Page 36

EIGHTEEN

FRAN

‘It’s not prison yet, actually. You’re going to be held at a police custody suite.’

That’s what Steve told me, unperturbed, as he and Cecilia led me out of the car, each placing a hand around one of my arms as we walked towards the entrance of the station.

‘You’re not going to handcuff me?’

‘Only if you try to run,’ Cecilia snapped facetiously. I didn’t find that even a little bit funny.

I walked past Judith at the front desk, who did a double take. Here I was, the lady who was always bringing in food for her husband, now flanked by two police officers.

‘Afternoon, Judith,’ Steve said as we walked past her.

Judith didn’t say anything back, just looked at me slack jawed as I was walked through the lobby.

They led me down the staircase into the station basement.

I tried to fool myself into thinking that this was me booking myself into a really shitty hotel, but just for the night.

Like a really old Travelodge, or an Ibis found on a last-minute booking website.

We entered a large, fluorescent-lit suite with peeling, faded cream walls.

There was another policeman sitting behind a long grey barricade for a desk.

He tucked his lips inwards and gave the same non-smile I had seen reserved for work colleagues and fake friends.

‘Afternoon, Paul.’

‘Afternoon, Steve.’

Paul looked like something out of a rogues’ gallery.

He had a small, weaselly face with tiny eyes, protruding front teeth and a long nose.

But the minute he opened his mouth, a soft, thick south Welsh accent emerged.

I could barely take the man seriously. I almost wanted to compliment him on how terrifying he looked, yet how wonderful he sounded.

The man could narrate the dictionary to me, and I would be hooked on every word.

Paul, who informed me he was the custody sergeant, began to go on about the duty scheme where a lawyer would be provided for me if I did not have one.

He then handed me a leaflet regarding my rights while I was detained here, going deep into the minutiae.

He must have recited all this a thousand times before.

I let his words fade into the sound of the loud droning hum of the lights, telling myself that this was just a brief overview of the packages available during my stay.

It was an awful shame they didn’t have Wi-Fi.

The price you paid for a cheap room, I guess.

A flurry of questions was asked, but after a while I realised I could just use no as the default answer.

‘Have you got any medical conditions?’

‘No.’

‘Are you currently on any medication?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever been a member of the armed forces?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever tried to harm yourself?’

‘No.’

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Like I want to yank out my long intestine and hang myself with it.’

I said the joke more for my benefit than Paul’s, just to break the monotony. He only frowned and wrinkled his forehead.

‘Ooh, a joker, are you? We have a lot of them.’

I thought about retorting back to him. I had approximately nine up my sleeve. But then I reminded myself where I was. This would be the guy bringing me my meals for at least the next day, so it seemed easier to just play nice with him.

He told me I would be in room number eight. The nicest, according to Paul, though I wasn’t so sure. Cecilia and Steve left just after Paul took my phone and purse, the only things I had left on me. He showed me into suite number eight, and I was given a buzzer to ring the front desk.

‘You want to press,’ he said, pausing for a moment, ‘and hold. Look at me, look at me, please. You press and hold, and that will call right through to the front desk if you have any urgent problems or concerns.’

‘What counts as a problem or concern? Poo won’t flush?’

Paul sighed and scowled again, a now-signature Paul expression. We were going to be pals, I just knew it.

‘Like you’re puking up and going to die. That would be a more appropriate time to ring the buzzer.’

Paul left, telling me he would be back soon, heaving the thick steel door shut with a clank. There I was, alone, in a three-by-three-metre room in the basement of the police station.

The suite was tiled in the same cream as the reception.

The one long blue accent tile strip circling it was a chic touch.

Have you ever sat on a bed in jail? It felt like the kind of crash mats you used to throw yourself around on in Key Stage 2 PE.

I tried to get comfortable, but I began to think that the floor may be less scratchy against my skin.

I wondered what Gareth was thinking right now.

Was he still at home? I knew he liked to play the grizzled cop at work, but there was some rage in him when we argued that I had never seen before, it was like I didn’t recognise the man who looked like my husband roaring at me.

