I try to feel lighthearted and brazen about it, and fail. People who are hiding something will sometimes go to extremes in order to protect their secrets. Indulging my curiosity is one thing, but Zannah and Ben need a mother who hasn’t been strangled in a car by an assassin sent from Florida. Or maybe there are more affordable hit men for hire in Huntingdon, who knows?

The trouble is, it’s not only curiosity. On Saturday morning, when I saw Flora, I thought that something was badly wrong. Now, two days later, I know something must be. Because of everything that’s happened, because she ran away from me. And there are children involved . . .

Before I can think it through any further, there’s a sharp knock on the window next to my head. It’s a woman I’ve never seen before.

I open the car door, my heart hammering, and get out. She’s a few inches taller than me—with thin, straight dark hair, chin length, cut in an angular style. “Would you care to explain yourself?” she says in an accent I can’t place. Italian, maybe.

“Pardon?” I stammer.

“What are you doing sitting in my car? How did you get in?”

“It was unlocked. It’s . . . it’s not your car.”

“Not mine?” She produces a set of keys from her pocket and dangles them in front of me. She slams the driver’s door, locks the car, then unlocks it again. “This is not my car, you think?”

“This is Flora Braid’s car.”

“Who?”

“Flora Braid,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

There’s nothing this woman can do to me. This is a busy car park. There are people all around us. She wouldn’t risk it.

“Are you all right?” she asks me.

“Who are you? Where do you live?”

“Where do I live?” she laughs. “Who are you, and why were you in my car?” She shakes her head, waving one hand dismissively. “I don’t even care. Just go away from me. Get some help.”

“Do you live on Wyddial Lane? At number 16?”

She looks surprised. “How do you know this? Have you . . . are you following me?”

“Is your name Jeanette Cater?”

“You have no right to ask me one single thing. You get into my car without permission, and then you think you can bombard me with question after question? What is this about? What do you want?”

“Answer me and I’ll tell you. Is your name Jeanette Cater?”

“Yes. Yes, it is. Are you satisfied now?”

I’m not. But I’m not scared anymore. “Why did you say ‘Who?’ when I mentioned Flora Braid?” I ask her.

“Because I do not know who you mean! And if I don’t get an explanation—”

“Surely you remember Flora Braid. She’s the woman who sold you your house. Lewis and Flora Braid.”

Jeanette Cater nods. “So, this is true,” she says after a few moments. “I had forgotten the name.”

I don’t believe her.

“Flora was in this car park less than an hour ago,” I tell her. “She was on her way back to her car, this car, the one you’re saying is yours, when she saw me and ran away. What did she do: send you to collect it for her because she’s too scared to face me? She also lied to me on the phone last night—pretended she was in Florida when in fact she was in her house on Wyddial Lane, probably.”

“Please.” Jeanette Cater puts out a hand to stop me. “This is insanity, what is happening here. This is my car. I am the only person who drives it apart from my husband. Flora Braid has never driven it. I can promise you this.”

“That’s a lie. I saw her drive it through the gates of 16 Wyddial Lane on Saturday morning. I saw her.”

“I’m sorry for you, but you are seeing things that do not happen, in that case. Good-bye.” She nods formally, evidently hoping this dismissal will cause me to walk away. That’s when I notice it, when she stops talking and stands completely still: the green jacket with large lapels, and two-line checks designed to have a sort of double-vision effect. Black trousers, black boots with square heels . . .

This woman I’ve never seen before is wearing the exact same outfit that Flora Braid was wearing when I saw her less than an hour ago.

8

Things can change a lot in hardly any time at all.

My third visit to Wyddial Lane, the day after my encounters in a Huntingdon car park with Flora and the woman calling herself Jeanette Cater, is not furtive and illicit like the first two. It has been prearranged by my husband—the same Dominic Leeson who recently told me I mustn’t ever come back here in case Marilyn Oxley from number 14 calls the police.

