‘Well, how the hell do you get your potassium, then?’
I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly as I snatched the orange juice carton, plucked up the straw, and pretended to stab myself in the wrist.
Any sympathy that Paul may have had for me with my potassium deficiency was quickly squashed. He just shook his head disappointedly.
‘You really think you’re the first one to make that joke?’ Paul said with sheer, utter, unadulterated disappointment. ‘Eat up and drink up. Your lawyer is here.’
I tried to connect myself to the reality of the situation, but, starting from my arrest, this whole process had felt like some kind of haunted house ride. Paul led me into a glorified broom cupboard as another man – slicked-back black hair, mid-fifties, a little short and slightly overweight – snatched my hand up and shook it.
‘Francesca, nice to meet you. Andrew Shorestone, Bark & Moore solicitors.’
‘You’re not one of those duty solicitors, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. Your husband called me yesterday afternoon, told me that you had just been brought in, and arranged to have me meet you here.’
I didn’t quite know how to feel about all this. Was it a good or bad sign that Gareth was doing this for me?
‘First of all, have you been offered a phone call, or is there anybody you need me to ring on your behalf?’
‘No. To both.’
Andrew stopped shuffling through his papers, surprised at my answer.
‘You sure? Your husband? Mum? Dad? Siblings?’
All things I did not have.
‘No, I’m okay,’ I said, as indifferently as I could.
‘Right, well. I obtained the disclosure from the police. They’ve arrested you on suspicion of the murder of Gordon O’Neill on what the police are estimating as the date of death tobe the tenth of September. The good news is that they don’t have anything concrete against you. It’s what I like to call a finger-food case: lots of little crumbs, but nothing really substantial.’
I nodded. I was sure this was something he told all the girls.
‘From what I can see, Fran, you’ve been the model defendant. Your last encounter with Gordon O’Neill was you trying to help him. There’s no motive for you to attack him, no criminal record, nothing for you to gain from Gordon’s death. There’s no trace of a murder weapon. I mean, you put the man’s bins out, for crying out loud. What kind of murderer does that?’
‘So, what do they have on me? Why have I been arrested? Must be more than a reasonable doubt?’
‘Between you and me, sounds like the police needed to make an arrest for the case. Superiors were afraid of the media frenzy that could be drummed up. Not sure if you knew this, but this O’Neill guy? Man was a fraudster. What they’re going to try and charge you with is the video footage of your last visit to O’Neill, traces of you in the house, and a passer-by that claims to have seen a woman matching your description throwing body parts in the river. That last one is the clincher. So, to conclude: you’re not the one who did it, but you’re the one they think is mostlikelyto have done it.’
I scoffed, somewhat relieved. One, he hadn’t mentioned Angus or his ‘I’ll kill you’ note, which was one of the many worries I had floating around my head. Two, he had been paid to believe me. It may have been delusional, but it was slightly comforting to have someone on my side. Three, it looks like they hadn’t discovered any of O’Neill’s appendages; that was probably a nice aperitif for a school of trout.
‘Well, that’s barely anything. How can they pin this on me?’
‘I’m sure you remember Thomas Macleod, that man who died seven or so years ago –nasty murder. Well, he and O’Neill were friends, which makes you a link to the two murders.Definition of wrong place, wrong time, if you ask me. But that doesn’t make you guilty. Just very unlucky.’
‘So, how will you spin it?’ I asked, hoping I was using the lingo right.
‘I think an act of neighbourly goodwill shouldn’t make you a suspect to murder,’ said Andrew, leaning back in his chair casually and tapping his pencil against the edge of the desk like a kid in class. ‘But your past isn’t ideal. Raised in the system – being in care generally predicts higher adult criminality. You’re the perfect scapegoat for the CPS, I’m afraid.’
What a lovely way to put it. I felt so glad I wasn’t being pigeonholed.
‘Do I get bail?’
Andrew looked solemn. He took a sharp breath and then grew increasingly shamefaced as he began to speak, like he was about to tell me Fluffy the dog had died right before Christmas.
‘No. I’m sorry to say that you’ll be held at a prison on remand until the trial. Bear in mind, this is only if they charge you. They could be looking through their notes now and realising they don’t have enough to pin this on you. So, let’s just cross our fingers.’
They charged me.
