‘Got it.’
‘I don’t think Georgina Braid is dead,’ I tell him. ‘For some reason, Lewis and Flora wanted Flora’s parents to believe that she was, so that’s what they told them – and then broke off all contact so that their lie would never be discovered.’
‘There must have been a funeral, if Georgina died,’ says Dom. ‘I wonder if Gerard and Rosemary went to it.’
‘She didn’t die,’ I tell him. ‘She’s Chimpy – and she seems to be nowhere! From Lewis’s Instagram, it seems as if she’s not part of his life in Florida, and Lou Munday told me the Caters only had two kids, so she’s not in Hemingford Abbots. Where is she?’
‘Mrs Leeson—’
‘Call me Beth.’
‘Got it.’ Pollard rubs the index finger of his left hand across the skin between his nose and his mouth. It looks as if he’s making an obscene gesture, or pretending to have a mobile moustache. ‘I can’t see that there’s anything criminal here to be investigated. I’m not saying it’s not a strange story – it is – but you’ve not brought me any crimes I can investigate.’
‘I understand that. But when something’s so strange that some element of criminal behaviour behind it all seems likely, can’t the police look into it?’
‘If there’s a solid lead, yes. But—’
‘Four adults with presumably quite busy lives have gone to huge lengths – spent money on a transatlantic flight, even – to make me believe I can’t have seen Flora in Cambridgeshire twice in the last week. Why? Who would bother doing that to cover up weirdness? Doesn’t the sheer effort made to deceive me suggest that something criminal might be going on? I mean … Flora must have gone home after seeing me in Huntingdon, taken off her clothes and given them to that other woman to put on, so that she could come back to the car park wearing the same outfit and hopefully make me think I’d been hallucinating again. I don’t believe anyone would go to those lengths unless it was to cover up something that could land them in prison for a very long time.’
‘By a solid lead, I mean evidence that points to a crime,’ says Pollard, whose expression reminds me that he has endured my little speech with great patience. ‘For example, if you’d seen someone at 16 Wyddial Lane causing bodily harm to another person. What you’ve told me is unusual but it’s not enough. I can’t do anything with it.’
‘Could you maybe find out for us if Georgina Braid is dead?’ Dom asks.
‘I could find out if I needed to, but I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘Of course. I understand. It’s not your job to satisfy the curiosity of members of the public when no crime has been committed.’
‘Though safeguarding and child protection are your job, presumably?’ I ask Pollard. ‘How will you feel in two weeks’ time if you get an emergency call from Wyddial Lane and you arrive to find that something terrible has happened to Thomas and Emily Cater?’
‘Mrs Leeson – sorry, Beth – I understand that you’re concerned, but you need to be careful. What you’ve just said could be construed as a threat to those children.’
‘What?’
‘Beth wasn’t making a threat, she was making a point,’ says Dom. ‘Her point was, it’s better to be safe than sorry, and it’s a good one. We might not have witnessed any physical harm to anybody, but I think there’s enough in what we’ve told you to justify a quick check. You could talk to the head teacher at the prep school, ask her if she’s aware of any issues in the family. Maybe he or she could tell you who the woman Beth and I met really is. She introduced herself to us as Jeanette Cater, but she had a non-English accent, and the school receptionist told Beth that Jeanette Cater didn’t. She also told her the Cater kids are called Thomas and Emily, when Kevin Cater and that woman, whoever she was, said their names were Toby and Emma. Is that not sufficiently worrying? I mean … can you say with a hundred per cent confidence that you believe the children in that house aren’t at risk?’
Dom’s words seem to be having an effect. Please, please. See reason. ‘PC Pollard, you didn’t hear Flora on the phone last night. I did. She sounded the way someone would sound if someone had a gun to their head.’
‘Got it. Got it. Let me ask you something, Beth. Last Saturday, you were convinced you saw the Thomas and Emily you’d known twelve years ago getting out of that silver Range Rover. Correct?’
I nod.
‘Yet all through our conversation, you’ve referred to the children living at 16 Wyddial Lane as Thomas and Emily Cater.’
‘As far as I know, their surname is Cater. That’s what the school calls them.’ What’s he getting at?
‘But if they’re Thomas and Emily Cater, five and three years old, then they can’t also be the Thomas and Emily Braid you used to know. So which is it?’
‘Are you asking me if I still believe that the two young children I saw on Saturday are actually the same people as the Thomas and Emily Braid I knew twelve years ago?’
‘I am, yes.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Then you think I’m either crazy or stupid. They can’t be the same people, can they? It’s impossible. People age. Children grow. Time doesn’t go backwards. Last Saturday, what I saw were two children who looked pretty much identical to my memory of the Thomas and Emily I knew. I heard them called by the same names. It was such a shock, I … for a while, a short while, I thought it was them and they hadn’t grown. But obviously I soon realised that would be impossible.’
‘Got it.’ Pollard writes this down, smiling. He seems to have liked that answer. ‘All right, let me see what I can do to help here. How about if I arrange for someone who’s more well versed in child protection issues than I am to have a word with a few people at the school? If any member of staff there has concerns about the Cater children’s safety or welfare, that’ll give us an angle to do more.’
‘That would be amazing,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘Did you note down the registration plate of the silver Range Rover?’ Pollard asks me.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘No particular reason.’
‘You seem to have been looking into the Caters and the Braids fairly thoroughly, that’s all. You’ve said you think the Cater children must be Flora Braid’s because of the strong resemblance, and you think the photos of …’ He looks down at his notes ‘… groups of birds on the wall at number 16 have to belong to Lewis Braid. The registration number’s a way of knowing for sure who that car belongs to. I’m surprised you didn’t write it down.’
‘I don’t care who the car belongs to. Kevin Cater, Lewis – who cares? They’re both involved in this, either way.’
‘Got it.’ PC Pollard stands up and gives his upper lip one final rub. ‘Leave it with me. If anyone at the school thinks the Cater children are at risk, then, as I say, we might be able to get somewhere.’
Ten minutes later, Dom and I are sitting in his car outside the police station. ‘I think that went pretty well,’ he says. ‘Better than I expected. It’s a relief to hand it over to the professionals.’