The Breakdown(49)

‘You’ll have to show it to me.’

‘Don’t worry, I will!’ She takes out her phone and checks the time. ‘I’m meeting Dan for a drink. Why don’t you join us?’

‘I won’t, thanks, I was just on my way back to the car park. Are you all packed?’

‘Almost. I just need to get everything ready for the Inset day – I presume you got the call from Mary confirming Friday twenty-eighth? – as I only get back on the Wednesday. I’m almost there, how about you?’

‘Almost there too,’ I say.

‘I’ll see you on the twenty-eighth then.’

‘Definitely.’ I give her a last hug. ‘Have a great time!’

‘You too!’





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I carry on to the car park, feeling much better for having seen Connie, despite having lied to her about the work I’d supposedly done. And now I’m going to have to listen to the call Mary left on the answering machine in case there’s something she’s expecting me to bring to the table at the meeting. Worry gnaws away at me because how can I get down to work when there’s so much else going on? If only the murderer was behind bars. He might soon be, I tell myself. Now that the police think that he was somebody Jane knew, surely they’ll be able to find him.

I arrive at the car park, take the lift to the fourth floor and head towards to row E, where I left my car.

Or where I thought I’d left it, because it isn’t there.

Feeling stupid, I walk up and down the row and when I still can’t find it I turn and scan row F. But my car isn’t there either.

Baffled, I begin to walk up and down the other rows, even though I know I parked in row E. And I know I parked on the fourth floor because, knowing I wouldn’t find a space on the first two floors, I’d driven straight to the third. It had been full so I’d carried on up here.

So why can’t I find my car? Within a few minutes I’ve covered the whole floor so I take the stairs to the fifth, because maybe I did make a mistake. Again, I walk up and down the rows, sidestepping the cars moving in and out of parking places, trying not to look as if I’ve lost mine. But there’s no sign of my Mini there either.

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I go back down to the fourth floor and stand for a


moment, trying to get my bearings. There’s only one lift so I walk over to it and retrace the steps I would have taken that morning, except in the other direction, until I come to where my car should be. But it isn’t there.

Tears of frustration prick my eyelids. The only thing I can do is go down to the booth on the ground floor and report it missing.

I head towards the lift but at the last minute I change my mind and make my way down on foot, stopping off at each level to check that my car isn’t there. On the ground floor I find the booth, where a middle-aged man is sitting in front of a computer.

‘Excuse me, I think my car has been stolen,’ I say, making an effort not to sound hysterical.

He carries on looking at the screen and, presuming he didn’t hear me, I speak again, only louder.

‘I heard you the first time,’ he says, raising his head and looking back at me through the glass.

‘Oh. Well, in that case, can you tell me what I should do?’

‘Yes, you should take another look.’

‘I have looked,’ I say indignantly.

‘Where?’

‘On the fourth floor, where I left it. I also checked on the second, third and fifth floors.’

‘So you’re not sure where you left it.’

‘Yes, I’m perfectly sure!’





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‘If I had a pound for every person who told me their car’s been stolen, I’d be a rich man. Do you have your ticket?’

‘Yes,’ I say, taking my purse out of my bag and opening it. ‘Here.’ I push the ticket under the hatch, expecting him to take it.

‘So how did whoever has taken your car manage to get it through the barrier without the ticket?’

‘I presume they pretended they’d lost it and paid here, at the exit.’

‘What’s the registration number?’

‘RV07BWW. It’s a Mini, black.’

He looks as his computer screen and shakes his head. ‘That car registration hasn’t been logged as going through on a reissued ticket.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that your car hasn’t been stolen.’

‘So where is it then?’

‘Probably where you left it.’

He goes back to his screen and I stare at him, shocked at how much I suddenly hate him. I know it’s because of what this might mean – more proof of my disintegrating memory – but I hate the way he’s so dismissive and anyway, I know where I parked my car. I slam my hand against the glass and he eyes me warily.

‘If you come with me, I can prove that it’s not,’ I say firmly.

He looks at me for a moment, then turns his head and calls over his shoulder. ‘Patsy, can you cover for me!’ A The Breakdown





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