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‘They don’t know I’m here,’ she says.
‘Who doesn’t?’ Hal asks.
‘Olly and Sasha.’
‘Is that important?’
‘I didn’t feel safe talking to you in the Manor. The walls have ears.’
Hal nods, ostensibly to encourage her, but Jen can sense his irritation building. He believes that Kitty is a fantasist. Eyeing the rings again, Jen wonders if he’s right. Is the engagement ring costume jewellery? It’s certainly at odds with the rest of her appearance.
At best, Kitty’s clothes and hairstyle can be described as practical, at worst as aggressively plain. There’s hardly a scrap of make-up on her face, only the slightest dull gleam of lipstick and some dark eyeliner, applied with a wobble, as if she was out of practice. Her hair is long and straight, grown to below her shoulders, and brushed though not styled. It hangs loose, mostly, though she’s used a couple of kirby grips to anchor it behind her ears. A few dark, chestnut-brown strands of hair are visible, letting Jen imagine how Kitty might have looked when she was younger, but they’re few and far between amongst the frosty grey.
‘You can speak freely here,’ Jen says.
Kitty nods and Jen senses a change coming over her. She wonders if Kitty’s a narcissist. Is she relishing the attention? There are witnesses who love an audience, and some criminals, too. Or maybe Kitty’s simply lonely, working in that house all the hours and living in isolation. How much can she have in common with Olly and Sasha, really? Jen’s a firm believer that it takes an exceptional employer not to breed some level of contempt in their employees. Olly would be hell to work for. He preens constantly. And there’s a glassy quality to Sasha, an impenetrability.
Jen has only recently ceased to be surprised by how many lonely people she meets in her job and become resigned to it. She’s come to think of loneliness as a virus itself, sparing no sector of the population. If we solved loneliness, Hal once said, we’d solve a lot of crime before it happened. She thinks he has a point.
‘You’re going to think I’m stupid,’ Kitty says. ‘I am stupid.’
‘We’re not here to judge you,’ Hal says. ‘You can tell us anything.’
‘This is a safe space,’ Jen adds, though she thinks about how sometimes it isn’t safe at all. This is a room where countless boring interviews have taken place, but it’s also a space where what you hear can make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
‘I used to feel safe,’ Kitty says. ‘Olly and Sasha made me feel safe when I first met them.’
She avoids meeting Jen’s eyes or Hal’s, instead fixing her gaze on her ring, as if it’s the ring she’s telling this tale to. She twists it more roughly now, backwards and forwards. It’s uncomfortable to watch. Jen imagines the skin beneath it chafing. She wishes Kitty would stop.
‘And now?’ Hal asks.
‘I think they’ve used me.’
Jen glances at Hal. A muscle twitches in his jaw, a sure sign that he’s running out of patience. If this isn’t directly related to Tom Booth’s death, he won’t want to know. Jen’s heart sinks. She hopes Kitty isn’t using this audience as an excuse to air some grievances about her employers. What a waste of time.
‘Can you tell us what you mean by that?’ Jen asks gently, before Hal can speak. She wants to give Kitty a chance. They wait in silence, Kitty’s lips moving soundlessly as if she’s rehearsing what she wants to say, until Hal clears his throat. Kitty looks up. She stops twiddling the ring.
‘I’m not Kitty Ellis,’ she says.
‘What?’ Hal asks.
‘My name isn’t Kitty. I’ve been coerced by Olly and Sasha into pretending that I’m her.’
Jen is stunned; Hal, too, by the look of him.
‘Who are you, then?’ Hal asks.
‘I need you to keep this between us.’
Hal nods but doesn’t confirm verbally.
‘I’m Anna Creed. The Manor House belongs to me.’
She roots around in her handbag and removes a passport, which she hands to Hal. He opens it, looks and passes it to Jen. Jen notes that it’s been out of date for four years. The photograph clearly shows the woman in front of them, and her name is Anna Elizabeth Creed, date of birth 5 June 1966. Anna digs around in her handbag again and pulls out a slim exercise book, which she hands to Jen.
‘My story,’ she says. ‘How it happened. It’s all in here.’
‘Anna’ is printed neatly on the top right-hand corner of the book’s front cover, and just below it: ‘Journal’.
