‘Ah, right,’ I said, trying to moderate my strength as I landed another jab into the bag. ‘And you’ll let her? Shouldn’t it be Phil?’
‘I had no reason to reject the request, and Phil is currently in Essex, helping on a case there. But I’ll go with you on this one, Gareth: do you still think this case is worth investigating?’
I hesitated. I wish I could say it was a powerful sense of moral justice that motivated me, but in truth, it was a red-hot furious desire to prove Darren and Steve wrong.
‘Let’s do it.’
EIGHT
GARETH
‘Maybedas unbehagen? It’s a feeling you can’t quite put your finger on, that mixture of uneasiness and discomfort all mixed up into one.’
‘Ahhh, see, I just knew the Germans, of all people, would have a word for it,’ I said, tilting my chin toward the car microphone above me.
I heard Fran chuckle to herself down the other end of the line.
‘You know there’s literally a word for every kind of weird niche feeling in German,’ she said. ‘There’sSehnsucht, which means like a longing and yearning for something unknown and unsaid. There’sHeimweh, which is the feeling of homesickness and nostalgia, and of course, my personal favourite:Backpfeifengesicht.’
I remembered that one. The literal translation was an insult meaning ‘punching-bag face’ – particularly apt after yesterday’s events.
‘So, what now? I guess I’ll be interviewed with the rest of the neighbourhood at some point? You can’t just bring out a notepad at dinner and ask me some questions then, I suppose?’ Fran asked.
‘Well, actually we all use recording devices now.’
‘Really? Gosh, how the police have moved with the times.’
‘What do you mean? We’re always modern and up to date in all aspects,’ I remarked glibly.
‘So, you’re not really going to be involved much with this case at all?’ Fran asked.
‘No, not really,’ I said, glancing at Mr O’Neill’s house from the car window. I could see the unmistakable clinical white of the forensic team’s suits moving around inside, and the long wads of paperwork I had to sign off in the passenger seat.
Deep down in my psyche, I was trying to forget the story of Ananias and Sapphira from Sunday school. Long story short: lying in front of the Holy Spirit strikes you down dead as dead can be.
‘Makes sense. Guess it could be considered a conflict of interest or something. So, who will be interviewing me? Please don’t say Darren,’ Fran groaned.
‘Probably Steve, I imagine. Darren isn’t allowed to do witness interviews after he had four different complaints about making people cry. One of which was a six-year-old girl.’
I had decided not to tell Fran about the lasagne incident either, for two main reasons. The first was that I didn’t want her to worry about me at work. She’d go full lioness and start hunting for balls when really, I kind of just wanted to forget it had ever happened.
The second was, for the sake of my own ego, I didn’t want her to think I was unliked at the station. Maybe it was narcissistic, but I wanted to maintain the image that I had worked for years to build up in my last role. It had been a great feeling to have her come to visit the station then. As we’d walk through the hallways, everyone would be saying hi or hello to me.
‘Right, I’d better get back to work, my love. So, love you lots, and I’ll see you tonight for date night,’ I said.
‘Amazing, thanks, my love.’
‘Did you book in Mep’s check-up by the way?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ she replied, less than confidently. Fun Detective Observation: no one telling the truth replies with ‘absolutely’ to a ‘did you…’ question.
‘Okay, just remember we need him on that new prescription,’ I said, slightly raising the pitch of my voice to illustrate some sense of urgency to her. I could almost hear the frantic tapping of keys in the background as she scrambled across the web for the vet’s telephone number. ‘I’ll see you tonight at eight. Love you! Enjoy Pilates!’
‘Love you more! I won’t!’
I took a moment to myself in the car, running my hands through my hair. I hadn’t eaten breakfast today, but I still wasn’t particularly hungry. Over the past few days, my stomach had been constantly churning and groaning. I wondered if this was the first telltale sign of the mental breakdown that Cis had warned me about or – more likely – if hiding all this from Fran had literally made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t help running the mental litmus test of how I would feel if I were to walk away from the case, and instantly, I could feel my stomach begin to steady. But then again, my late-night shish from Marmaris Kebab last nighthadtasted a little dodgy.
I could recognise Cis’s bulky form from the way the muscles seemed to pop out of her unflattering white forensic suit as she opened the door to Mr O’Neill’s house, tapping away on her tablet. I realised I should probably stop holding a little pity party for myself and do the work I was paid to do.
