‘OK, Jonah, we need to start spinning this – and spinning it in a direction that helps you,’ said Carol. ‘How do you feel about doing a feature on your past with a journalist friend of mine? I promise she’ll treat you fairly.’
Jonah sat back on the sofa, reflecting how much had changed in the past few hours. From a bare interview room, he was sitting in a boutique hotel not far from Baker Street station. The room was furnished in red velvet like a nineteenth century whorehouse, though with the address maybe they were trying more for a Sherlock Holmes vibe? If so, they missed. They should’ve gone with greens and browns for that. He knew what his expected role was here though, just as he understood what the police had wanted from him and he’d withheld it. Everyone wanted his story.
‘I’m happy to do anything you suggest, Carol,’ said Jonah. ‘But how does it help to get my past out in the media again?’
‘It’s already out there. What do you think the press has been doing for the last thirty-six hours?’ She paced by the window, probably to get away from his tobacco smoke. He’d do a lot for Carol, but this was something he couldn’t give up. His last addiction, even if against hotel rules. ‘What works in our favour is that the news cycle is ready for a new phase, having exhausted the “we told you so” angle.’
‘“We told you so”?’ He leaned his head back and blew a plume of smoke into the air.
‘Yeah, it’s amazing how many people suddenly claim to have predicted that employing a guy so soon after he came out of prison was a mistake. That’s the leopard-can’t-change-his-spots people who occupy the right-wing tabloids and morning chat show sofas. Don’t worry about them: when it’s proved you’re innocent, they’ll swing right round to spout the opposite. No one’ll blink an eye.’
‘Fine. I’ll be guided by you then.’
Carol paused by the room service tray and poured herself a tea. ‘Want a top up? I can order something stronger if you like?’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot. That’s good though. And how many days sober?’
‘Eight-hundred and forty-eight.’
She topped up his tea, forgetting he hadn’t said yes. ‘That’s great, Jonah.’
‘You know sober means drugs, don’t you? I haven’t drunk alcohol for much longer. I didn’t like what it did to me.’ Drink had made him mean, particularly with women.
She obviously hadn’t known, but she tried to cover it. ‘Still good.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and she sat down. ‘Let’s get to what you might say then. The police let you go with no charges?’
‘Correct.’ He liked that word: so powerful.
‘There was no evidence to connect you to either attack?’
‘Correct. The first one was something that blew up between Bridget and Jenny – nothing to do with me.’ Though it had been, of course. It was true though that he hadn’t been in Jenny’s bedroom when the confrontation between the two women had taken place. He’d been downstairs doing the equivalent of putting his fingers in his ears and whistling, knowing that no good would come of him intervening. ‘The second wasn’t a real attack at all when she came at me. I think it was a desperate call for help before she collapsed from her overdose. She couldn’t breathe for herself – that’s a side effect of too much Fentanyl. I was just the unlucky bugger who caught her.’
‘So do you know why the women were fighting? It seems very odd. I mean, it’s come out, of course, that Jenny is an addict. Did Bridget get in her face about this? It had to be hard for her having that in the house with her own problems.’ Carol was spinning her fictitious scenario, persuading herself by her own replay of that night. ‘Did she threaten to throw her out and Jenny refuse to leave?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there. You should suggest your journalist friend interviews her too, get the full picture.’ He began rolling a new cigarette.
‘Who?’
‘Either. Whichever one is in a position to communicate.’ He licked down the edge of the paper but held off lighting it. ‘The police didn’t keep me in the loop over their condition. The overdose was a serious one though. I’m not sure she’s conscious yet.’
Carol made a note. ‘I’ll see what I can find out. Jenny has a mother, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes. Nikki Groves. A violin teacher in Harlow.’
‘And Bridget? Who does she have?’
Jonah rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Bridget? I don’t think she has anyone.’