‘I don’t know,’ Kelly said honestly. ‘This advert appeared two days before your keys were stolen, and I only found out about it a few hours ago. The woman who found it – Zoe Walker – thinks she saw her own photo in the London Gazette on Friday.’
‘Has she had something stolen too?’
‘No. But, understandably, she’s uneasy about her photo being in the paper.’
‘As indeed I am.’ Cathy paused, as if weighing up whether to continue. ‘The thing is, Kelly, I’ve been considering giving you a ring for the last few days.’
‘Why haven’t you?’
Cathy fixed her gaze on Kelly. ‘I’m a doctor. I deal in facts, not fantasy, as I imagine you do. I wanted to call you, but … I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Sure of what?’
Another pause.
‘I think someone’s been in my house while I’ve been at work.’
Kelly said nothing, waiting for Cathy to say more.
‘I can’t be certain. It’s more a … it’s more of a feeling.’ Cathy rolled her eyes. ‘I know – it wouldn’t stand up in court, right? That’s precisely why I haven’t reported it. But when I got in from work the other day I could have sworn I smelt aftershave in the hall, and when I went upstairs to get changed, the lid to the laundry basket was open.’
‘Could you have left it open?’
‘It’s possible, but it’s unlikely. Closing it’s one of those automatic actions, you know?’ She paused. ‘I think some of my underwear is missing.’
‘You changed the locks, though, didn’t you?’ Kelly said. ‘You were waiting for the locksmith when you called the job in.’ Cathy looked sheepish. ‘I changed the front door lock. I didn’t get the back door done. It would have been an extra hundred quid, and to be honest I didn’t see the point. There was nothing on my keys that would have given away my address, and at the time it seemed like an unnecessary expense.’
‘And now …?’ Kelly let the question hang in the silence between them.
‘Now I wish I’d changed both locks.’
7
It’s almost 3 p.m. before Graham comes back to the office.
‘Working lunch,’ he offers in explanation, and I deduce from his relaxed demeanour that lunch was accompanied by at least a couple of pints.
‘Is it okay if I nip out to the post office, now you’re here?’
‘Be quick about it – I’ve got a viewing in an hour.’
Everything has already been franked and is neatly stacked in rubber-banded bundles on my desk. I tip them into a tote bag and put on my coat, while Graham disappears into his office.
It’s so cold outside I can see my breath, and I screw up my hands inside my pockets, rubbing my fingers against my palms. A dull vibration tells me I’ve got a text message, but my phone is in an inside pocket. It can wait.
In the queue at the post office I unzip my coat and find my phone. The text is from PC Kelly Swift.
Could you please send me a photo of yourself as soon as possible?
Does that mean she’s spoken to Cathy Tanning? Does it mean she believes me? No sooner have I read the text than another appears on my screen.
Without glasses.
There are six people ahead of me in the queue, and as many again behind. As soon as possible, PC Swift said. I take off my glasses and find the camera on my phone. It takes me a moment to remember how to turn it round to face me, then I stretch my arm as far out as I dare without making it obvious that I’m taking a selfie. The upward-facing angle gives me three chins and bags under my eyes but I take the photo anyway, mortified when the camera gives me away with a loud click. How embarrassing. Who takes a selfie in a post office? I send it to PC Swift and immediately see the notification that says she’s seen it. I imagine her marrying my photo up against the London Gazette advert, and wait for her to text to tell me I’m imagining the likeness, but my phone stays silent.
I message Katie, instead, to see how her audition went. She will have been finished hours ago, and I know that she hasn’t been in touch because of the way I spoke to her this morning. I push my phone into my pocket.
When I get to the office I find Graham leaning over my desk, rifling through the top drawer. He stands up sharply as I open the door, the ugly red flush on his neck prompted not by embarrassment, but by annoyance at being caught out.
‘Are you looking for something?’ There’s nothing but an assortment of envelopes, pens and rubber bands in the top drawer, and I wonder if he’s been through the others. The middle one houses old memo pads, neatly filed in date order in case I need to look up something. The bottom drawer is a dumping ground; a pair of trainers from when I thought I might try walking to the river before getting the train; tights; make-up; Tampax. I’d like to tell him to get his hands off my personal belongings, but I know what he’ll say: it’s his business, his desk, his drawers. If Graham Hallow were a landlord he’d be the type to walk in on inspection day without knocking.