panic attack, going to his house? Meeting Mrs Haworth?’
‘That was all true,’ I tell him. ‘I did go there. That was what made me think I couldn’t handle it myself. So I came to you.’
Waterhouse says, ‘Yesterday you gave me and Sergeant Zailer a photograph of you with Mr Haworth. How do you explain that?’
I try not to let surprise and annoyance show on my face. I should have thought about this, and I haven’t. I completely forgot about the photo. Calmly, I say, ‘It was a fake.’
‘Really? How did you do it, exactly?’
‘I didn’t. I took a photograph of Robert Haworth, and a photograph of me, and a friend did the rest.’
‘Where did you get the one of Mr Haworth?’
I sigh, as if this should be obvious. ‘I took it myself, in the service-station car park. On the twenty-fourth of March last year.’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Waterhouse. ‘He didn’t see you, standing right in front of him? And how come you had a camera with you?’
‘I wasn’t standing right in front of him. I took the picture from a distance, on my digital camera. My friend enlarged it on a computer and zoomed in on his head and shoulders, to make it look like a close-up . . .’
‘What friend? Miss Cotchin again?’
‘No. I’m not going to give you his name. Sorry. And, to answer your other question, I always have a camera with me when I’m on my way to see a prospective client, as I was that day. I take photographs of their gardens, or their walls, wherever it is they want the sundial. It helps me to work if I’ve got a picture of the location to refer to.’
Waterhouse looks uncomfortable. I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes. ‘If the story you’re telling me now is true, then the way your mind works is very strange,’ he says. ‘If it isn’t, I can prove that you’re lying.’
‘Perhaps you ought to let me tell you what I came here to tell you. Once you’ve heard what happened to me, you’ll see how it might mess with anybody’s head. And if you still don’t believe me after I’ve told you what I went through, I’ll make sure never to say another word to you ever again, if you think I’d lie about something like that!’
I know it doesn’t help to endear me to him that I am furious instead of weepy, but I am so used to anger. I’m good at it.
Waterhouse says, ‘As soon as I take your statement, this becomes official. Do you understand?’
A small spasm of panic shakes my heart. How will I begin? Once upon a time . . . But I am not confessing or revealing. I am lying through my teeth—that’s the way to look at it. The truth will only be there to serve the lie, which means I don’t have to feel the feelings.
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Let’s make it official.’
6
4/4/06
STATEMENT OF NAOMI JENKINS of 14 Argyll Square, Rawndesley. Occupation: self-employed, freelance sundial-maker. Age: 35 years.
This statement is true to the best of my knowledge and belief, and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated anything in it which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.
Signature: Naomi Jenkins Date: April 4, 2006
On the morning of Monday, March 30, 2003, I left my house at 0940 and went to collect some Hopton Wood stone that I needed for my work from a local stonemason, James Flowton of Crossfield Farm House, Hamblesford. Mr Flowton told me that the stone had not yet arrived from the quarry, so I left immediately and walked back up the track to the main road, Thornton Road, where I’d parked my car.
A man I had never seen before was standing beside my car. He was tall, with short, dark-brown hair. He was wearing a light-brown corduroy jacket with what looked like a sheepskin lining, black jeans and Timberland boots. As I approached, he called out, ‘Naomi!’ and waved. His other hand was in his pocket. Even though I didn’t recognise him, I assumed he knew me and was waiting for
‘That was all true,’ I tell him. ‘I did go there. That was what made me think I couldn’t handle it myself. So I came to you.’
Waterhouse says, ‘Yesterday you gave me and Sergeant Zailer a photograph of you with Mr Haworth. How do you explain that?’
I try not to let surprise and annoyance show on my face. I should have thought about this, and I haven’t. I completely forgot about the photo. Calmly, I say, ‘It was a fake.’
‘Really? How did you do it, exactly?’
‘I didn’t. I took a photograph of Robert Haworth, and a photograph of me, and a friend did the rest.’
‘Where did you get the one of Mr Haworth?’
I sigh, as if this should be obvious. ‘I took it myself, in the service-station car park. On the twenty-fourth of March last year.’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Waterhouse. ‘He didn’t see you, standing right in front of him? And how come you had a camera with you?’
‘I wasn’t standing right in front of him. I took the picture from a distance, on my digital camera. My friend enlarged it on a computer and zoomed in on his head and shoulders, to make it look like a close-up . . .’
‘What friend? Miss Cotchin again?’
‘No. I’m not going to give you his name. Sorry. And, to answer your other question, I always have a camera with me when I’m on my way to see a prospective client, as I was that day. I take photographs of their gardens, or their walls, wherever it is they want the sundial. It helps me to work if I’ve got a picture of the location to refer to.’
Waterhouse looks uncomfortable. I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes. ‘If the story you’re telling me now is true, then the way your mind works is very strange,’ he says. ‘If it isn’t, I can prove that you’re lying.’
‘Perhaps you ought to let me tell you what I came here to tell you. Once you’ve heard what happened to me, you’ll see how it might mess with anybody’s head. And if you still don’t believe me after I’ve told you what I went through, I’ll make sure never to say another word to you ever again, if you think I’d lie about something like that!’
I know it doesn’t help to endear me to him that I am furious instead of weepy, but I am so used to anger. I’m good at it.
Waterhouse says, ‘As soon as I take your statement, this becomes official. Do you understand?’
A small spasm of panic shakes my heart. How will I begin? Once upon a time . . . But I am not confessing or revealing. I am lying through my teeth—that’s the way to look at it. The truth will only be there to serve the lie, which means I don’t have to feel the feelings.
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Let’s make it official.’
6
4/4/06
STATEMENT OF NAOMI JENKINS of 14 Argyll Square, Rawndesley. Occupation: self-employed, freelance sundial-maker. Age: 35 years.
This statement is true to the best of my knowledge and belief, and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated anything in it which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.
Signature: Naomi Jenkins Date: April 4, 2006
On the morning of Monday, March 30, 2003, I left my house at 0940 and went to collect some Hopton Wood stone that I needed for my work from a local stonemason, James Flowton of Crossfield Farm House, Hamblesford. Mr Flowton told me that the stone had not yet arrived from the quarry, so I left immediately and walked back up the track to the main road, Thornton Road, where I’d parked my car.
A man I had never seen before was standing beside my car. He was tall, with short, dark-brown hair. He was wearing a light-brown corduroy jacket with what looked like a sheepskin lining, black jeans and Timberland boots. As I approached, he called out, ‘Naomi!’ and waved. His other hand was in his pocket. Even though I didn’t recognise him, I assumed he knew me and was waiting for
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