‘Clare. Where the fuck are you?’
‘Er … just out having a coffee. What’s up?’
‘Where – having a coffee? Where exactly are you?’ I can hear the anger in voice, although he’s practically hissing the words. ‘And don’t say at Nadine’s.’
‘What?’ Oh, God, he’s found out.
‘I know you’re not at Nadine’s. I’ve got the fucking police here. They want you to go in for further questioning. I found your address book and looked up Nadine because that’s where you told me you were. And, guess what? You’re not actually there! She’s even more surprised than I am. She hasn’t heard from you in months!’ The hiss has gone and Luke is in full rage mode. This never happens. The last time he flipped like this was when … ah yes … was when his portrait of Alice was slashed. ‘Clare? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. I’m here.’
‘Care to share where the fuck here is?’
I ignore his question. I don’t really want to have to explain myself. Not yet. Not until I know for certain what happened over here. ‘What do the police want to question me about?’
‘Vandalising Pippa’s car.’
‘Not that again.’
‘They’ve looked at the CCTV and have you on film going into the garage and coming out a few minutes later with the aerosol can in your hand.’
‘That’s impossible. I’ve told you before, I didn’t do it.’
‘They have evidence, Clare. Didn’t you hear me? CCTV evidence.’ His tone conveys a mix of anger and exasperation. ‘Get your arse back here now.’ I can hear voices in the background. Luke speaks again. ‘The police want to know where you are and how long you’ll be.’
I drum my fingers anxiously on the table. ‘I’ll be back Wednesday.’
‘I don’t think they want to wait until then. How about you make it this afternoon.’
‘I can’t.’
Then I hear the phone being passed over to someone else.
‘Mrs Tennison?’ says a female voice I recognise as the police officer from the other day. ‘This is Police Constable Evans here. We spoke about the damage to Pippa Stent’s vehicle.’
‘Yes. Hello.’
‘As your husband has just explained, we have further evidence to support the accusation that you vandalised Mrs Stent’s car and we would like you to come in for further questioning. You may remember, we did say that you should make yourself available for further questioning and someone in your line of work shouldn’t really need this spelled out.’
‘I know, but I can’t come in before Wednesday.’ Time to come clean. I can’t put it off any longer. ‘I’m not in the country and I haven’t got a return flight until Tuesday night. I could be with you by mid-morning Wednesday.’
‘Mrs Tennison, flying out of the country isn’t really acceptable.’
I cut in. ‘It’s perfectly acceptable. I am not under arrest. I haven’t been charged with anything. I haven’t been cautioned. You never told me not to leave the country. Technically, I have not done anything wrong.’
‘I can’t say I’m very happy.’
‘That’s as may be, but as soon as I’m in the UK, I’ll let you know. Now, please hand me back to my husband.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ It’s Luke. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in America,’ I say. I carry on talking despite his spluttering disbelief. ‘I’ll be back Wednesday. We’ll talk then.’ I end the call. What a nightmare. I think about the new evidence and wonder how the hell they have me on CCTV going into the garage.
I look at the envelope that Roma left still on the table. I’ll worry about CCTV later, for now I’m dying to see the photographs. I empty the contents in front of me. Half a dozen photographs spill out. I spread them out with my fingertips.
At first I don’t understand what I’m looking at. It takes a moment for me to process the information.
These are all pictures of Martha Munroe. Alice’s friend. The same girl in the picture with her that she first sent Mum.
It seems as though my brain is taking forever to rationalise and order these thoughts but, in reality, it’s only a second.
The truth hits me. What I had suspected somewhere in the back of my mind is no longer a nagging doubt. It has morphed into a real-life threat. I feel physically sick and for a moment I can feel my cool legal head melt into a morass of panic and fear.
Chapter 22
I don’t know how I make it back to my motel room. I guess I’m on autopilot. I can’t think straight; all I can think about is the mess everything seems to be over here. It’s hard to take in what I’ve found out.
I throw my bag onto the bed and sink into the overly soft mattress. I tip the contents out and examine them again.
Photographs from Roma
Copy photo of Alice and Martha together
Travel list
Pay slip
Business card
Contact lens box
I fan the photographs out before me.
I single out a portrait shot of her. She’s looking at the camera and smiling. I take the photograph of Alice and Martha together.
They look very similar and, if you didn’t know them, it would be easy to muddle them up. Their hair is similar and nothing that a bottle of hair colour or a trip to the hairdressers couldn’t sort out. They both have high cheekbones and, from what I can tell, from the photographs Roma has given me, they are of similar build and height. The only giveaway is their eyes.
Alice Kennedy has the most amazing blue eyes. It’s something that I remember vividly about her. Everyone who saw her used to comment on how big and blue they were. Blue eyes run in both my mother’s family and Patrick Kennedy’s family. And there they are, staring right back at me.
I look at the contact lens box on the bed and the blue-eye graphic I realise is not a generic graphic – it’s colour-specific. I take a closer look. On the other side, three small boxes are printed, each has one word underneath: blue, brown, green. The square above the word ‘blue’ is ticked. These aren’t normal contact lenses; these are for changing the appearance of eye colour.
A wave of nausea swells in my stomach and for a moment I consider making a dash for the bathroom. I clench my stomach with my hand and, sitting up straight to allow as much oxygen into my lungs as possible, I take deep breaths – in through my nose and release slowly out through my mouth. The sensation passes but my mind is in turmoil.
I push my hands through my hair. I don’t know what to do. I stand. I pull at my hair. I stride across the room to the window. It takes just three paces. I stride back to the bed. I want to sit. I want to stand. I pick up the photographs again. I run the scenario through my mind, slowly, very slowly, just to check I haven’t made a mistake anywhere. I’m usually very thorough with things like this. I don’t usually make mistakes. How I wish that this time I had. I want to be wrong.
I am not.
I shudder and goose bumps prick their way down my spine, then both my arms prickle with fear and I’m engulfed in a fleeting moment of cold air. I shiver and scrunch my shoulders up. My brain formally identifying the terrifying thought. The young woman at home with my family is not who she says she is. She is not Alice. She is Martha and she has taken my sister’s identity.