‘And that was the extent of your interaction with Mr O’Neill?’ Steve asked.
‘I chatted to him for ages, it was just small talk. I wanted to make sure he was okay.’ I had my doe eyes deployed now; they always worked a treat. I let them well up a bit, to really drive the message home, still fighting the battle with my face to not let the smile make an appearance.
I could see both Cecilia and Steve were unconvinced. The doe eyes were not having the impact I wanted. I’d thought Steve would be a doddle, but he seemed very unmoved by my act. Maybe I was losing my edge as I approached my thirties.
‘Oh, and I cleaned up some milk, too, that he said he’d spilt the night before. He asked me if I wouldn’t mind as he didn’t have the knees for it.’
Was that a really bad move? It felt like a bad move. I don’t know why I felt the impulse to say it, but I just did. I begged and prayed they would buy it.
Steve just nodded. The way his eyes had flared when I mentioned the milk meant there was some recognition there, and I carefully watched him as he glanced downwards and shifted his body towards Cecilia, who took a big sigh inward and crossed her legs, placing her interlaced fingers upon her knee.
Gareth had told me about this interrogation technique. They would wait and wait and wait until the witness continued to talk and babble, which would be when everything would come tumbling out. No one can stand silences, not even guilty people. But I could wait all day. I had daydreams and fantasies all prepared in my head for these very situations that I could get myself lost in.
‘Anything else happen while you were with O’Neill? Anything of note he mentioned to you, even offhandedly?’ Cecilia asked, following about thirty seconds of silence during which I was quite happily wondering if I could rent four cars to quarter and dismember Clark and the exact logistics involved with doing that.
‘You know an hour and a half is a long time to be in a house with a stranger, what else did you talk about?’ Cecilia asked.
Maybe Gareth thought this was just going to be a case of simple witness questioning. Maybe Cecilia thought differently.
‘Oh, well you should have heard him talk about the Neighbourhood Watch and besides, you ever tried to clean up milk out of Berber carpet?’ I asked. ‘Give it a go and get back to me.’
That was probably more aggressive than I’d intended, as I could see Cecilia almost wince at my response.
‘Fran. We feel like there may be more to this story than what you’re telling us.’
Gareth had told me this was a technique that they used. Even if the witness was saying everything they knew, the interviewers would always throw that one out there to see if it would garner any kind of result. But my body began to shift into survival mode again, the pumps in my brain churning out the adrenaline at a record rate, my limbic system was fully going buckaroo. What if I said O’Neill had tried to touch me, maybe rape me, even, and then I had pushed him off me in a fit of rage and run back to my house, and then in all of his regret, he had killed himself? That didn’t seem smart. Who would kill themselves by knife through the eye?Stick to the plan, I kept thinking to myself.Stick to the story that you’ve revisited and relived a hundred times at this point, and also don’t fucking smile.
‘I…did find him to be quite odd. Quite strange. But I’ve told you everything about my encounter with him. I helped him withhis shopping, spoke to him for a bit, cleaned up some milk, put his bins out, and then left.’
‘And he said nothing to you about any travels or trips? Were there any signs he may have been planning to make a journey?’ Cecilia queried.
‘No.’
‘And you hadn’t seen him since then?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘And there was no suggestion that he was planning to hurt himself or put himself in any kind of danger?’
Not from himself.
‘Not that I can think of. I mean, you’re asking me all these questions, but I didn’t know the guy,’ I said, trying to really make sure I was looking both of them in the eye.
The two of them turned to look at each other and seemed to nod – some kind of small signal – as Cecilia reached deep into a briefcase and pulled out an A4 sheet with an image printed on it. She slid it across the table to me.
‘Do you recognise this person?’
I felt I could breathe a little easier when I saw from the shape of the figure that it definitely wasn’t me. It was the shape of a man – a small, frail man. I looked around the edges of the image and realised it was a screen capture from the video doorbell. Beryl’s, I thought, the same one that I had obliterated, but the picture here was untainted by any shards of glass in the lens. I squinted my eyes to try and work out who the figure was that was walking into O’Neill’s house, but I still couldn’t make it out.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t make out who it is from this,’ I said apologetically, moving the picture back across the table.
‘Look again,’ Cecilia said, gliding the paper back to me before I had even removed my hand. ‘Really take a long, hard look and see if it could be anyone you know.’
What was she getting at? What was she trying to get me to see? I dragged the photo back to look at it again as decisively as I could. Black jacket, small frame, dark hair. I pushed my face closer to the image until all I could see was my nose, wondering if this mysterious man was the suspected killer at the moment, my knight in shining armour?
Then it clicked, and I had to summon all the acting prowess that I could recall from GCSE Drama to push the photo back across the table one more time.
‘No, afraid I really don’t know who this is. I’m sorry.’
