‘It is well known that O’Neill was something of a philanthropist in his community, even donating to the children’s home Mrs Donoghue was a part of as a child. He had no record of criminality, no convicted charges, and was an upstanding member of society. A loving father and grandfather.’
Last I heard, his wife abandoned him and took their daughter with her, so I wasn’t sure why Isla was painting him as some kind of saint beloved within the community. Well, actually, I knew exactly why.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ Isla said, glancing over to the jury members. ‘We believe the charitable endeavours of MrO’Neill were why Mrs Donoghue killed him; that this was an act of someone angry at the system, killing someone she wrongly thought was responsible for her pain. This is the case that the Crown will prove to you, leaving no doubt in your minds that Francesca Donoghue is guilty of murder.’
Isla sat back down, looking pleased with herself, as she leaned over to see what one of her team was writing on a very ostentatious leather-bound notepad. She nodded in agreement. The few of them were crowded around like girls at secondary school, gossiping about the slutty geography teacher.
‘Thank you, Mrs Thorne,’ said the judge, leaning towards the mic on her stand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have now heard the opening speech for the prosecution. Mr Shorestone, you would also like to make a speech for the defence?’
Andrew rose. I half expected him to tuck in his shirt as he did so, but he seemed comfortable, remarkably at ease in the courtroom. The man who I had thought was going to collapse from a coronary at any minute, seemed somewhat…confident. This chubby, boorish, and remarkably short gentleman had changed into a captivating, enigmatic man – who I now realised was actually quite handsome for his age.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, some of what Mrs Thorne has said is true. My client was indeed seen with Mr O’Neill around the time of his disappearance. She also has a troubled history within the social care system. However, what Mrs Thorne failed to add was that this history shaped Francesca Donoghue into a compassionate member of society. My client, Francesca, was helping O’Neill with his shopping at one point in time within the forty-eight-hour period in which his suspected murder may have taken place. Let me ask you this: what kind of murderer helps someone with their groceries before stabbingthem in the eye? I hope we can understand the rather drastic and dramatic leaps in logic the prosecution is trying to convey.’
Andrew twisted himself to address his next point directly to Isla in a way that oozed with confidence.
‘Further to that, I hadn’t realised that in this country, being brought up in the care system predetermined your future within society. My client has had a reputable career within the social services and does a great deal to help children who have been in the same position as her. I am looking forward to hearing what the prosecution has to say what someone like Mrs Donoghue has to gain by killing her next-door neighbour.’
He had her there.
A few hours ago, I had been half expecting Andrew to just throw the towel in right there and then and tell Gareth to keep the money, but now I thought that perhaps there was some minuscule chance for me yet.
TWENTY-TWO
GARETH
I checked one more time in the mirror, poring over my hairline again. It had definitely shifted in the past few months. I did wonder if that was due to the days of no showering, insane levels of stress, and a diet consisting mostly of microwaveable macaroni and cheese from the shitty store at the end of the street just to not die of starvation along with Mep.
Needless to say, I had certainly looked better. In my defence, it had been a long day, and seeing your wife on trial after you’d been the one who’d turned her in was a pretty stressful situation, especially when the reasons why she’d had a penchant for the odd murder had become all the clearer. I was just about to google the cost of a hair transplant in Turkey when my phone – which was teetering on the edge of the sink – began to aggressively buzz. I snatched it up before it decided to end it all and leap off the side.
The number wasn’t one I recognised. But nevertheless, I decided to pick up.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah, hello, Mr Donoghue, I hope you’re okay. It’s Dr Patel. I’ve tried ringing this number a few times as I couldn’t reach your wife. I was calling to talk a bit more about when you’dlike another appointment to discuss further options regarding fertility treatment.’
It took me a second to click who it was. Our appointment with Dr Patel felt like a lifetime ago.
‘Oh, Dr Patel,’ I said, straightening my back as if I had to stand to attention. ‘I thought that we were waiting on you to call us back?’
‘Ahhh, may I ask if you’ve spoken to your wife about this recently, Mr Donoghue?’
I steadied myself by placing a hand around the rim of the sink.Oh, Fran, what else haven’t you told me?
‘Ahh, now I understand. Sorry, it’s been a bit of a long day,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t sense any uncertainty or lack of confidence in my voice. ‘This is about the test results, yes? She did tell me about them. So, we need to come in for some more tests?’
It was a wild guess, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything if I showed I was ignorant.
‘Yes, that’s it, so just find a time with your wife when you can call reception and we can get you booked in to discuss the next options. I know it can be quite distressing and concerning at times like this, and it can be easy to be pessimistic about your chances of conceiving. But this isn’t an opportunity to give up all hope. There are options, even if it isn’t the news we were maybe hoping for.’
I didn’t know what to say. Fran would tell me that I was buffering right now, as I racked my brain to figure out why she would keep this from me too. When had she found out? Presumably, before the arrest? But a more concerning question kept wrangling its way into my head.
Was she keeping anything else from me?
‘Well, I was just checking up on you,’ the doctor remarked, filling in the uncomfortable silence between us. ‘How about youfind some time to talk to your wife about when you could next come in, and we can go from there?’
‘Off the record, though, doc, what are our chances?’ I muttered, running my hand back and forth through my scraggly hair, trying to ignore the various strands that were breaking off and floating down towards the sink.
‘I wouldn’t like to guess, Mr Donoghue. How about we just run some more tests, and then we’ll discuss that if and when we come to it?’
