On Monday morning, an officer contacted me about the conversations Celia had had with me and the messages Beth had shown me. I arranged a time outside my shift and gathered my own notes.
There were more than I expected: the café meeting, the visit with the raincoat, the telephone call about Beth’s application. Each had a date. Some contained exact messages; others were my recollection written shortly afterwards.
I put them in order without improving the wording. A sentence I’d written in irritation remained irritated. I added a separate clarification where I had used a pronoun that now seemed unclear, rather than silently replacing the original.
Tom watched me spread the pages on the dining table.
“Can I help?”
“Keep Poppy from using the blank backs for drawing, please.”
“A specialist assignment.”
He took her craft box into the other room. I could hear them arguing amiably about whether a dragon needed wheels.
At the arranged meeting, I explained how the notes had been made and distinguished messages stored on my phone from conversations I had reconstructed afterwards. The officer asked follow-up questions without inviting me to speculate about what Celia must have meant.
When I described Beth’s messages, I made clear that I had seen them on her device. She was supplying her originals through the arrangements she’d been given. My description was not the source evidence.
“And you haven’t accessed anyone else’s account?”
“No.”
The question made me realise how easily curiosity might have found a more respectable name. I could have asked to see more, asked somebody to search a shared computer, persuaded myself that friendship gave me permission.
Instead, I could account for what was actually mine.
Afterwards, I sat outside for a few minutes before going home. The afternoon was clear and cold. A man across the road struggled to fold a pushchair while his child watched with professional disappointment.
I wanted to ring Priya and ask what it all meant. I knew what she would say: several separate facts were being checked by people with access we didn’t have.
Beth called before I reached the bus stop. She had supplied the new exchange and confirmed the older accommodation correspondence. The officer had asked about dates and who knew the first plan.
“Did they tell you who passed it on?” I asked.
“No.”
I heard my own impatience. I had begun expecting an answer in return for every piece of information we handed over.
“Sorry. I know you can’t give me one.”
“I wish I could give myself one.”
We arranged to speak later about her work proposal instead. She had an opportunity to pitch for another event, one not simply inherited from the first client. She wanted somebody to listen while she practised the opening.
At home, Celia had left a message asking whether I was free. I replied that I could speak briefly but would not discuss other people’s statements or the review’s confidential material.
She rang almost immediately.
“You don’t need to begin every conversation with conditions.”
“What did you want to ask?”
“Whether Beth has told them I was worried about her.”
“You’ll need to ask the police about what you want them to know.”
“I’m asking as a friend.”
I looked at the stack of notes I had just put away.
“Then ask about Beth. Not about what she’s told them.”
Celia said nothing for so long that I checked whether the call had ended.
“Is she managing?” she asked finally.
“She has work. She’s making plans.”
“And she won’t speak to me.”
“That’s her choice.”
The words sounded worn through repetition, but I could not find a better truth to replace them with.
Celia exhaled.
“There are things you don’t understand about Martin.”
“Then tell the people investigating him.”
“I am.”
She ended the call before I could answer.
I made a brief note and put the phone down. In the sitting room, Poppy’s dragon had acquired wheels, wings and a small luggage compartment. Tom said the design brief had expanded.
He had also left a printed version of his employer’s proposed arrangements on the sideboard. At the top he’d written questions, not plans. We agreed to read them together after Poppy’s bedtime, and he moved the paper away from my witness notes so neither set would get mixed with the other. I noticed the care. It wasn’t enough to settle the future, but it made discussing that future possible without another argument first.
I joined them on the floor. For half an hour, we worked on something that could be improved by adding another piece.
Later, Beth sent the first paragraph of her pitch. I read it aloud once, then rang her with a practical suggestion about the opening.
Halfway through our conversation, her phone sounded with another incoming message.
She went quiet.
“It’s from Celia,” she said. “She’s finally answered the question about the old place.”