Twenties Girl by Sophie Kinsella Page B

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 plaitedgoatee 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.
    I feel like I could write a whole book on human nature, and it would be called:
People Are Really Unhelpful
. First of all, they want to know how you got their name and phone number. Then, when you mention the word
raffle
, they want to know what they won and even call out to their husband, “Darren, we won that raffle!” When you hastily tell them, “You didn’t win anything,” the mood instantly turns suspicious.
    Then, when you broach the subject of what they bought at the jumble sale, they get even more suspicious. They get convinced you’re trying to sell them something or steal their credit card details by telepathy. At the third number I tried, there was some guy in the background saying, “I’ve heard about this. They phone you up and keep you talking. It’s an Internet scam. Put the phone down, Tina.”
    “How can it be an Internet scam?” I wanted to yell. “We’re not
on
the Internet!”
    I’ve only had one woman so far who seemed keen to help: Eileen Roberts. And actually she was a total pain because she kept me on the line for ten minutes, telling me about everything she bought at the jumble sale and saying what a shame it was and had I thought of making a replacement necklace as there was a wonderful bead shop in Bromley?
    Argh.
    I rub my ear, which is glowing from being pressed against the phone, and count the scribbled-out names on my list. Twenty-three. Forty-four to go. This was a crap idea. I’m never going to find this stupid necklace. I stretch out my back, then fold the list up and put it in my bag. I’ll do the rest tomorrow. Maybe.
    I