The Warning by Sophie Hannah Page A

anything but obey, I show him my reply.
    “Good. That’s good.” He smiles, not entirely successfully. As if he hasn’t had much practice. His mouth looks like a Venetian blind that’s been hiked up too much on one side.
    A serious crime must be involved, or he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t care enough to give up his time.
    The door in front of us opens, and I’m face-to-face with Nadine again. She’s wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a pink cotton hoodie. Her eyes widen. “How did you . . . ?” She gawps at me.
    “How did she know where to find you?” Simon completes her sentence for her. “She didn’t. I found you.” He produces a small flip-open wallet and holds it in front of Nadine’s face. “DC Simon Waterhouse, Culver Valley Police.”
    Nadine laughs. “A detective? From the back of beyond, but still—why am I getting a visit from a detective? Whatever she’s told you—”
    “She hasn’t been able to tell me anything because you haven’t told her anything, but that’s going to change. Today. Now. No more dropping hints and running away. The three of us are going to have a proper conversation. Can we come in?’
    “No! You can piss off, is what you can do.”
    Simon grabs my left hand and pulls me forward. “Look—see this ring? It’s an engagement ring. Looks pricey, doesn’t it? Biggest diamond I’ve ever seen on a real person’s finger.” I wonder how many fake people’s fingers he’s seen. I wonder if I’ll be wondering about fakeness for the rest of my life: fake fingers, fake fish allergies . . .
    “I’m guessing you can work out what it means. Tom Rigbey asked Chloe to marry him last night and she said yes.”
    Nadine is staring at my ring as if it’s a crushed cockroach.
    Simon says, “Chloe didn’t listen to your warning, evidently. If you want her to, you’re going to need to tell her more. If you don’t, I will.”
    Scorn contorts Nadine’s face. “How can you tell her what you don’t know?”
    “I know enough. Speros, Jackson and Decker . . . and you’re going to fill in the rest. Let us in.”
    What? Speros, Jackson, Decker? The names mean nothing to me. Nadine, who suddenly looks frightened, understands. I don’t.
    She opens the door wider and steps back so that her back is flat against the wall. Simon, still holding my arm, pulls me into the house.
    There are no pleasantries, no offers of cups of tea or glasses of water. In silence, we proceed up the stairs to the first floor lounge. It’s tidy, with beige walls, a wooden floor and white furniture—furry white poufs in front of the chairs instead of footstools. The fireplace is the smallest I’ve ever seen, and looks wrong. This is a modern room with a balcony overlooking the garden. It doesn’t need and shouldn’t have a fireplace.
    There’s a glass coffee table between Nadine’s chair and where Simon and I are sitting. On it are some magazines and two bottles of nail varnish: one dark green and one silver. There are three framed prints on the walls, matching ones: cats with triangular, glittery faces. I’ve seen these pictures before on cards in shops. Maybe not these exact ones but the same kind.
    “Go on,” Simon says to Nadine. “Time to give Chloe the explanation she deserves. Tell her—tell us both—your story. The truth. Leave nothing out.”
    “It’s difficult for me to talk about,” she says.
    “Yeah, I bet it is.” Simon sounds unsympathetic. “Why don’t you start with Speros? That was the first one, wasn’t it? Then Jackson and Decker next. Then CamEgo. Where next, Nadine?”
    Silence.
    Questions are stampeding in my head, but I mustn’t say anything. Simon is the questioner. He’s made that very clear. I am the listener, passive and compliant, about to be rewarded with the truth. Keep your mouth shut, Chloe.
    “Funny how you were so eloquent and articulate when you warned Chloe to stay away from Tom,” says Simon. “You didn’t tell her much, but what you