“Ellie? Yes, some policeman rang me. How on earth did you know?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

You’re kidding me.” Gwen was staring at me across the kitchen table. She’d been running her fingers through her hair as I talked so now it stood up in small blonde tufts. She looked bewildered and accusing all at once. Her eyes were owlishly round.

“No, I’m not.”

“I think I’d better have that drink, after all.”

“Red or white?”

“Whisky?”

“Whisky it is.”

“So all this time . . .”

“Yes.”

“And you said you were—”

“You. Yes.” I poured her a large whisky, neat and ice-less. She took a deep gulp; her eyes watered. I poured another for myself and let it burn a trail down my throat.

“And you got away with it?”

“Yes. Until now.”

“And now, this woman, Frances . . .”

“Has been murdered.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“I don’t know. What should I be saying?”

“You could scream at me. Don’t you feel angry?”

“Angry?” She considered, swilling her whisky in the glass, then taking another vast swallow so that I could see her throat jumping. The drink was nearly gone already.

“Because I pretended to be you, because I lied to you about what I was up to, because I didn’t confide in you, because I’ve been so stupid, because—”

“OK, OK, I get it. Here, give me another of these.” She held out her glass. “Angry’s not the right word, Ellie. I can’t get my head around it. You’ve been using my name, infiltrating this poor woman’s business, breaking into computers, like some sort of spy, to find out—what?”

“Something. Anything. I thought I’d go mad otherwise. And, in fact, I did find out something. I found out that Frances’s husband was having an affair with Milena, and that there was another man who was with her the night I’d thought she was with Greg. And then I found out that the menu card with the love note on—it was a forgery.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t to Greg at all.”

“This is all too much to take in. You say this woman—Frances—was murdered.”

I nodded, trying not to let the image of Frances’s open, staring eyes flood through me again. “She was.”

“And are you assuming that this has anything to do with Greg?”

“I’ve no idea. It must have something to do with Milena. Though she was having an affair too—that’s probably irrelevant. I can’t think straight. Everywhere I look I see these betrayals.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Me?”

“Or me?” said Gwen.

“No, I don’t think so, but I’m going to the police. I’ll clear up the confusion.”

“Who else knows?”