Would he be fixed, frozen in the same position that I’d last seen him, or maybe sobbing to himself in the corner of the living room?

Maybe he wasn’t thinking anything. Or maybe he just thought: case closed, done and dusted .

It just so happened that his wife was the murderer this time.

Why had he not even looked at me?

Being arrested and my marriage probably coming to an end within a single day certainly marked one of my worst on record, not to mention the recent revelation of my near-barren state – a fact still unknown to my soon-to-be-ex-husband.

In an attempt to find some relaxation, I pushed myself back onto a mattress that felt like I was lying on frozen marble.

I tried to get back into my happy place. It was important at times like these not to give in to melancholy, and to concentrate on manifesting a brilliant future. For example, how was I going to kill Clark?

Presumably, bail would be coming up for me.

That seemed the perfect time to strike. If Gareth was done with me and I was going to prison, then it didn’t really matter if it was on one, two or three counts of murder.

I would probably be in there until the arthritis started kicking in anyway.

I had to find a way to kill Clark that would be quick and easy, but not too fast. That had been the problem with Macleod and O’Neill’s deaths.

I didn’t think they’d even really had time to register what was happening to them. To be honest, neither had I.

Again, essential reminder for you: not a psychopath.

I refused to let myself cry or sob or feel self-pity.

The survival instinct had kicked in at this point.

So instead, I sat on the cold floor, running through the murders of Macleod and O’Neill, and how I could use what I’d learned from them to take out Clark.

It must have been a few hours into me being lost in my thoughts when I heard Paul’s beautiful voice echo through the room.

‘What would you like for dinner, Mrs Donoghue? The people in suites four and five want korma and tikka masala. Be great if you could get some Indian, too.’

Was he for real? Was this the moment where Paul would then spit in my porridge and fling it through the hatch? Did you get takeaway in remanded custody?

‘Ummm, I’ll have the jalfrezi, please?’ I said hesitantly, waiting for the punchline.

‘Oh, that’s brave,’ Paul replied. ‘Glad you have your own toilet.’

An hour or so later, the hatch on the door opened and a jalfrezi emerged, with a paper napkin that Paul had neatly placed a knife and fork on.

I wasn’t really hungry, but if I kept fooling myself into thinking that this was just for the night, I thought I could maybe get something down.

It was a vile, disgusting excuse for a jalfrezi.

Rather than being from the local takeaway, it had clearly just been ordered in bulk from a wholesaler.

I wished I’d asked Paul what the other options were.

I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up to Paul asking me to stand away from the door. He waddled in with a tray containing a protein bar, banana and a carton of orange juice. It was too few items for the space on the tray, so they had been spread out across it.

‘Can’t eat bananas,’ was the first thing I said.

Paul recoiled his head, exasperated.

‘Well, how the hell do you get your potassium, then?’

I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly as I snatched the orange juice carton, plucked up the straw, and pretended to stab myself in the wrist.

Any sympathy that Paul may have had for me with my potassium deficiency was quickly squashed. He just shook his head disappointedly.

‘You really think you’re the first one to make that joke?’ Paul said with sheer, utter, unadulterated disappointment. ‘Eat up and drink up. Your lawyer is here.’

I tried to connect myself to the reality of the situation, but, starting from my arrest, this whole process had felt like some kind of haunted house ride.

Paul led me into a glorified broom cupboard as another man – slicked-back black hair, mid-fifties, a little short and slightly overweight – snatched my hand up and shook it.

‘Francesca, nice to meet you. Andrew Shorestone, Bark & Moore solicitors.’

‘You’re not one of those duty solicitors, are you?’

‘No, I’m not. Your husband called me yesterday afternoon, told me that you had just been brought in, and arranged to have me meet you here.’

I didn’t quite know how to feel about all this. Was it a good or bad sign that Gareth was doing this for me?

‘First of all, have you been offered a phone call, or is there anybody you need me to ring on your behalf?’

‘No. To both.’

Andrew stopped shuffling through his papers, surprised at my answer.

‘You sure? Your husband? Mum? Dad? Siblings?’

All things I did not have.

‘No, I’m okay,’ I said, as indifferently as I could.