I remind him of this as we drive in through the open gates of Newnham House. He says in a resigned tone, “Forgetting about the Braids and the Caters is still my top option. But you won’t or can’t do that, so I thought I might as well try and sort it out.”

Wouldn’t that be nice. Dom thinks that sorting out is what’s about to happen because he’s spoken to Kevin Cater, and they’ve made an agreement. Kevin Cater is listed in the phone directory, and therefore must be helpful and trustworthy. He sounded like a reasonable bloke, Dom said, and no part of their phone conversation failed to make sense. He’s expecting progress to be made today.

I’m not sure what to expect, or that I want to know what we’re going to find inside this house.

“This is what normal, sane people do,” says Dom. “If there’s a problem then they arrange to meet, they talk, they sort things out. They do not get into strangers’ unlocked cars without permission and fall asleep in them.”

I sigh. “You keep going on about that as if it’s some terrible transgression.”

“It is! It’s crossing a line. You can’t do things like that, Beth. It’s not good. If you carry on in that vein, anything could happen to you. I don’t want to worry every time you leave the house that —”

“Dom. I sat. In. A car. You’re overreacting. Let’s not have the same argument we had last night. You win, okay? I’m not going to be making a habit of it. What if I say ‘I promise never again to enter a stranger’s car or touch their property without permission’?”

“Then I’ll be very happy.” He exhales slowly. “Right. Good.”

I haven’t actually said it. I only asked “What if?”

We get out of the car. It’s strange to think I’m standing in the exact spot where the three of them stood on Saturday morning: Flora, Thomas and Emily.

Dom presses the doorbell. A few seconds later it opens and a man appears. He’s wearing a blue-and-gray-checked shirt tucked into jeans, and white socks, no shoes. He looks at Dominic and me as if we’re a delivery that someone has left on his doorstep, which he now has to decide what to do with. He has a square face and mid-brown hair in a short, serious-businessman style.

“Dominic and Beth Leeson?” he says, unsmiling.

“Yes. Thanks so much for agreeing to see us at such short notice,” says Dom.

“I agreed for Jeanette’s sake. She was disturbed by what happened in the car park yesterday.” He looks pointedly at me. “So . . . I’m hoping we can resolve the matter swiftly and avoid any further . . . incidents.”

“That’s exactly what we want too,” Dom assures him. “The last thing Beth wants to do is upset your wife, Mr. Cater. If we can—”

“I think you’d better call me Kevin. And let’s not have this conversation on the doorstep.”

“Of course not.”

“What time is it?” Cater consults a watch that looks expensive. “Yes, it’s noon. All right, follow me. Close the door after you.”

He takes us through a spotlit lobby that’s too sleek and professional-looking to be called an entrance hall. There’s nothing homely about it. It’s entirely white—like a nonslippery ice rink—and dotted with square pillars. We pass the entrance to an enormous kitchen with a concertina-style door that’s standing open. It’s made of padded white felt, with rows of silver studs marking out the lines along which it folds. I think it’s supposed to look stylish.

There’s a hefty white rectangle of kitchen island with a ring of silver pans hanging from the ceiling above it, three beige sofas at the far end of the room, and a wooden table with at least twelve chairs around it, though it’s hard to be precise after a quick glance while walking past.

Dom looks back, glares at me and beckons me to hurry up. He thinks I’m snooping and he doesn’t want our host to catch me in the act. I wonder if he’s noticed: every single thing I’ve seen so far inside this house could have been chosen by Lewis Braid. Or by the kind of interior designer he’d hire.

Kevin Cater shows us in to a large, rectangular sitting room with unusually high caramel-colored skirting boards, ornate bronze radiators, a herringbone-patterned dark-wood floor, gold floor-length curtains and striped wallpaper: mustard alternating with fawn. Around the room, in a strictly rectangular arrangement, are sofas and chairs, all white, cream or gold, with wooden occasional tables dotted between them here and there.