It occurs to me that I haven’t done any DIY since then, unless you count fixing the leaky tap in the utility room or giving the upstairs hallway a fresh lick of paint. One of the bathrooms has been in desperate need of a facelift for some time, but it’s not the sort of job I can manage on my own, and Daniel has always claimed to be terrible at anything manual.
Jo takes a bottle of Chablis out of the fridge – also new and bigger – and opens it with some difficulty. I’d offer to help, but I buy screw tops precisely because I can’t handle a corkscrew, although I was a real pro at removing the metal caps from beer bottles with my teeth back when I was at uni. Jo pours generous amounts of wine into two oversize glasses, hoists herself onto a stool at the kitchen island and slides one of the glasses towards me.
‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass to chink with hers.
‘Cheers,’ Jo says.
I take a big gulp of the wine and look at Jo. Her blonde hair is scraped back into a high ponytail and her brown eyes lock onto mine. She’s made up beautifully, but hasn’t quite succeeded in concealing the dark bags under her eyes – she works so hard, not just at her lessons, but at all the extra-curricular activities she’s involved in at the school, and she’s always exhausted come the end of the week.
‘So,’ she says, ‘how are you holding up?’
I’m not sure whether Jo is referring to the situation with Daniel or the one with Iris. I’m clinging to the hope that Daniel will come back, preferably after apologizing profusely, and that this is just a temporary glitch in our relationship. I tell Jo this, and shrug as if it’s no big deal. I’m a bit worried that if I talk about it too much, I’ll end up bawling my eyes out. I make out that it’s all due to a stupid argument. I can’t tell her the real reason Daniel has moved out – that he thinks Iris is a murderer.
As for the murder investigation itself, I don’t know how much Ian has told Jo – knowing him, everything. He and Jo have always discussed his work and hers. He once joked that it’s actually Jo who solves the crimes, not him. She must know that Ian and his colleague have talked to Iris. Perhaps she knows they found a footprint at the scene of the crime, but I’m not going to tell her I found Iris’s shoes in the bin. I haven’t told Ash yet, but I will. If I tell Jo, though, it will get back to Ian.
But Jo is my best friend, so I’m used to confiding in her. ‘I’m terrified that Iris will end up a suspect in this … murder case,’ I admit. I find it hard, even now, to spit out the word ‘murder’. It’s something you hear about on the news or read about in crime fiction, not something that happens this close to home. ‘I just think she must be the obvious suspect after what Joshua Knoll did to her.’
‘Hmm. She has motive,’ Jo agrees.
‘Not helpful, Jo,’ I say.
‘Sorry. I doubt Iris was his only enemy, though.’
Ah, that’s more like the sort of thing I want to hear. Does Jo know something I don’t? ‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.
‘Well, Ian is keen to talk to Joshua’s latest girlfriend, Sasha Spencer-Lyles, but the family seem to be stonewalling the police’s requests for an interview with her.’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Not indefinitely, no. This is a murder inquiry and Sasha knew the victim well.’ Jo pauses to take a sip of her wine. I take another gulp of mine. ‘I don’t know why the family are trying to wriggle out of talking to the police,’ she continues. ‘It strikes me as a bit suspicious.’
‘Do you know Sasha?’
‘I did. I taught her last year. Bright kid. I know her mother, too. Not well, but well enough to say hello to, you know. Saw her on Tuesday evening, actually, at my Zumba class. She’s a bit up herself, but she’s all right. Friendly.’
Jo gets up and fetches a packet of olives and some dips from the fridge, and two small bowls, a packet of Twiglets and a packet of crisps. It takes her two attempts to find the right cupboard for the snacks.
‘Don’t know my way around my own kitchen anymore,’ she grumbles. We both laugh. She goes to top up my wine. I’d told myself I’d only have one drink, and I put up a reluctant objection, covering my glass with my hand. ‘Ian will drop you home when he gets in,’ Jo says.
I don’t need any more persuading than that. The alcohol is taking effect and some of the tautness has eased from my shoulders. I can easily cycle over to pick up my car tomorrow.
‘Come on, let’s take this through to the living room. You can choose the movie.’
We sink into the sofa and wrap the throws around ourselves. But rather than deciding on a film, we continue to talk.
‘So, in other news – sort of – the headmaster has postponed the official reopening of the sports centre,’ Jo says. ‘Indefinitely.’
‘Oh.’ Why’s Jo telling me this? I honestly couldn’t give a toss. I’ve got other things on my mind. And what does she mean, ‘sort of’? ‘Why’s that, then?’ I ask, trying to inject a modicum of interest into my voice.
She doesn’t answer and I sense an awkwardness now. Jo regrets bringing this up.
‘Jo? What’s going on?’ I still don’t get why she has mentioned this, but she now has my undivided attention.
‘The headmaster had invited Richard Knoll to come to the school for the reopening of the sports centre at the beginning of the school year. They’d organized basketball matches and a fencing tournament and so on for the occasion.’
At the sound of his name, my fingers curl into fists. ‘You make him sound like the guest of honour.’
‘I mean, he was, in a way.’
