Carthy grimaced. “And I’m being harassed. That’s a crime now, isn’t it?”
“In certain circumstances. We have every sympathy for your concern,” he said. “But it’s difficult to know how to proceed exactly.”
“Don’t you think this person sounds dangerous?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Look, miss, I understand you’ve had other mail of this kind.”
I gave yet another recapitulation of my moment of fame, and the two detectives exchanged a brief smile.
“The melon thing?” Carthy said. “That was great. We’ve got the newspaper photo on a notice board somewhere. Everyone thinks you’re a heroine here. Maybe you could go and say hello to some of them before you go. But about the letters: I reckon that in all probability this is just the sort of thing that happens when you become a celebrity. There are sad people out there. This is their way of meeting people.”
I finally lost patience.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough. This person hasn’t just written letters. He’s been in my flat.”
“He
may
have been.” Carthy gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. Let’s think about a couple of things.” There was a moment’s pause. “Your flat. Is it easy of access?”
I shrugged.
“It’s just a normal conversion. There’s a common entranceway from Holloway Road. There’s a pub patio thing next to the backyard behind.”
Carthy wrote something on a large pad of paper that was balanced on his knee. I couldn’t see whether he was taking notes or just doodling.
“Do many people visit your flat?”
“How do you mean?”
“One a week? Two a week? On average.”
“I can’t answer it in that way. I’ve got friends. A bunch of them came round for a drink last week. I’ve got a new boyfriend. He’s been around quite a few times.” More scribbles on the pad. “Oh, and the flat’s been on the market for six months.”
Carthy raised an eyebrow.
“Which means that people have been visiting the flat?” he said.
“Obviously.”
“How many?”
“A lot. Over the entire six months there must have been sixty, seventy, maybe more.”
“Have any people come more than once?”
“A few. I
want
them to come more than once.”
“Have any of them seemed strange in some way?”
I couldn’t help laughing grimly.
“About three-quarters of them. I mean, they’re complete strangers rummaging through my cupboards, opening drawers. That’s what it’s like trying to sell your home.”
Carthy didn’t smile back.
“There are various motives for harassment of this kind. The most common is of a private nature.” He was sounding embarrassed. “Do you mind if I ask you some personal questions?”
“Not if they’re relevant.”
“You said you have a new boyfriend. How new?”
“Two or three weeks. Very new.”
“Does that mean that a previous relationship ended?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean no. I wasn’t in a relationship.”
“But have you had a recent personal, that is, er, sexual liaison?”
“Well, fairly recent.” I was blushing hopelessly.
“Did it break up painfully?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. Now it was
my
turn to go red. “I’ve seen a few people at different times.”
“A few?” He and Aldham exchanged a significant look.
“Look, that sounds wrong.” I was flustered. I knew what they were both thinking, and there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t make it worse. What made it so ludicrous is that compared to almost anyone I know, I’m a nun: an awkward, embarrassed, inarticulate nun, too. “I’ve gone out with, seen, whatever you call it, two men in the last year or so.” They both went on looking at me as if they were not at all convinced by this low number. “The last of them was months ago.”
“Did it end badly?”
I thought of sitting opposite Stuart in a café near Camden Lock. I gave a sad laugh.
“It just fizzled out, really. Anyway, the last I heard
“In certain circumstances. We have every sympathy for your concern,” he said. “But it’s difficult to know how to proceed exactly.”
“Don’t you think this person sounds dangerous?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Look, miss, I understand you’ve had other mail of this kind.”
I gave yet another recapitulation of my moment of fame, and the two detectives exchanged a brief smile.
“The melon thing?” Carthy said. “That was great. We’ve got the newspaper photo on a notice board somewhere. Everyone thinks you’re a heroine here. Maybe you could go and say hello to some of them before you go. But about the letters: I reckon that in all probability this is just the sort of thing that happens when you become a celebrity. There are sad people out there. This is their way of meeting people.”
I finally lost patience.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough. This person hasn’t just written letters. He’s been in my flat.”
“He
may
have been.” Carthy gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. Let’s think about a couple of things.” There was a moment’s pause. “Your flat. Is it easy of access?”
I shrugged.
“It’s just a normal conversion. There’s a common entranceway from Holloway Road. There’s a pub patio thing next to the backyard behind.”
Carthy wrote something on a large pad of paper that was balanced on his knee. I couldn’t see whether he was taking notes or just doodling.
“Do many people visit your flat?”
“How do you mean?”
“One a week? Two a week? On average.”
“I can’t answer it in that way. I’ve got friends. A bunch of them came round for a drink last week. I’ve got a new boyfriend. He’s been around quite a few times.” More scribbles on the pad. “Oh, and the flat’s been on the market for six months.”
Carthy raised an eyebrow.
“Which means that people have been visiting the flat?” he said.
“Obviously.”
“How many?”
“A lot. Over the entire six months there must have been sixty, seventy, maybe more.”
“Have any people come more than once?”
“A few. I
want
them to come more than once.”
“Have any of them seemed strange in some way?”
I couldn’t help laughing grimly.
“About three-quarters of them. I mean, they’re complete strangers rummaging through my cupboards, opening drawers. That’s what it’s like trying to sell your home.”
Carthy didn’t smile back.
“There are various motives for harassment of this kind. The most common is of a private nature.” He was sounding embarrassed. “Do you mind if I ask you some personal questions?”
“Not if they’re relevant.”
“You said you have a new boyfriend. How new?”
“Two or three weeks. Very new.”
“Does that mean that a previous relationship ended?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean no. I wasn’t in a relationship.”
“But have you had a recent personal, that is, er, sexual liaison?”
“Well, fairly recent.” I was blushing hopelessly.
“Did it break up painfully?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. Now it was
my
turn to go red. “I’ve seen a few people at different times.”
“A few?” He and Aldham exchanged a significant look.
“Look, that sounds wrong.” I was flustered. I knew what they were both thinking, and there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t make it worse. What made it so ludicrous is that compared to almost anyone I know, I’m a nun: an awkward, embarrassed, inarticulate nun, too. “I’ve gone out with, seen, whatever you call it, two men in the last year or so.” They both went on looking at me as if they were not at all convinced by this low number. “The last of them was months ago.”
“Did it end badly?”
I thought of sitting opposite Stuart in a café near Camden Lock. I gave a sad laugh.
“It just fizzled out, really. Anyway, the last I heard
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