Twenties Girl

“Fairside,” she says slowly. “In Potters Bar.”

“Fairside, Potters Bar,” I repeat.

There’s a short silence. DI James has finished writing and is flicking his pen backward and forward.

“I’m just going to consult with a colleague.” He stands up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The moment he’s left the room, Sadie gives me a contemptuous look.

“Is that the best you could do? He’ll never believe you! You were supposed to be helping me.”

“By accusing random people of murder?”

“Don’t be such a goose,” she says dismissively. “You didn’t accuse anyone by name. In fact, your story was utterly hopeless. Poison? Whispered conversations in pubs?”

“You try making something up on the spot!” I reply defensively. “And that’s not the point! The point is-”

“The point is, we need to delay my funeral.” She’s suddenly about two inches away from me, her eyes intense and pleading. “It can’t happen. You can’t let it. Not yet.”

“But-” I blink in surprise as she disappears right before my eyes. God, this is a

Leaning gingerly back in my chair, half expecting that to disappear too, I blink a few times, trying to process everything. But it’s too surreal. I’m sitting in a police station, inventing a murder, being bossed around by a nonexistent phantom girl. I never even got any lunch, it occurs to me. Maybe this is all due to low blood sugar. Maybe I’m diabetic and this is the first sign. My mind feels like it’s tying itself up in knots. Nothing makes any sense. There’s no point trying to work out what’s going on. I’ll just have to go with the flow.

“They’re going to pursue it!” Sadie appears again, speaking so fast I can barely follow her. “They think you’re probably deluded, but they’re going to follow it up anyway, just in case.”

“Really?” I say incredulously.

“That policeman’s been talking to another policeman,” she explains breathlessly. “I followed them. He showed him your notes and said, ‘Got a right one here.’”

“A ‘right one’?” I can’t help echoing indignantly.

Sadie ignores me. “But then they started talking about some other nursing home where there was a murder. Sounds too ghastly. And one policeman said maybe they should put in a phone call just in case, and the other agreed. So we’re all right.”

All right?

“You may be all right! But I’m not!”

As the door swings open, Sadie adds quickly, “Ask the policeman what’s going to be done about the funeral. Ask him. Ask him!”

“That’s not my problem-” I begin, then hastily stop as DI James’s head appears around the door.

“Lara, I’m going to ask a detective constable to take a statement from you. Then we’ll decide how to progress.”

“Oh. Er… thanks.” I’m aware of Sadie glaring meaningfully at me. “And what will happen to…” I hesitate. “How does it work with the… body?”

“The body will be kept at the mortuary for now. If we decide to proceed with an investigation, it will remain there until we file a report to the coroner, who will demand an inquest, should the evidence be sufficiently credible and consistent.”

He nods briskly, then heads out. As the door closes I subside. I’m suddenly feeling shaky all over. I’ve invented a murder story to a real policeman. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done. Even worse than the time I ate half a packet of biscuits aged eight and, rather than confess to Mum, hid the whole biscuit tin in the garden behind the rosebush and had to watch her search the kitchen for it.

“You realize I’ve just committed perjury?” I say to Sadie. “You realize they might arrest me?”

“‘They might arrest me,’” Sadie echoes mockingly. She’s perched on the window ledge again. “Have you never been arrested before?”

“Of course I haven’t!” I goggle at her. “Have you?”

“Several times!” she says airily. “The first time was for dancing in the village fountain one night. It was too fu

She’s in paroxysms of laughter by now. God, she’s a

“I’m sure it was hilarious.” I shoot her a baleful look. “But, personally, I’d rather not go to jail and catch some hideous disease, thank you.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to if you had a better story.” Her laughter stops. “I’ve never seen such a ni

“Time for what?”

“Time to find my necklace, of course.”

I drop my head down on the table with a clunk. She doesn’t give up, does she?

“Look,” I say at last, raising my head an inch. “Why do you need this necklace so badly? Why this one particular necklace? Was it a present or something?”

For a moment she’s silent, her eyes distant. The only movement in the room is her feet, swinging rhythmically back and forth.

“It was a present from my parents for my twenty-first birthday,” she says at last. “I was happy when I wore it.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I say. “But-”

“I had it all my life. I wore it all my life.” She sounds suddenly agitated. “No matter what else I lost, I kept that. It’s the most important thing I ever had. I need it.”

She’s fidgeting with her hands, her face tilted down so all I can see is the corner of her chin. She’s so thin and pale, she looks like a drooping flower. I feel a pang of sympathy for her, and am about to say, “Of course I’ll find your necklace,” when she yawns elaborately, stretching her ski

I glare at her, all my sympathy gone. Is this the gratitude I get?

“If you’re so bored,” I say, “we can go and finish your funeral if you like.”

Sadie claps a hand over her mouth and gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

A knock at the door interrupts us, and a jolly-looking woman in a dark shirt and trousers puts her head around it. “Lara Lington?”

An hour later, I’ve finished giving my so-called “statement.” I’ve never had such a traumatic experience in my life. What a shambles.

First I forgot the name of the nursing home. Then I got my timings all wrong and had to convince the policewoman it had taken me five minutes to walk half a mile. I ended up saying I was training to be a professional speed walker. Just thinking about it makes me cringey and hot. There’s no way she believed me. I mean, do I look like a professional speed walker?

Then I said I’d been to my friend Linda’s before visiting the pub. I don’t even have a friend called Linda; I just didn’t want to mention any of my real friends. She wanted Linda’s surname, and I blurted out “Davies” before I could stop myself.

Of course, I’d read it off the top of the form. She was DC Davies.

At least I didn’t say “Keyser Söze.”

To her credit, the policewoman didn’t flicker. Nor did she say whether they would proceed with the case. She just thanked me politely and found me the number of a cab firm.

I’ll probably go to jail now. Great. All I need.

I glower at Sadie, who’s lying full length on the desk, staring up at the ceiling. It really didn’t help having her in my ear the whole time, constantly correcting me and adding suggestions and reminiscing about the time two policemen tried to stop her and Bunty “racing their motors over the fields” and couldn’t catch up with them; it was “too fu

“You’re welcome,” I say. “Again.”

“Thank you.” Sadie’s voice drifts idly over.

“Right, well.” I pick up my bag. “I’m off.”