Sophie Kinsella - Twenties Girl

Five minutes later I’m clutching a four-page photocopied list of names and addresses. There are sixty-seven in all.

Sixty-seven possibilities.

No, possibilities is too strong a word. Sixty-seven outside chances.

“Well, thanks.” I smile, trying not to feel too daunted. “I’ll investigate this lot. And if you do come across it…”

“Of course! We’ll all keep an eye out, won’t we?” Ginny appeals around the room, and there are three nods.

I follow Ginny back through the hall, and as we approach the front door she hesitates.

“We have a visitors’ book, Lara. I don’t know if you’d like to sign it?”

“Oh.” I hesitate awkwardly. “Er… yes. Why not?”

Ginny takes down a big red-bound book and leafs through it.

“All the residents have their own page. But Sadie never had very many signatures. So now that you’re here, I thought it would be nice if you signed, even though she’s gone…” Ginny flushes. “Is that silly of me?”

“No. It’s sweet of you.” I feel a renewed guilt. “We should have visited more.”

“Here we are.” Ginny’s flipping through the cream pages. “Oh, look! She did have one visitor this year! A few weeks ago. I was on holiday, so I missed it.”

Charles Reece , I read, as I scrawl Lara Lington across the page, nice and big to make up for the lack of other entries. “Who’s Charles Reece?”

“Who knows?” She shrugs.

Charles Reece. I stare at the name, intrigued. Maybe he was Sadie’s dearest friend from childhood. Or her lover. Oh my God, yes. Maybe he’s a sweet old man with a cane who came to hold his dear Sadie’s hand just one more time. And now he doesn’t even know she’s dead and he wasn’t invited to the funeral…

We really are a crap family.

“Did he leave any contact details, this Charles Reece?” I look up. “Was he really old?”

“I don’t know. I can ask around, though.” She takes the book from me, and her face lights up as she reads my name. “Lington! Any relation to the coffee Lington?”

Oh God. I really cannot face it today.

“No.” I smile weakly. “Just a coincidence.”

“Well, it’s been a real pleasure to meet Sadie’s great-niece.” As we reach the front door, she gives me a friendly hug. “You know, Lara, I think you have a little of her in you. You both have the same spirit. And I can sense the same kindness.”

The nicer this nurse is to me, the crappier I feel. I’m not kind. I mean, look at me. I never even visited my great-aunt. I don’t do cycle rides for charity. OK, I do buy The Big Issue sometimes, but not if I’m holding a cappuccino and it’s too much hassle to reach for my purse…

“Ginny.” A red-haired nurse beckons her. “Can I have a quick word?” She draws her to one side and murmurs under her breath. I just catch the odd word … strange… police .

“… police?” Ginny’s eyes have widened in surprise.

“… don’t know… number…”

Ginny takes the slip of paper, then turns to smile at me again. I manage a rictus grin, totally paralyzed with horror.

The police. I’d forgotten about the police.

I told them Sadie was murdered by the staff at the home. These lovely saintly nurses. Why did I say that? What was I thinking?

This is all Sadie’s fault. No, it’s not. It’s my fault. I should have kept my big trap shut .

“Lara?” Ginny peers at me in alarm. “Are you all right?”

She’s going to be accused of homicide, and she has no idea. And it’s all my fault. I’m going to ruin everyone’s career and the home will be shut and boarded up and all the old people will have nowhere to go…

“Lara?”

“I’m fine,” I manage at last, in a grainy voice. “Fine. But I have to go.” I start backing out of the front door on wobbly legs. “Thanks so much. Bye.”

I wait until I’m down the path and safely back on the pavement, then whip out my phone and speed-dial DI James’s number, almost hyperventilating in panic. I should never have accused anyone of murder. I am never, ever, ever doing that again. I’m going to confess everything, tear up my statement-

“DI James’s office.” A woman’s crisp voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Oh, hello.” I try to sound calm. “This is Lara Lington speaking. Could I speak to DI James or DC Davies?”

“I’m afraid they’re both out on calls. Can I take a message? If it’s urgent-”

“Yes, it’s very, very urgent. It’s to do with a murder case. Could you please tell DI James I’ve had a… a… a realization.”

“A realization,” she echoes, obviously writing it down.

“Yes. About my statement. Quite a crucial one.”

“I think perhaps you should talk to DI James personally-”

“No! This can’t wait! You have to tell him it wasn’t the nurses who murdered my great-aunt. They didn’t do a thing. They’re wonderful, and it was all a terrible mistake, and… well… the thing is…”

I’m psyching myself up to bite the bullet and admit I invented the whole thing-when suddenly I’m brought up short by a horrible thought. I can’t confess everything. I can’t admit I made the whole thing up. They’ll instantly resume the funeral. I have a flashback to Sadie’s anguished cry at the funeral service, and feel a shiver of anxiety. I can’t let that happen. I just can’t.

“Yes?” says the woman patiently.

“I… um… the thing is…”

My mind is doing double backflips trying to work out a solution that involves both being honest and buying time for Sadie. But I can’t find one. There isn’t one. And the woman’s going to give up waiting in a minute and put the phone down. I have to say something .

I need a red herring. Just to distract them for a while. Just while I find the necklace.

“It was someone else,” I blurt out. “A… man. It was him I overheard in the pub. I got confused before. He had a plaited goatee beard,” I add randomly. “And a scar on his cheek. I remember it really clearly now.”

They’ll never find a man with a plaited goatee and a scar on his cheek. We’re safe. For now.

“A man with a plaited beard…” The woman sounds as if she’s trying to keep up.

“And a scar.”

“And, I’m sorry, what is this man supposed to have done?”

“Murdered my great-aunt! I gave a statement, but it was wrong. So if you could just cancel it out…”

There’s a rather long pause-then the woman says, “Dear, we don’t just cancel out statements. I think DI James will probably want to talk to you himself.”

Oh God. The thing is, I really, really don’t want to talk to DI James.

“Fine.” I try to sound cheery. “No problem. As long as he knows the nurses definitely didn’t do it. If you could write that message on a Post-it or something? The nurses didn’t do it.”

“The nurses didn’t do it,” she repeats dubiously.

“Exactly. In big capitals. And put it on his desk.”

There’s another, even longer pause. Then the woman says, “Can I take your name again?”

“Lara Lington. He’ll know who I am.”

“I’m sure he will. Well, as I say, Miss Lington, I’m sure DI James will be in touch.”

I ring off and head down the road, my legs weak. I think I just about got away with it. But, honestly, I’m a nervous wreck.

Two hours later, I’m not just a nervous wreck. I’m exhausted.

In fact, I’m taking a whole new jaded view of the British populace. It might seem like an easy project, phoning a few people on a list and asking if they’d bought a necklace. It might seem simple and straightforward, until you actually tried it yourself.