklace again, trying to imagine it in real life. Sadie described the beads as a kind of pale yellow iridescent glass. Even in the drawing, the rhinestones are sparkling all over. The real thing must be stunning. Worth a bit too. Just for a moment I feel a flicker of excitement at the thought of actually finding it.

But an instant later, sanity checks back into my brain. I mean, it probably doesn’t exist. And even if it did, the chances of finding some random necklace belonging to a dead old lady who probably lost it or broke it years ago are approximately… three million to one. No, three billion to one.

At last I fold the paper and tuck it in my bag, then flop back on my seat. I don’t know where Sadie is and I don’t care. I close my eyes, ignoring the constant vibrations of my mobile phone, and let myself doze off. What a day.