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‘Sorry,’ he tried to say, spraying small chocolate flakes everywhere in the process. I twisted my head to avoid having to witness the unflattering sight.

Cecilia took a seat next to him, opposite me, with a longer-than-average desk between us.

She offered me a glass of water and I politely declined, as Steve was scrambling frantically to get the recorder working.

He repeatedly pushed a button, but I could see a small logo flashing on the opposite side of the device.

I didn’t want Cecilia to think I was scared, so I just continued to half-heartedly smile in her general direction.

Lord, I’d forgotten how much I disliked her.

Everything about her reeked of a Machiavellian character.

Even on the dreadful board game night Gareth and I had attempted with her and her partner at the time a few years ago, everything from her comments on the food to the way she’d won at Risk had felt cunning and duplicitous.

But just covert enough for her actions to come across as genuine.

She was someone I could never really get my finger on.

‘How’s Mep?’ Cecilia asked, sensing that my mind was elsewhere.

‘Oh, Mep? The cat. His consistent screeching makes every day an absolute delight,’ I remarked, avoiding her gaze as I kept my eyes fixed on the lone window in the interrogation room.

‘I’ve always meant to ask: what does Mep mean, as a name?’

‘It’s a nickname,’ I said, not willing to expand.

‘Of?’

‘Mephistopheles.’

‘The demon?’

‘Yeah.’

‘From Doctor Faustus ?’

‘Well, he was from German folklore first.’

‘Yeah, but you know, he’s more generally known from Doctor Faustus .’

‘Ah, well, tell a German that,’ I fired back. Who did she think she was, trying to tell me who I’d named my cat after? I mean, it was after the demon from Doctor Faustus , but she shouldn’t make those kinds of assumptions.

‘It’s working!’ Steve said proudly, holding his trophy aloft before quietly placing it back down on the table.

They gave me the spiel that Gareth had already briefed me on.

That I wasn’t here as a suspect; I was here as a person of interest. There was no evidence against me that would implicate me as a potential suspect, and that I would need to sign some form at the end that may be used in court.

Just when I thought Cecilia was done talking, she then went on to tell me I could walk out and leave at any time, and I didn’t have to answer any questions, and they just wanted for it to be a friendly chat to find out a bit more about the case.

‘So, Fran,’ Cecilia said after they had finished the preamble. ‘Why don’t you tell us the events of Saturday the tenth, as accurately as you can.’

Listen. I am not a psychopath, sociopath or any other kind of crazy murderer freak. This is something I feel I’ve been quite transparent about. That being said, I know what I am about to explain to you is very much full psycho-killer, so please bear me with on this.

‘Sure, of course. It was a few weeks ago now, so I apologise if I get anything wrong. But we had only moved in for about a month or so at that point, and I had met Gordon a few times. He’s a quiet and reserved man.’

I made sure to refer to him in the present tense, to cover all my bases.

I let my voice quiver just a little bit.

I’d leave the tears for now; last time, it had worked a treat, but I had to work my audience.

I interlaced my hands the same way Cecilia had and made sure to count five seconds of eye contact in my head for each person before switching to the other.

‘Then that Saturday, I was doing some bits in the kitchen, and I saw him get out of the taxi he’d taken to the supermarket, and I could see from my window he was struggling with his shopping.

So, I offered to help. Thought it might be a gesture of goodwill, you know?

He said something that sounded like a yes when I went out to ask him, so I did.

I carried the bags in, we took a few bags upstairs, left a few in the kitchen.

Then we had a chat that seemed to go on forever about the price of semi-skimmed milk, and then I took his rubbish out for him as I left. ’

In between that, I also drove a knife through his eye socket and cut his body up into pieces and disposed of it in the rubbish.

My mouth twitched. Like someone had just farted at a funeral. Don’t smile, Fran. For the love of God, don’t fucking smile .

‘And that was the extent of your interaction with Mr O’Neill?’ Steve asked.

‘I chatted to him for ages, it was just small talk. I wanted to make sure he was okay.’ I had my doe eyes deployed now; they always worked a treat. I let them well up a bit, to really drive the message home, still fighting the battle with my face to not let the smile make an appearance.

I could see both Cecilia and Steve were unconvinced. The doe eyes were not having the impact I wanted. I’d thought Steve would be a doddle, but he seemed very unmoved by my act. Maybe I was losing my edge as I approached my thirties.

‘Oh, and I cleaned up some milk, too, that he said he’d spilt the night before. He asked me if I wouldn’t mind as he didn’t have the knees for it.’

Was that a really bad move? It felt like a bad move. I don’t know why I felt the impulse to say it, but I just did. I begged and prayed they would buy it.

Steve just nodded. The way his eyes had flared when I mentioned the milk meant there was some recognition there, and I carefully watched him as he glanced downwards and shifted his body towards Cecilia, who took a big sigh inward and crossed her legs, placing her interlaced fingers upon her knee.

