But I couldn’t. It was why she didn’t want me to call her out of the blue, why she preferred to be emailed first. It was why her voice in our calls and the voice on Wendy Fisher’s answerphone were different. It was why Wendy didn’t look anything like Lynda Korin, and yet the woman I’d talked to over video had borne a striking resemblance to her. It had been Korin on the video call – except she’d dyed her hair and put on weight.Or disguised herself – a costume, a wig.I thought of something Marc Collinsky had told me about the garden room at Korin’s place: There were still a few old movie props in there – a clapperboard, some bags of old junk with guff like vampire teeth, and blood, and make-up in them. Make-up. Could there have been prosthetics too? Moulds? Silicone? Korin had looked big on the video call, but she’d looked big under her clothes. She’d covered herself up. All she’d had to do was tweak her physical appearance just enough, fill herself out and use whatever had been left behind by Hosterlitz, because she knew the quality of the Skype call would disguise the rest of it.
