I've Got Your Number

“It’s OK,” I say, just in case she’s not. “And … I’m sorry. About—”

“Yup,” she says tightly.

And then the car moves off. Sam is texting intently, a deep frown on his face. I don’t dare make a sound. I check my phone for a message from Magnus, but there’s nothing. So I drop it down on the seat and stare out the window, letting the streetlamps blur into a stream of light, wondering where the hell I’m going.

I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.

But somehow my head is on Sam’s chest and he’s saying, “Poppy? Poppy?” Suddenly I wake up properly, and my neck is cricked and I’m looking out of a car window at a funny angle.

“Oh.” I scramble to a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. “Sorry. God. You should have—”

“No problem. Is this your address?”

I peer blearily out the window. We’re in Balham. We’re outside my block of flats. I glance at my watch. It’s gone midnight.

“Yes,” I say in disbelief. “This is me. How did you—”

Sam nods at my phone, still on the car seat. “Your address was in there.”

“Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”

Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.

“I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn’t need to—”

“It’s Lucinda.”

“What?” I stare at him dumbly.

“For my money. Lucinda’s your girl.”

Lucinda?

“But what—Why?”

“She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”

“Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more hours or something.”

“Does she bill by the hour?”

I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all–inclusive fee.

“Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably texts you within ten minute of each other?”

Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did he notice?

“I started off life as an analyst.” He looks a bit abashed. “This is my kind of thing.”

“What’s your kind of thing?” I say, puzzled.

Sam produces a piece of paper and I clap a hand over my mouth. I don’t believe it. He’s drawn a chart. Times and dates. Calls. Texts. Emails. Has he been doing this while I’ve been asleep?

“I analyzed your messages. You’ll see what’s going on.”

He analyzed my messages. How do you analyze messages?

He hands me the paper and I blink at it.

“What … ”

“You see the correlation?”

Correlation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like something from math exams.

“Um … ”

“Take this date.” He points at the paper. “They both email at around six p.m. asking how you’re doing, being chatty. Then at eight p.m. Magnus tells you he’s working late at the London Library, and a few minutes later Lucinda tells you she’s working on garters for the bridesmaids at a fashion warehouse in Shoreditch. At eight at night? Please.”

I’m silent for a few moments. I remember that email about the garters now. It seemed a bit odd, even at the time. But you can’t jump to conclusions from one weird email, surely?

“Who asked you to analyze my messages, anyway?” I know I sound all prickly, but I can’t help it. “Who said it was any of your business?”

“No one. You were asleep.” He spreads his hands. “I’m sorry. I just started looking idly and then a pattern built up.”

“Two emails aren’t a pattern.”

“It’s not only two.” He gestures at the paper. “Next day, Magnus has a special evening seminar which he “forgot” to mention. Five minutes later, Lucinda tells you about a lace workshop in Nottinghamshire. But she was in Fulham two hours earlier. Fulham to Nottinghamshire? In the rush hour? That’s not real. My guess is it’s an alibi.”