advertisement from the Lady , but the sheet is broader, the paper thinner, more yellowy, the conflagration of text and photo altogether different. Creases across the cutting suggest it has been folded. Even upside down, I can see the photograph is of me.
“Do you have any idea why Ania Dudek would have had a copy of this—‘My Perfect Weekend: TV Presenter Gaby Mortimer Enjoys Her Family Time,’ an article that appeared in the Telegraph on Saturday the seventeenth of September last year?”
For a moment, I don’t understand what he means. Then my heart thumps in the back of my neck. I study it, trying to gather my thoughts. Lines leap out: “Friday night is movie night. As the only child of a single parent, family is vital to my well-being. My husband makes sure he is home early and we order a takeaway; sometimes, we eat it in bed in front of the TV . . .” I think it was June when I spoke to the journalist; they must have kept it on file. It’s like a time capsule, a touchstone of a happier time. There’s a sidebar Q&A. For “Dream weekend?” I’ve answered, “Muddy walks with my daughter and husband.”
I look up, feeling the color come back. “I can’t possibly think why she would have it. It’s peculiar. Do you know?”
Fraser and Perivale are both staring at me. I look back down. My brain feels hot. I think it through out loud. “Maybe she thought of applying to be a nanny, which is why she had the ad from the Lady and then didn’t, for whatever reason. Her application was too late perhaps. Then she became, you know, curious. I don’t live that far from her. She might have recognized me. Maybe she cut it out to show someone—‘This is the woman with the job.’ What do you think?”
I look to Perivale hopefully for answers, but he sets off on one of his tangents. I’m trying to concentrate. I am still bothered by the cutting, even if he isn’t. He tells me he has searched Ania’s flat and that when he searches a scene, “I have a quirk: I tend to follow the left-hand wall round a room. If you go to Hampton Court Maze and follow the left-hand hedge, you get to the middle. You solve the problem. It’s a good technique. Blood distribution, saliva, little bits and pieces—I’m not going to miss it.”
He has caught my interest, though I am not sure where this is going. Maybe he’s just showing off to his DCI.
“Anyway, we didn’t find her mobile phone, which makes us think someone decided it was worth disposing of. It’s amazing what I did find, though. In a pile of magazines, for example, not just that”—he gestures with his chin to “My Perfect Weekend”—“also this .” From the document wallet he removes a sheath of papers, fans them across the table. Pages from Easy Living, Metro, the Guardian ’s G2, Vogue : all interviews I have given in the last year.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. A sharp pain in my diaphragm, like acute indigestion, a surge of throat-throttling alarm. I have to force myself to inhale. I try to concentrate on filling my lungs with air, diffusing oxygen into my bloodstream, gaseous-exchange alveoli, intercostal muscles, O-level biology, the life cycle of the frog. Not just one short piece. A file. A whole file of cuttings.
“Why do you think these articles were there?”
I swallow hard. “I’ve no idea.” Why does he think I know about all this? He should be telling me . Bloody hell, this is weird. “I have no idea at all. I mean–”
“Did you give them to her?”
“No. Why should I? I never met her.”
“Please think before answering the next question.” Perivale does that slow pulling down of his jowls with his fingers. It means he has something serious on his mind. “Take your time. I want you to think carefully.”
From his Pandora’s box file he produces two photographs. One of them is of a green cowl-necked top; the other is of a silver cardigan, cropped, with three-quarter-length sleeves. They have been photographed laid
“Do you have any idea why Ania Dudek would have had a copy of this—‘My Perfect Weekend: TV Presenter Gaby Mortimer Enjoys Her Family Time,’ an article that appeared in the Telegraph on Saturday the seventeenth of September last year?”
For a moment, I don’t understand what he means. Then my heart thumps in the back of my neck. I study it, trying to gather my thoughts. Lines leap out: “Friday night is movie night. As the only child of a single parent, family is vital to my well-being. My husband makes sure he is home early and we order a takeaway; sometimes, we eat it in bed in front of the TV . . .” I think it was June when I spoke to the journalist; they must have kept it on file. It’s like a time capsule, a touchstone of a happier time. There’s a sidebar Q&A. For “Dream weekend?” I’ve answered, “Muddy walks with my daughter and husband.”
I look up, feeling the color come back. “I can’t possibly think why she would have it. It’s peculiar. Do you know?”
Fraser and Perivale are both staring at me. I look back down. My brain feels hot. I think it through out loud. “Maybe she thought of applying to be a nanny, which is why she had the ad from the Lady and then didn’t, for whatever reason. Her application was too late perhaps. Then she became, you know, curious. I don’t live that far from her. She might have recognized me. Maybe she cut it out to show someone—‘This is the woman with the job.’ What do you think?”
I look to Perivale hopefully for answers, but he sets off on one of his tangents. I’m trying to concentrate. I am still bothered by the cutting, even if he isn’t. He tells me he has searched Ania’s flat and that when he searches a scene, “I have a quirk: I tend to follow the left-hand wall round a room. If you go to Hampton Court Maze and follow the left-hand hedge, you get to the middle. You solve the problem. It’s a good technique. Blood distribution, saliva, little bits and pieces—I’m not going to miss it.”
He has caught my interest, though I am not sure where this is going. Maybe he’s just showing off to his DCI.
“Anyway, we didn’t find her mobile phone, which makes us think someone decided it was worth disposing of. It’s amazing what I did find, though. In a pile of magazines, for example, not just that”—he gestures with his chin to “My Perfect Weekend”—“also this .” From the document wallet he removes a sheath of papers, fans them across the table. Pages from Easy Living, Metro, the Guardian ’s G2, Vogue : all interviews I have given in the last year.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. A sharp pain in my diaphragm, like acute indigestion, a surge of throat-throttling alarm. I have to force myself to inhale. I try to concentrate on filling my lungs with air, diffusing oxygen into my bloodstream, gaseous-exchange alveoli, intercostal muscles, O-level biology, the life cycle of the frog. Not just one short piece. A file. A whole file of cuttings.
“Why do you think these articles were there?”
I swallow hard. “I’ve no idea.” Why does he think I know about all this? He should be telling me . Bloody hell, this is weird. “I have no idea at all. I mean–”
“Did you give them to her?”
“No. Why should I? I never met her.”
“Please think before answering the next question.” Perivale does that slow pulling down of his jowls with his fingers. It means he has something serious on his mind. “Take your time. I want you to think carefully.”
From his Pandora’s box file he produces two photographs. One of them is of a green cowl-necked top; the other is of a silver cardigan, cropped, with three-quarter-length sleeves. They have been photographed laid
Similar Books
