The receptionist writes down ‘Beth Leeson’. ‘Phone number?’ she asks me.
‘Jeanette has my number.’
‘Oh – ha, yes. Sorry! I’m so used to taking full details from people. Tell you what, though … if you could just let me have your number, just in case?’
Zannah recites our home number, and the receptionist writes it on the pad. When she looks up, I see uncertainty in her eyes. ‘And you’re Jeanette’s … friend?’ she says, as if this is an outlandish concept.
‘Yes.’
Two spots of red have appeared on her otherwise white cheeks. She holds out her hand awkwardly to take the sports bag from me. She’s gone from friendly and confident to nervous in the space of seconds. Why? ‘What’s your name?’ I ask her.
‘Lou Munday,’ she says quickly. ‘Rhymes with the famous song, “Blue Monday”! Haha. My husband says that’s one of the reasons he married me.’ She’s still on edge, but trying to hide it.
I pass her the bag.
We say our goodbyes, and Zannah and I are halfway to the door when she calls after us, ‘Thanks again! I’ll give this to Jeanette later when she comes to collect Thomas.’
I freeze. Zannah and I exchange a look.
Thomas. Not Toby.
Kevin Cater lied. I now have proof, and it came from someone impartial, with no skin in the game. I should make a motivational sign like the one Lewis made for me, with ‘I trust myself’ emblazoned across it, and stick it on the wall in my treatment room. My clients would love it. Lots of them are keen on positive psychology and mindfulness and things like that.
Zan is ahead of me, walking back to reception. ‘Did you say Toby, Mrs Munday?’ she asks in her fake-sweet voice, the one she only uses on me when she wants me to spend serious money on her. ‘Jeanette’s son isn’t called Toby. He’s called Thomas.’
‘I know. I said Thomas.’ She looks confused.
‘And his sister’s not called Emma,’ I say.
‘No, she’s called Emily. I didn’t say anything about an Emma.’ The red spots on her cheeks are growing.
‘I know you didn’t. Can I tell you something that’s going to sound—’
‘Mum,’ says Zan curtly. She’s trying to warn me off.
‘No, I’m doing this,’ I say. ‘Mrs Munday—’
‘Please, call me Lou.’
‘I don’t know how well you know the Cater family … for example, do you know that Thomas and Emily have a younger sister called Georgina? A baby?’
‘We don’t know that’s true,’ says Zannah.
Lou Munday looks mystified. She says, ‘The Caters don’t have a baby called Georgina, or any baby at all. They just have Thomas and Emily.’
‘Just to check: we’re talking about Kevin and Jeanette Cater, who live at 16 Wyddial Lane, Hemingford Abbots?’
Lou has started to pluck at the skin of her neck with the fingers of her right hand. ‘I probably shouldn’t … I mean, I can’t. I can’t tell you where they live.’
‘I’ve just told you where they live: 16 Wyddial Lane, Hemingford Abbots. Is that right?’
She starts to mumble about safeguarding issues. It’s been a while since she looked me in the eye.
‘Does Jeanette Cater have a foreign accent?’ Zannah asks her.
‘A foreign … No, she … I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘No? No foreign accent?’
‘Zan, wait. Lou, I’m really sorry about this. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, and obviously you don’t have to tell us anything else. We’ll leave in a minute, I promise. Before we go, though, I’d like to tell you something. Tell, not ask.’
Am I really going to do this? Is this a strategy, or a burst of recklessness I’ll regret?
‘I lied to you. I am Beth Leeson – that’s true – but the bag I gave you belongs to my son. It’s nothing to do with the Caters. I lied because … well, it’s a long story, but … I think there might be something wrong – I mean really, horribly wrong – in the Cater household. It would take too long to tell you everything so I’ll just say this: three days ago, Jeanette Cater, or, rather, a woman who introduced herself to me as Jeanette Cater, with a foreign accent, told me that her children were called Toby and Emma. Not Thomas and Emily. And … a few days before that, I saw a woman who is not Jeanette Cater, because she’s my old friend Flora Braid, getting out of a silver Range Rover and …’ I should probably stop there. The rest would sound too implausible.
Lou shakes her head. ‘I can’t talk to you,’ she says in a tight voice. ‘You need to leave.’
‘You have my phone number. Will you ring me later? I swear to you, whatever you tell me will go no further. No one will ever know you said anything at all.’
She shakes her head more vigorously. The pearl-flowers on her earlobes jiggle up and down.
‘I’m worried about the children. Thomas and Emily. I think you are too.’
That one hit home. Her eyes widen. She takes a step back and nearly trips over the sports bag, which she’s left on the floor. She picks it up and pushes it across the desk to me. ‘Please just go,’ she says.
10
The plan was to drive straight home after Kimbolton Prep School; the decision to ignore the plan was unanimous, which is why, for the third time in less than a week, I’m on Wyddial Lane. I turn the corner and pull over as soon as I’m clear, at the top end of the road. Hopefully Marilyn Oxley won’t see me, or the Caters.
Or Flora.
Zannah says, ‘If I pass my test when I’m seventeen, will you and Dad buy me a car? I want a Mini.’
‘Too expensive,’ I say. ‘But I’ll buy you driving lessons – which otherwise you won’t be able to afford—’
‘Cool.’
‘—if, and only if, you start revising properly for your GCSEs. Tomorrow, first thing.’
‘Blackmailer.’
I feel as if the ever-vigilant eyes of Marilyn Oxley are on me already. If they’re not now, they soon might be, even if I stay up this end of the street. She’s probably got a long-range camera fitted to her roof and a bank of screens in her front room – like security guards in films, who always fall asleep at the exact moment that a balaclava-clad psychopath tiptoes through all the rooms they’re supposed to be watching. Those movies need Marilyn Oxley; she wouldn’t miss a thing.
I don’t care if she sees me. I’m here to talk to other people, not her, and certainly not Kevin Cater and Fake Jeanette. I’m allowed to do that – or allowed to try, anyway. Today, my target is all the other houses. I need to find residents of Wyddial Lane that I haven’t already spoken to.
‘Can I come with you?’ Zannah asks. ‘Or will that make us look like Jehovah’s witnesses? They always go in pairs.’
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of anyone thinking you’re doing the Lord’s work,’ I say, eyeing her grey T-shirt, which has ‘Gang Sh*t’ printed on it in black. How did I not notice that before? ‘If you’re coming with, you’ll need to zip up your jacket,’ I tell her. ‘Did you have it zipped while we were talking to Lou Munday?’