Haven't They Grown(28)

On the back seat, there’s a bunched-up navy-blue raincoat that would fit a woman of Flora’s size, and two child car seats. They’re not baby seats. They’re the kind that a five-year-old and a three-year-old would need.

Two car seats. Not three.

I’m not crazy. I didn’t imagine anything. This is all real.

This is where two small children were sitting on Saturday morning, in these car seats, when Flora opened the door and said, ‘Thomas! Emily! Out you get!’ And that’s what she said. I didn’t mishear or misremember. She called them Thomas and Emily, and they were wearing Thomas and Emily Braid’s old clothes.

I open the driver door again, get in and close my eyes. Next thing I know, I’m waking up with a sharp pain down one side of my neck. How long was I asleep for? Shit. I guess that’s what happens when you get up at 5 a.m. after sleeping for less than three hours. What if Flora had come back and caught me in her car? She’s going to have to come and get it at some point.

I pull my phone out of my bag. I’ve only missed twenty minutes. Not too long, but still, what if …

It occurs to me for the first time since this started that I might be in danger. I force myself to laugh out loud. Don’t be ridiculous, Beth. Danger? Seriously?

I try to feel light-hearted 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 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 any more. ‘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. Goodbye.’ 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 …