flat on what looks like a canteen table. Both items look familiar.
“These clothes were found in the flat of the dead girl. Do you recognize them? Think. Don’t feel you have to rush into it.”
I don’t say anything.
Fraser moves, and the leg of his chair squeaks against the lino floor. It seems to hurry Perivale along because he doesn’t wait for me to think any more and the next thing I know he has placed two more items on the table, lining them up next to each other.
“Now do you recognize them?” he says.
The new items are stills from Mornin’ All, taken from the Web site. In one I’m talking to the singer Tom Jones, gesticulating, laughing, and wearing the cowl-necked green top. In the other I am listening to Stan interrogate the mother of a persistent school-refuser in the silver cardigan.
I can’t think clearly. I loosen my sweater at the neck and a gust of my own body scent rises up. It’s too much to take in. “I don’t know. I’m baffled. This is so disturbing.”
“Are you sure you don’t know?”
Could it be a coincidence? Or she saw the items and copied me? She had a similar body shape, and they are both tops that suit women with narrow shoulders and big boobs. Or perhaps they were in a bag I took to charity. Or is Marta involved? Could she have been lending some of my things out? And then I think of a solution—it fits both the clothes and the magazine articles—though it’s a horrible solution. I don’t like it at all. “Do you think she might have been my stalker?” I feel sick.
The two policemen look at each other. Something passes between them.
“Why did you lie about touching the body?” It is the first question DCI Fraser has asked.
“I didn’t lie. I forgot. Is she my stalker?” I can’t put it all together.
“Why did you say you didn’t know the victim when you obviously did?”
“I didn’t know her!”
“And your alibi.” Fraser looks down at some notes. “You say youwere with your daughter and her nanny for some of the evening, but for the rest of it you were alone. Is that right?”
“Yes. My husband didn’t get back until three a.m.”
“That’s an incomplete alibi,” Perivale confirms.
“What? Does it matter if it’s incomplete?”
Perivale emits a sarcastic sort of laugh.
“Why do you care about my alibi?” I get to my feet. Suddenly, I realize where this is going. I feel scared, but more than that, outraged. “You think I killed her?”
Perivale says nothing.
“Even if she was my stalker, that’s not a motive. I wouldn’t have killed her.” Are they insane or just really stupid?
“No one, out of television cop dramas, really cares about motive,” Fraser says. “In my experience, who, where, and how are more important than why.”
Perivale stands up. “We’ll see you again. Don’t go on any long trips.”
• • •
The moment I get through the door, I run upstairs to my wardrobe—demolishing neat pile after neat pile, scattering garments in my search. When I have finished, I stand in the middle of my bedroom, clothes tangled at my feet.
Marta and Millie are both in the kitchen. Millie is sprawled on the sofa, apparently doing her homework, though her books are all over the place and she doesn’t seem to have a pen. Marta, in latex gloves, is scrubbing the sink. Millie throws herself at me, demanding to know where I’ve been and what collective nouns I can think of because Marta doesn’t know any. I dart a look at Marta, who isn’t smiling.
We sort Millie’s homework (a quiver of arrows, a squabble of seagulls, a posse of police), and I put her in bed with her pink rabbitand her bear (a congress of stuffed toys). Afterward, I catch Marta on the landing and ask if I can have a word.
“Yes,” she says standing on the top stair, one hand on the wall, the other on the bannister, blocking the way, with her pale face tilted, not moving.
It seems bossy to insist she comes downstairs, so in the gloom
“These clothes were found in the flat of the dead girl. Do you recognize them? Think. Don’t feel you have to rush into it.”
I don’t say anything.
Fraser moves, and the leg of his chair squeaks against the lino floor. It seems to hurry Perivale along because he doesn’t wait for me to think any more and the next thing I know he has placed two more items on the table, lining them up next to each other.
“Now do you recognize them?” he says.
The new items are stills from Mornin’ All, taken from the Web site. In one I’m talking to the singer Tom Jones, gesticulating, laughing, and wearing the cowl-necked green top. In the other I am listening to Stan interrogate the mother of a persistent school-refuser in the silver cardigan.
I can’t think clearly. I loosen my sweater at the neck and a gust of my own body scent rises up. It’s too much to take in. “I don’t know. I’m baffled. This is so disturbing.”
“Are you sure you don’t know?”
Could it be a coincidence? Or she saw the items and copied me? She had a similar body shape, and they are both tops that suit women with narrow shoulders and big boobs. Or perhaps they were in a bag I took to charity. Or is Marta involved? Could she have been lending some of my things out? And then I think of a solution—it fits both the clothes and the magazine articles—though it’s a horrible solution. I don’t like it at all. “Do you think she might have been my stalker?” I feel sick.
The two policemen look at each other. Something passes between them.
“Why did you lie about touching the body?” It is the first question DCI Fraser has asked.
“I didn’t lie. I forgot. Is she my stalker?” I can’t put it all together.
“Why did you say you didn’t know the victim when you obviously did?”
“I didn’t know her!”
“And your alibi.” Fraser looks down at some notes. “You say youwere with your daughter and her nanny for some of the evening, but for the rest of it you were alone. Is that right?”
“Yes. My husband didn’t get back until three a.m.”
“That’s an incomplete alibi,” Perivale confirms.
“What? Does it matter if it’s incomplete?”
Perivale emits a sarcastic sort of laugh.
“Why do you care about my alibi?” I get to my feet. Suddenly, I realize where this is going. I feel scared, but more than that, outraged. “You think I killed her?”
Perivale says nothing.
“Even if she was my stalker, that’s not a motive. I wouldn’t have killed her.” Are they insane or just really stupid?
“No one, out of television cop dramas, really cares about motive,” Fraser says. “In my experience, who, where, and how are more important than why.”
Perivale stands up. “We’ll see you again. Don’t go on any long trips.”
• • •
The moment I get through the door, I run upstairs to my wardrobe—demolishing neat pile after neat pile, scattering garments in my search. When I have finished, I stand in the middle of my bedroom, clothes tangled at my feet.
Marta and Millie are both in the kitchen. Millie is sprawled on the sofa, apparently doing her homework, though her books are all over the place and she doesn’t seem to have a pen. Marta, in latex gloves, is scrubbing the sink. Millie throws herself at me, demanding to know where I’ve been and what collective nouns I can think of because Marta doesn’t know any. I dart a look at Marta, who isn’t smiling.
We sort Millie’s homework (a quiver of arrows, a squabble of seagulls, a posse of police), and I put her in bed with her pink rabbitand her bear (a congress of stuffed toys). Afterward, I catch Marta on the landing and ask if I can have a word.
“Yes,” she says standing on the top stair, one hand on the wall, the other on the bannister, blocking the way, with her pale face tilted, not moving.
It seems bossy to insist she comes downstairs, so in the gloom
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