When I see the framed photographs on the walls, my breath catches in my throat. There are eight in total, and every single one is of a murmuration of many hundreds of birds against a sky. Sunset, broad daylight . . . the skies are all different, as is the shape made by the birds in each picture, but the theme is very much the same.

When I knew him, Lewis Braid used to go wild with glee if he saw a murmuration. I didn’t know it was called that until he told me. He would stare and stare, and sometimes chase the birds, and swear loudly, more often than not, when they finally flew out of sight. “Isn’t that the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen?” he’d demand. Once he snapped at Flora for not bringing a camera to a picnic, as if she could have known that there would be a murmuration of starlings above our heads that day. Another time he leaped up and started flapping his arms like an idiot, yelling, “Why can’t I be a bird, flying in a beautiful, perfect flock in the moonlight?”

Lewis Braid arranged for these photographs to be framed and hung on the walls of this room. How could it have been anyone else? Does anybody care as much as Lewis does about birds flying in large groups? I’ve never met anyone else who’s even mentioned a murmuration, let alone made a fuss about one.

“Did you do up this room?” I ask Kevin Cater. It comes out harsher than I intended it to.

“Beth . . .” Dom warns.

“It’s all right,” says Cater. “Actually, we didn’t. We inherited it from the previous owners. Everything had been done so beautifully, with no expense spared. Jeanette and I hardly changed anything.”

No. Lewis wouldn’t leave his murmuration pictures here for another family. He’d take them to Florida. He’d take them with him wherever he went.

Kevin Cater’s eyes rest on me a little too long. A smile plays around his lips. It’s not a friendly one.

“Take a seat,” he says. “I’ll go and track down Jeanette. In a house this size, it’s easier said than done.”

Once he’s gone, I walk over to the door and close it.

“Did you see the look he gave me before he left the room?” I ask Dom. “He was taunting me.”

“What?”

“He wanted me to get the message: ‘If I tell you I haven’t changed anything about this house, then you won’t be able to prove that the reason it still looks like Lewis Braid’s house is because it still is Lewis Braid’s house.’ He’s not a good guy, Dom. I don’t trust him.”

“For Christ’s sake, Beth.”

“And I don’t like him. Did you hear how he said, ‘Let’s not discuss this on the doorstep,’ when he was the one who started doing that, not us? And what about ‘What time is it? Ah, yes, it’s noon, so you can come in’—he virtually accused us of arriving rudely early, when it was easily five past twelve by the time we rang the bell. And he must have known that. If we’d been two minutes early, would he have made us wait outside? That was how it sounded.”

“Beth, shut up. I mean it. He’s going to walk back in any second now.”

“So? I’m not scared of him. Or fooled by him. Everything he’s said and done so far is an attempt to manipulate us and make us feel small.”

“Shh. Keep your voice down.”

“Why? Remember how huge his house is, like he just told us? He’s probably in another wing, miles away, and wouldn’t hear me if I screamed the place down.”

Dom’s face is flushed. “I can’t be bothered to think of a way to put this tactfully, so I’m just going to say it. You’re sounding crazier by the minute. Manipulate us? Come on! The guy’s understandably pissed off because he’s having to waste his day proving to you that his wife is in fact his wife and not a woman who used to live here and who’s currently in Florida. If he’s falling a bit short of warm and friendly, that’s why.”

“Really? If you think that, then you can’t possibly understand . . .”

“What?” Dom asks in a whisper. “What don’t I understand?”

“You keep saying you agree that everything that’s happened is bizarre, but if you really thought that, you’d know that Kevin and Jeanette Cater have to be involved in it, whatever it is. She was wearing the same clothes.”

The door opens. Kevin Cater walks in, followed by the woman I first met yesterday in the car park in Huntingdon. She’s wearing a knee-length black pleated skirt with a red and black leopard-print top and black slip-on pumps.

She’s taller than Flora, who’s the same height as me. The black trousers she had on yesterday were probably much too short for her legs, but the black boots hid the problem. Convenient for her.

