‘So, what do you want done?’ she asks.
I take a deep breath. ‘I want it cut short, in a bob. About your length and blonde.’
Cheryl purses her lips. ‘Are you sure? That’s quite a drastic change.’
‘I’m sure.’ The more dramatic the better, I think. All I can see when I look at myself is that appalling photofit.
Cheryl shrugs and fetches me a colour chart. ‘What do you like?’ she asks.
I stab my finger at a shade on the lighter end of the spectrum.
‘Beeline Honey?’ Cheryl frowns. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like something a little darker, like Hot Toffee or Havana Brown?’
‘No, I want Beeline Honey or maybe Medium Champagne,’ I say firmly. ‘I need a change. I’m getting a divorce.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She nods and smiles – a warm smile this time, and her face is transformed. ‘You want a revenge haircut.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’ The mention of my divorce has softened her and I think she feels she can relate to me now because she spends the next half an hour or so, while my hair is cooking, telling me all about her ex-boyfriend, Sam, who cheated on her.
‘God, I hate Sam,’ I say when she pauses for breath, and she laughs.
‘Yeah, Sam and your husband, what a pair of losers,’ she says, switching on the blow dryer and drowning out my answer.
‘It looks lovely,’ she says, holding up a mirror behind my head and admiring her handiwork when she’s finished.
I swivel my head in front of the mirror and my hair swishes and falls in a sleek blonde sheet. The result is really weird. I look like a successful, professional woman. Nothing like the photofit. Nothing like me.
‘Thank you,’ I say, paying her. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
There’s nothing like a new haircut to boost your mood and I walk home feeling much calmer and more hopeful. Every so often, I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and I see a woman I don’t recognise as me. I don’t even look all that fat, I decide. This is the start of a new chapter in my life, I think. I’m going to take care of myself. No more binge eating, no more worrying and I’m going to always be kind and patient with Dylan. Perhaps I’ll even go to the gym. Now I’ve dyed my hair, no one will make the connection between me and that photofit. I turn into my street, my hair bouncing like a shampoo ad, my confidence soaring.
But on the corner I stop abruptly and steady myself on a garden wall, fighting the instinct to turn and run. Because way down at the other end of the street I see something that makes my heart freeze.
There’s a police car parked right outside my house.
Four
At number fifteen a curtain twitches and I catch a glimpse of Eileen Robinson peering out from the gloom of her living room, her pale moon face stained with malice. For a second, our eyes meet. Then she presses her lips together and jerks the curtains closed. No prizes for guessing who recognised the photofit and called the police.
I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve no need to worry, I tell myself as I make my way up the road. Even so, my legs buckle and my heart races when I reach my house. I walk right past the police car, my head held high, pretending I haven’t noticed the two officers sitting inside. Then I open my front gate and step on to the path, but the sound of the car door slamming behind me jolts through my whole body.
‘Catherine Bayntun?’ says a voice and I turn, polite surprise plastered on my face.
‘Yes?’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm.
A middle-aged woman with short, grey–blonde hair and a careworn face is holding out her hand. Just behind her, a young, plump man with a florid complexion is smiling awkwardly.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Littlewood and this is Sergeant Fisher,’ says the woman. ‘Can we come in and have a quick word?’
‘Sure.’ I fumble with the lock, hoping they haven’t noticed that my hand is trembling as I push open the door.
‘Lovely dog,’ Sergeant Fisher says, patting Delilah on the head, taking in the Lego, still sprawled all over the floor, the crumbs on the sofa and the wilting pot plant on the windowsill.
‘I like your hairdo.’ DI Littlewood perches on the edge of the sofa and appraises me with shrewd blue eyes. ‘Have you been to the hairdresser’s recently?’
I touch the back of my head self-consciously. Was it a mistake? Does changing my appearance so drastically make me look guilty – as if I have something to hide?
‘Yes, I went just this morning,’ I say warily.
‘Very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
There’s an awkward silence. They’re clearly not here to chat about my hair. ‘Er . . . would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?’ I offer.
‘No thanks, Catherine,’ DI Littlewood, smiles. Her manner is genial, pally almost. But her eyes are sharp, and they seem to take in everything and cut straight through my new look to the soft, scared core of me.
‘We’re looking into the death of Charlotte Holbrooke,’ she says. ‘The woman that was murdered in her home a couple of days ago.’ She pauses, watching my reaction carefully. I try to assemble my features into the correct response, though I’m not sure what that is. Shock? Surprise? ‘It’s just a routine enquiry,’ she adds in a way that I guess is supposed to be reassuring. ‘Did you know her at all?’
At this moment, if you could see inside my brain, it would look like a herd of wildebeest, stampeding in all directions.
‘Er, no . . . well, that is yes. I mean I saw her on TV last night.’
DI Littlewood arches her eyebrows and exchanges a meaningful look with Sergeant Fisher.
My cheeks are burning. Why am I behaving as if I’m guilty?
