Cis exhaled in the hallway before strolling back across our living room to glance at the photos of Fran and me from our wedding day. The first ones we’d put up in our new home.
‘Y’know, for a little while, I thought there was a chance you might actually testify against her,’ Cis mumbled, mostly to herself.
That was enough to wake me up a little from my drowsiness.
‘What, why?’ I said, bewildered.
‘Because I thought that you were Detective Whistle-blower. You’ve always been so rigid, I thought even this wouldn’t make you change your ways. Even if she is your wife.’
I didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Surely even the most rational person would pervert all the courses of justice in the world if it meant saving someone they loved, right? It had just taken me a minute – or a few months – to realise that.
‘I can see you haven’t been married, Cis,’ I stated. ‘Or, of course, been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than a few months.’
I should have taken more care with what I said, a recurring theme for me over the past few days. Cis – like many police officers – found it difficult to establish a work-life balance, with new relationships often fizzling out swiftly.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Cis whispered, lacking any anger that I thought she would have in her voice. She pulled up a seat. The rage of her poor cyber security skills inside her seemed to be slowly dissipating as Mep strutted towards her. The cat did his usual knife-stuck-in-a-lawnmower meow before twisting his way around her leg. I watched Cis as her face sagged. For the second time today, I had made someone look morbidly depressed.
‘Just humour me, Gareth,’ Cis said, her eyes still looking lifelessly at the ground. ‘So, let’s say, whatever game you’re playing, whatever plan you’re concocting, works, and somehow Fran is released from prison. What then? You live and spend the rest of your life with a murderer? I may not have been married, but I have a feeling that it’s not a great sign if your spouse makes you give up on your dream career. And has also – y’know – killed someone.’
She made a good point, but I couldn’t say I was particularly sad to see people like Macleod and O’Neill removed from the world.
‘We’ll see,’ I said, not letting her detect the doubt in my voice. ‘But whatever happens, Cis, I want you to know that I’m not going to regret it, any of it. I’ll confess to the damn murder myself before I let Fran go to prison.’
‘Well, that may be difficult. We’ve got her pinned dead to rights, Gareth, and I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m saying this as a friend. I don’t want you getting any hope that she can get out of this.’
‘Cis, what more can we say to each other? We’re not going to forgive one another, and neither of us is sorry for what we did, so what’s the point in even talking? Neither of us is going to change.’
‘I’m not here because I’m angry at what you’ve done Gareth, I’m angry because of why you’ve done it. Everything you’ve worked so hard for is being thrown out the window for…her.’
I had no idea any more if Cis was lying or not, or if she still saw me as one of her chess pieces. I tried analysing her, watching her face shift and her body language change like we’d done back when we’d first sat next to each other in the classroom at training. I couldn’t tell any more; she just looked void of anything, really.
‘I just wanted to stop you from making a mistake. A big one,’ Cis continued, her tone now resigned. ‘I feel like, deep down, you’ve succumbed to this idea that I did this to get one over on you, to advance my career and become Commissioner by fifty or something. But that’s really not what I wanted. I didn’t want Fran to be the killer, Gareth. I want you to know that. But don’t think I’m an arsehole because I want to see a murderer behind bars.’
‘But you’re testifying tomorrow, right? Against her?’
Cis scowled, infuriated that she wasn’t getting through to me. It made me wonder if she was actually being sincere, so I decided to tone down the animosity. ‘I appreciate that,’ I said, asauthentically as I could. ‘I do, but this is my decision. No one else is forcing me to make it.’
Cis gently patted Mep as she rose to her feet, not even looking in my general direction as she readied herself to leave.
‘Ten years from now, wherever you’re working – and maybe you’re still married to Fran and maybe you have kids – just remember that there were people who tried to stop you from living that life. I just think…’
I almost could hear her hesitate over what to say next.
‘I just think someone who loves you wouldn’t make you do this.’
I heard the door slam shut before I even realised that Cis had left the living room. I couldn’t bring myself to fully digest what Cis had said. It felt as though my brain couldn’t handle any more heavy feelings of guilt, confusion and/or remorse. I distracted myself by grabbing Mep, who was looking stronger by the day, and flicking back onto teleshopping, wondering which wares would be offered to me tonight.
TWENTY-THREE
FRAN
What they don’t tell you about court cases is there isn’t a whole lot of time for toilet breaks. When you’re a very well-hydrated person, like I try to be, you find yourself needing to use the ladies’ at quite regular intervals. However, you can’t really excuse yourself to spend a penny when you are literally the one on trial. I spoke to Andrew about my concerns early on in the case, and he said it was the first time he had ever been asked that in his twenty-five years of being a criminal defence lawyer. Which I thought was somewhat strange. It could be hours between breaks, and he was telling me that no one had ever asked what their loo policy was?
I thought maybe one of the boring statements, like Cecilia’s endless ramble on evidence being objective and her self-praise for guessing I’d chopped O’Neill up in his wet room, could be my chance. That would be the perfect time to tiptoe out, go for a wee, and return before she’d finished her monologue on the lacerations.
But no, I had to stay there, legs crossed, and listen to people go and on and on about me. I thought I had been pretty smart with covering up the murder – more so than others, but, evidently, the police had been smarter. They had correctlyguessed that I had disposed of the main husk of O’Neill’s body in the bins and the identifiable body parts in the river. I wondered what they were doing now? Probably drifting along the seabed of the English Channel.
Meanwhile, Isla and Cecilia were catching up like old friends on a coffee date. Cecilia said I exhibited all the telltale signs of a psychopath during the questioning – cold, manipulative and narcissistic – and that I knew how to work detectives to make myself appear the victim. What I found more interesting was that Cecilia couldn’t even bear to look in my general direction. She seemed composed and graceful to Isla, but pretended I wasn’t even in the box for most of her statement. She only glanced at me for a moment when Isla asked her to confirm it was me she was talking about.
