‘Just explain that you were traumatized,’ says Cait quietly. ‘It does happen. You block things out that you can’t cope with, and just carry on for the sake of the children.’
‘So traumatized, I spent the next two hours laughing and drinking with friends?’
‘They’ll find out eventually,’ says Cait, scratching away at her neck.
‘Not if you help me. You know all about crime scenes. You’re an expert.’
‘No,’ she says, slightly preoccupied. I see that she’s staring at the knife that’s still embedded in the man’s chest like a sacred object.
‘Pass me the knife,’ I say, realizing additional leverage might help.
‘No! I don’t wantmyfingerprints all over it. It’s a murder weapon.’
‘It wasn’t murder.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I mean the manslaughter weapon.’
‘I’m going to scrub it anyway, just pass it over.’ Cait shakes her head so vigorously it really annoys me so I reach over, grab her hand, pull it across the corpse and close it around the knife handle. She shrieks as I force her to pull the knife out of his chest, then let go of her hand.
‘There. Not so difficult, was it?’
Cait stares at the bloody knife in her hand and looks like she’s going to be sick.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Not good,’ she says, but her face betrays passion rather than revulsion. Even so, she drops the knife. ‘I could never do what you did. It’s wrong.’
‘You might need to if Owen breaks in again,’ I say.
‘I’m not brave enough,’ she says. ‘I never was.’
‘Cait, look, just help me get him out of here. We can dump his body somewhere in Wood Green, the police’ll think it’s just another everyday London stabbing. What do you say?’
‘You can’t just dump a dead body on the street,’ she rails. ‘It’s teeming with your DNA, clothes fibres, saliva, hair... And my DNA now! They’d have our genetic fingerprint within hours.’
‘You see, that’s the kind of thinking that’ll help us get away with it. You’re so good at this,’ I say, smiling at her enthusiasm.
‘I can’t do this. I won’t,’ she says, and stands quickly. One foot slips on a sticky trail of blood and she lurches forward. She manages to stop herself by grabbing one end of the sofa, but not completely, and her other hand lands on the dead man’s chest.
‘Blood!’ she cries and stares down at her hand like an amateur Lady Macbeth, her whole palm dark crimson like an autumn leaf.
‘It washes off, Cait. A little bit of soap and water and it’s gone,’ I say, trying to calm her down.
‘I’m going to the police,’ she shouts, unhelpfully.
‘Cait, your fingerprints are all over this knife. They’ll arrest you,’ I say and take her arm.
She acts as though she’s going to be my next victim, recoils from my hand, shoots me a terrified look and rushes to the door holding her bloody hand out in the air, looking rather guilty, I can’t help thinking to myself.
Chapter10Wrapping
As soon as Cait’s gone, I fetch a freezer bag from the kitchen and put the knife inside without touching the handle. I then text Cait a quick text message (), and return to wrapping the corpse.
I grab the edge of the plastic sheeting and pull it up as high as I can until the corpse rolls into the middle. It’s like making a sausage roll but with polyurethane and a dead body. I look at my watch. I see that time is quickly slipping away, and also that I’ve already done 14,000 steps, which is fantastic news.
I grab the scissors and parcel tape, and I’ve soon forgotten about the contents of the package because I’m utilizing my gift-wrapping techniques courtesy of a tutorial that Liberty offered last Christmas. The shape of the package is a challenge, but with the right number of pinches and folds, I do a good job. I’m about to search for a ribbon to embellish the parcel but come to my senses just as the children arrive in the kitchen, accompanied by a stream of Parisian invective.
I rush upstairs, remove my bloody pyjamas, get dressed again, reapply lipstick, go back downstairs, put the pyjamas and charity clothes on a hot wash, and enter the kitchen.