Gareth had told me about this interrogation technique.

They would wait and wait and wait until the witness continued to talk and babble, which would be when everything would come tumbling out.

No one can stand silences, not even guilty people.

But I could wait all day. I had daydreams and fantasies all prepared in my head for these very situations that I could get myself lost in.

‘Anything else happen while you were with O’Neill?

Anything of note he mentioned to you, even offhandedly?

’ Cecilia asked, following about thirty seconds of silence during which I was quite happily wondering if I could rent four cars to quarter and dismember Clark and the exact logistics involved with doing that.

‘You know an hour and a half is a long time to be in a house with a stranger, what else did you talk about?’ Cecilia asked.

Maybe Gareth thought this was just going to be a case of simple witness questioning. Maybe Cecilia thought differently.

‘Oh, well you should have heard him talk about the Neighbourhood Watch and besides, you ever tried to clean up milk out of Berber carpet?’ I asked. ‘Give it a go and get back to me.’

That was probably more aggressive than I’d intended, as I could see Cecilia almost wince at my response.

‘Fran. We feel like there may be more to this story than what you’re telling us.’

Gareth had told me this was a technique that they used.

Even if the witness was saying everything they knew, the interviewers would always throw that one out there to see if it would garner any kind of result.

But my body began to shift into survival mode again, the pumps in my brain churning out the adrenaline at a record rate, my limbic system was fully going buckaroo.

What if I said O’Neill had tried to touch me, maybe rape me, even, and then I had pushed him off me in a fit of rage and run back to my house, and then in all of his regret, he had killed himself?

That didn’t seem smart. Who would kill themselves by knife through the eye?

Stick to the plan , I kept thinking to myself.

Stick to the story that you’ve revisited and relived a hundred times at this point, and also don’t fucking smile.

‘I…did find him to be quite odd. Quite strange. But I’ve told you everything about my encounter with him. I helped him with his shopping, spoke to him for a bit, cleaned up some milk, put his bins out, and then left.’

‘And he said nothing to you about any travels or trips? Were there any signs he may have been planning to make a journey?’ Cecilia queried.

‘No.’

‘And you hadn’t seen him since then?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘And there was no suggestion that he was planning to hurt himself or put himself in any kind of danger?’

Not from himself .

‘Not that I can think of. I mean, you’re asking me all these questions, but I didn’t know the guy,’ I said, trying to really make sure I was looking both of them in the eye.

The two of them turned to look at each other and seemed to nod – some kind of small signal – as Cecilia reached deep into a briefcase and pulled out an A4 sheet with an image printed on it. She slid it across the table to me.

‘Do you recognise this person?’

I felt I could breathe a little easier when I saw from the shape of the figure that it definitely wasn’t me.

It was the shape of a man – a small, frail man.

I looked around the edges of the image and realised it was a screen capture from the video doorbell.

Beryl’s, I thought, the same one that I had obliterated, but the picture here was untainted by any shards of glass in the lens.

I squinted my eyes to try and work out who the figure was that was walking into O’Neill’s house, but I still couldn’t make it out.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t make out who it is from this,’ I said apologetically, moving the picture back across the table.

‘Look again,’ Cecilia said, gliding the paper back to me before I had even removed my hand. ‘Really take a long, hard look and see if it could be anyone you know.’

What was she getting at? What was she trying to get me to see?

I dragged the photo back to look at it again as decisively as I could.

Black jacket, small frame, dark hair. I pushed my face closer to the image until all I could see was my nose, wondering if this mysterious man was the suspected killer at the moment, my knight in shining armour?

Then it clicked, and I had to summon all the acting prowess that I could recall from GCSE Drama to push the photo back across the table one more time.

‘No, afraid I really don’t know who this is. I’m sorry.’

‘So, you really have no idea who may have wanted to cause harm to Mr O’Neill?

You don’t know anyone who would have been happy that he was killed?

’ Cecilia asked with a deeply mistrustful glare plastered on her face.

I could see from her eyes that she knew I was bullshitting, and I was starting to wonder if maybe I didn’t like Cecilia because she was a fantastic judge of character.

Did she know I killed O’Neill? Did she know I was the one they were after?

The one who had deviously killed the waste of human flesh and removed any trace of him.

Surely no one was that good a detective to have realised that little old me was the one to have slaughtered Gordon O’Neill?

Suddenly, Cecilia and Steve’s faces dropped, both slightly aghast, their expressions seeming to wrinkle up like they were disgusted by me.

Did I have a bogey? I lifted my hand to the small groove below my nose, but it was dry.

I followed their gaze, in case the problem was something behind me, but nothing.

Suddenly, it clicked.

I didn’t need to look in the mirror to see that, despite my best efforts, a sly smile had crept along my face.