Pleasantries are exchanged by everyone apart from me. The woman offers us drinks; Dom and I both say no. He adds a “Thank you.” As I listen to the small talk they’re all using to ward off the moment when things might turn awkward, I wonder if Dom has noticed that the Kevin who has returned to the room is considerably friendlier than the one who left it a few minutes ago.

It’s all a show.

“So, Beth,” says the woman eventually. Is she Jeanette? Didn’t Marilyn Oxley tell me that Jeanette Cater had wavy hair, like Flora? This woman’s hair is ruler-straight. I wish I could remember exactly what Marilyn said. Not that it matters. Hair can be artificially straightened. “We should talk about what happened yesterday. I . . . perhaps I did not react to you in the best way. I am afraid I was very shocked to find you in my car.”

I swallow the urge to tell her it’s not her car, it’s Flora’s. Instead, I say, “I understand. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Where were you on Saturday morning, and where was your car?”

“I went out, with the children, early, to do some shopping. We arrived back at about nine thirty, I think, or just after.”

Her getting the time right means nothing. Marilyn Oxley could have told her what time I returned to Wyddial Lane, or Flora, if she saw me there. I don’t think she did, but I can’t absolutely rule it out.

“In the silver Range Rover?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Where’s your accent from?”

“Beth!” Dom barks at me.

“It’s okay,” Jeanette says. “The Ukraine. I was born there and grew up there.”

“With a name like Jeanette?”

“Actually, that is what I named myself when I moved to England.” She smiles at Dominic. “My real name is a full-of-mouth for an English person to say, so . . .” She shrugs.

“I’m so sorry about the interrogation,” Dom gushes, determined to ingratiate himself. “I’m assuming you know the, er, situation?”

“Kevin told me what happened, yes.” To me, she says, “You were here on Saturday and you saw me with my children. You mistook me for your friend.”

“That’s right,” says Dom. Kevin Cater nods.

I say nothing, determined not to agree with her version of what happened.

“How old are your children?” I ask.

“Five and three years old.”

“What are their names?”

“Toby and Emma.”

I have the same feeling I had in the car park in Huntingdon: the ground falling away beneath me. Those weren’t the names I heard. They weren’t the names she called out and it wasn’t her who did the calling. Toby and Emma, Thomas and Emily—just similar enough to make me think I could have misheard.

Right, Kevin?

I’ll never think that. I don’t trust these people. I trust myself: what I saw and heard.

“Which is the older one?” I ask.

“Toby. He is five. Would you like to see a photograph of them?”

“Is that necessary?” Kevin Cater asks.

“No,” says Dom, at the same time as I say, “Yes, please.”

“It’s all right, Kevin.” His wife lays a hand on his shoulder as she leaves the room. Kevin takes the opportunity to tell us again how big the house is, which leads to a discussion—one in which I play no part—about whether having too much space can actually be as inconvenient as having too little, if not more so.

Jeanette returns with a photograph in a frame and brings it over to me. I want to scream.

“Well?” says Dom impatiently. “Beth?”

I pass the photograph to him. He holds it close to his face, then at a distance.

“Right, well!” He laughs. He sounds relieved. “These children are not Thomas and Emily Braid, I think we can safely say. Not as they are now and not as they were at three and five.”

“No, they’re not,” says Kevin Cater, looking at me. “They’re Toby and Emma Cater. My children.”

Dominic turns to me and says, “I remember quite clearly what the Braid children looked like when I knew them, and these are not their faces.”

“I agree,” I say. “They’re not Thomas and Emily.”

“I suppose from a distance, if you were in a car on the other side of the road . . .” Now that he believes I’ve conceded, Kevin is ready to be generous. “An easy mistake to make, maybe.”

“Those aren’t the two children I saw. Whoever they are, I’ve never seen their faces before. Dom, did you notice anything else about that photo—anything interesting?”

“What do you mean?” Dom’s face reddens. “Beth, come on.”

“What? You think I’m being rude? I asked a simple question: do you notice anything else about the photo?”

“No.”

“Like what, exactly?” Kevin Cater snaps.

I stare at him.