“Ginny.” A red-haired nurse beckons her. “Can I have a quick word?” She draws her to one side and murmurs under her breath. I just catch the odd word … strange… police .
“… police?” Ginny’s eyes have widened in surprise.
“… don’t know… number…”
Ginny takes the slip of paper, then turns to smile at me again. I manage a rictus grin, totally paralyzed with horror.
The police. I’d forgotten about the police.
I told them Sadie was murdered by the staff at the home. These lovely saintly nurses. Why did I say that? What was I thinking?
This is all Sadie’s fault. No, it’s not. It’s my fault. I should have kept my big trap shut .
“Lara?” Ginny peers at me in alarm. “Are you all right?”
She’s going to be accused of homicide, and she has no idea. And it’s all my fault. I’m going to ruin everyone’s career and the home will be shut and boarded up and all the old people will have nowhere to go…
“Lara?”
“I’m fine,” I manage at last, in a grainy voice. “Fine. But I have to go.” I start backing out of the front door on wobbly legs. “Thanks so much. Bye.”
I wait until I’m down the path and safely back on the pavement, then whip out my phone and speed-dial DI James’s number, almost hyperventilating in panic. I should never have accused anyone of murder. I am never, ever, ever doing that again. I’m going to confess everything, tear up my statement-
“DI James’s office.” A woman’s crisp voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Oh, hello.” I try to sound calm. “This is Lara Lington speaking. Could I speak to DI James or DC Davies?”
“I’m afraid they’re both out on calls. Can I take a message? If it’s urgent-”
“Yes, it’s very, very urgent. It’s to do with a murder case. Could you please tell DI James I’ve had a… a… a realization.”
“A realization,” she echoes, obviously writing it down.
“Yes. About my statement. Quite a crucial one.”
“I think perhaps you should talk to DI James personally-”
“No! This can’t wait! You have to tell him it wasn’t the nurses who murdered my great-aunt. They didn’t do a thing. They’re wonderful, and it was all a terrible mistake, and… well… the thing is…”
I’m psyching myself up to bite the bullet and admit I invented the whole thing-when suddenly I’m brought up short by a horrible thought. I can’t confess everything. I can’t admit I made the whole thing up. They’ll instantly resume the funeral. I have a flashback to Sadie’s anguished cry at the funeral service, and feel a shiver of anxiety. I can’t let that happen. I just can’t.
“Yes?” says the woman patiently.
“I… um… the thing is…”
My mind is doing double backflips trying to work out a solution that involves both being honest and buying time for Sadie. But I can’t find one. There isn’t one. And the woman’s going to give up waiting in a minute and put the phone down. I have to say something .
I need a red herring. Just to distract them for a while. Just while I find the necklace.
“It was someone else,” I blurt out. “A… man. It was him I overheard in the pub. I got confused before. He had a plaited goatee beard,” I add randomly. “And a scar on his cheek. I remember it really clearly now.”
They’ll never find a man with a plaited goatee and a scar on his cheek. We’re safe. For now.
“A man with a plaited beard…” The woman sounds as if she’s trying to keep up.
“And a scar.”
“And, I’m sorry, what is this man supposed to have done?”
“Murdered my great-aunt! I gave a statement, but it was wrong. So if you could just cancel it out…”
There’s a rather long pause-then the woman says, “Dear, we don’t just cancel out statements. I think DI James will probably want to talk to you himself.”
Oh God. The thing is, I really, really don’t want to talk to DI James.
“Fine.” I try to sound cheery. “No problem. As long as he knows the nurses definitely didn’t do it. If you could write that message on a Post-it or something? The nurses didn’t do it.”
“The nurses didn’t do it,” she repeats dubiously.
“Exactly. In big capitals. And put it on his desk.”
There’s another, even longer pause. Then the woman says, “Can I take your name again?”
“Lara Lington. He’ll know who I am.”
“I’m sure he will. Well, as I say, Miss Lington, I’m sure DI James will be in touch.”
I ring off and head down the road, my legs weak. I think I just about got away with it. But, honestly, I’m a nervous wreck.
Two hours later, I’m not just a nervous wreck. I’m exhausted.
In fact, I’m taking a whole new jaded view of the British populace. It might seem like an easy project, phoning a few people on a list and asking if they’d bought a necklace. It might seem simple and straightforward, until you actually tried it yourself.
I feel like I could write a whole book on human nature, and it would be called: People Are Really Unhelpful . First of all, they want to know how you got their name and phone number. Then, when you mention the word raffle , they want to know what they won and even call out to their husband, “Darren, we won that raffle!” When you hastily tell them, “You didn’t win anything,” the mood instantly turns suspicious.