‘Cait is not a killer. She was abused for years,’ says Sophie. ‘We need to show compassion.’
‘Indeed,’ I add. ‘She never tried to stab or burn any of us.’
‘But what if she did do it in a moment of madness?’ says Aisha. ‘You know, we all snap at some point.’
‘So you won’t have her either?’ I say to Aisha.
‘I don’t think it’s fair on Ranni,’ she says. ‘He might see it as a veiled threat, you know. We’re in stage three of the battle – our troops are deployed and fully engaged.’
‘You lot! I’d have her if we didn’t live in a cupboard,’ says Sophie.
‘And I’d have her at mine, but with Stephen’s mother’s condition being so touch and go... it’s just not possible.’ I look down at the table, blink several times with a sharp intake of breath through trembling lips. Two hands reach out and comfort me.
‘We’ve got to acknowledge that she’s mentally disturbed and needs professional help,’ says Tor.
‘Well, here’s to mentally disturbed women everywhere!’ says Sophie.
‘She’s better off at her mum’s,’ says Aisha. ‘Anyway, a group of pre-school parents have petitioned the management committee. They don’t want Cait on the premises under the current circumstances.’
‘She’s banned from picking up her kids now?’ Sophie throws her head back and swears at the ceiling.
‘They think it would cause too much disruption, and the press would be hanging off the railings to get photos.’ Aisha plays anxiously with her wedding ring.
‘Shit, if your mates won’t stand by you when you kill your fucking husband, who will?’ says Sophie.
Tor crosses her arms defiantly, and Aisha closes her eyes meditatively.
‘Look, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll explain the politics to Cait. I’m sure we can pick up the girls between us.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ says Aisha. Sophie nods.
‘Ditto,’ says Tor. ‘Ask my nanny if you need help.’
‘We mustn’t fall out over this,’ I say.
After our coffee shop meeting, I walk back to the car and receive three messages from Stephen. He apparently needs to speak to me urgently – again. His mother’s dragging out her near-death experience by convalescing in a private hospital, although I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with her any more. All I can hope for is that she’s suddenly croaked. While I only need another fifty thousand for the house deposit, we still need a million in cash to raise the mortgage.
I call him as I walk up the Broadway to the unbearable din of traffic, children, sirens, and shop refurbishments.
‘What?’ I say, clasping the phone to my ear.
‘The police called me today.’
‘About what?’ This is not what I want to hear.
‘About that missing man, Jason Mercer. They’re asking if I know him. And if you might. Do you?’
‘No,’ I lie.
‘They want to know if I had any worries about you?’
‘What kind of worries?’ I say, taken aback by this intrusion. It comes to something when the police, who can’t spot a murderer at five paces, are seeing cracks in our marriage.
‘They wanted to know if I thought you were having an affair.’
‘They asked me that too,’ I say.
‘Why would they think you’re sleeping with a corrupt policeman?’ he says.
