twenty-seven

“It’s small.”

“Compact,” I countered. It was, after all, a studio flat.

“Hmm,” Monica said, sounding as doubtful as she looked.

I’d picked her up from The Battledown and driven over to Pittville, a leafy, genteel residential area north of the town centre.

The tour lasted minutes. It probably took us longer to walk across the drive to the chocolate box house and ascend the stairs to the top floor apartment than it did to view the accommodation. White bathroom suite. Large bedsitting room with kitchen off and laminate wood flooring throughout. Standard fare. Comfortable and functional. More bachelor pad than middle-aged singleton, but it came free.

“It’s not forever. A temporary move until you get sorted.”

She gave me one of those heard it all before looks. “I spoke to Luke last night,” she said, breezy with it, in what I thought was a calculated divide and rule move. “He thinks I’d be better off nearer the shops.”

I didn’t point out that Luke had no knowledge of Cheltenham. “This is fine for now, particularly as you aren’t paying a penny for it.”

“Apart from council tax and utility bills.”

“Which everyone pays, Monica.” I pressed the keys into her hand. “You can move straight in.” She viewed them with wary disdain. I was railroading her and she knew it. “Did you speak to Niven?” I said casually.

“I was informed she’s on a rest day. I spoke to the sergeant.”

“Holst?”

“He said that I might be able to collect a few things if I have a police officer with me.”

“Progress. Did he say anything else?”

“Only that they needed to talk to me again.”

“Did he say why?”

“No.”

Worrying. Second formal interviews were designed to tie you in knots, to find holes and contradictions in original statements. Best advice would be to state the minimum. I told this to Monica, who looked at me as if I were being overly dramatic. I thought again about Gavin. “Did they say when?”

“Thursday at eleven a.m.”

I briefly closed my eyes. I really couldn’t take off any more time from work. She picked up on it.

“It’s all right. I can manage. I’ll go on the train and get a taxi the other end, saves all that messing about with trying to park the car.”

I was sure she didn’t mean it but every time she opened her mouth it felt like a criticism. “I’d feel happier if you weren’t on your own,” I said.

“It can’t be helped.” She presented a picture of injured pride and get over it petulance.

“What if you had some form of legal representation?”

“We’ve already discussed it.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her sensible coat. Matter closed.

“What harm would it do to make a phone call?” I aimed for a softly encouraging tone, to which her firm response was to cross her arms.

“I don’t understand why you’re so reluctant,” I said in frustration.

Her eyes flashed with fire. “If you’d been at the butt end of solicitor’s letters, you’d understand why.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t see—”

“You can’t possibly understand. You’ve never been in my situation. You have no idea what it’s like to have your name dragged through dirt, to be told you’re an unfit mother, that you’re unstable, to have the law make decisions about your future and to hell with what you think.”

“I—”

“What forces do you think drove your father?” Her voice soared and roared. Before I had a chance to respond, she was all over me with an answer. “Revenge, Kim, and he used his lawyers like attack dogs against me.”

Walk. Just walk out of here. Let me disappear through the walls, vanish among the trees, find somewhere nobody can see me. I actually don’t know what happened next. I think I stuttered something about me being late and needing to go home.

Crashing gears, I drove back to the guesthouse in a trance, Monica unhinged beside me. When she climbed out without a word I felt a shard of fear embed itself deep in my heart. We didn’t say goodbye.

Safe inside home territory, I locked the door behind me, went straight to the fridge, resisted the wine, and poured myself a soft drink. The cola sloshed about as I brought the glass to my lips and opened my mouth and swallowed. Bubbles fizzed unpleasantly down my throat and up my nose. Monica’s hostile attitude towards the judiciary and the law provided the perfect motivation for murder.

Standing in the kitchen, still dressed in my jacket and outdoor shoes, I thought the unthinkable. Was I helping a killer?