I rewound and replayed the morning in my mind. There was a small alcove at the back of the shop where Clark kept a load of boxes. What would happen if one accidently fell on his head, giving him a concussion? Or what if, perhaps, he happened to slip on an uneven surface? I made a mental note to research the most fatal kind of accident and see how difficult it would be to recreate it.
After I dropped off Angus, who had decided he wasn’t on speaking terms with me after I’d left him in the pub, I reached the house, passing a police car in the driveway. After a quick inspection of the number plate, I saw that it was Gareth’s. He was home. I hadn’t sent any messages to him in the end; I thought it was just best to talk to him and try to save my marriage through good old communication. At least, I hoped I could save it. I knew he was wondering if I actually was a murderer.
I hopped out of the car and braced myself. I could see Gareth inside through the window. His eyes looked up to somewhat acknowledge me and then back down to the kitchen table. So, it was time for the talk.
I took a deep breath to steel myself. I was ready to apologise, to take the blame. Gareth was the best thing in my life, and I needed to be as honest as I could be with him. I would tell him about what the doctor had said about my fertility; he had anabsolute right to know about that. I didn’t think I would tell him about my childhood, though, about St Nicholas’s and Edith. I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to do that.
I walked slowly into the house, as if going the wrong way on a moving walkway, and glanced up again at Gareth in the window. He looked borderline depressed. The window was obviously accentuating his crow’s feet and pale skin, but the man looked like he had just caught the plague.
A figure skulked past the window – bulky, tall, and imposing. I froze as I realised the silhouette was in fact, a reflection from someone behind me. Whirling around, I came face to face with Cecilia, whose presence seemed to loom particularly menacingly above me today. I recoiled, stepping back as another officer flung open my front door and descended the steps towards me, the distinct sound of handcuffs rattling in his hand.
‘Francesa Donoghue, I am Detective Steve Norton. I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of…’
Steve stuttered as the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. His eyes, panicking, looked to Cecilia as I stood there, frozen to the spot, unsure if now was the best time to run or to object, or what even exactly the best thing to do in a situation like this was.
‘I forgot his name,’ Steve murmured. ‘Damn.’
Cecilia jerked Steve out of the way, shaking her head, and placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me towards the police car. Cecilia recited the rest of the rights to me, but I didn’t really listen. I realised this was what people would refer to as an out of body experience. I felt completely detached from my own movements as they placed me into the back seat of the car. I just kept my eyes focused on Gareth, through the window. He didn’t even glance up from the kitchen table to look at me.
EIGHTEEN
FRAN
‘It’s not prison yet, actually. You’re going to be held at a police custody suite.’
That’s what Steve told me, unperturbed, as he and Cecilia led me out of the car, each placing a hand around one of my arms as we walked towards the entrance of the station.
‘You’re not going to handcuff me?’
‘Only if you try to run,’ Cecilia snapped facetiously. I didn’t find that even a little bit funny.
I walked past Judith at the front desk, who did a double take. Here I was, the lady who was always bringing in food for her husband, now flanked by two police officers.
‘Afternoon, Judith,’ Steve said as we walked past her.
Judith didn’t say anything back, just looked at me slack jawed as I was walked through the lobby.
They led me down the staircase into the station basement. I tried to fool myself into thinking that this was me booking myself into a really shitty hotel, but just for the night. Like a really old Travelodge, or an Ibis found on a last-minute booking website. We entered a large, fluorescent-lit suite with peeling, faded cream walls. There was another policeman sitting behind a long grey barricade for a desk. He tucked his lips inwards andgave the same non-smile I had seen reserved for work colleagues and fake friends.
‘Afternoon, Paul.’
‘Afternoon, Steve.’
Paul looked like something out of a rogues’ gallery. He had a small, weaselly face with tiny eyes, protruding front teeth and a long nose. But the minute he opened his mouth, a soft, thick south Welsh accent emerged. I could barely take the man seriously. I almost wanted to compliment him on how terrifying he looked, yet how wonderful he sounded. The man could narrate the dictionary to me, and I would be hooked on every word.
Paul, who informed me he was the custody sergeant, began to go on about the duty scheme where a lawyer would be provided for me if I did not have one. He then handed me a leaflet regarding my rights while I was detained here, going deep into the minutiae. He must have recited all this a thousand times before. I let his words fade into the sound of the loud droning hum of the lights, telling myself that this was just a brief overview of the packages available during my stay. It was an awful shame they didn’t have Wi-Fi. The price you paid for a cheap room, I guess.
A flurry of questions was asked, but after a while I realised I could just usenoas the default answer.
‘Have you got any medical conditions?’
‘No.’
‘Are you currently on any medication?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been a member of the armed forces?’
