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‘Right, well. I obtained the disclosure from the police. They’ve arrested you on suspicion of the murder of Gordon O’Neill on what the police are estimating as the date of death to be the tenth of September.

The good news is that they don’t have anything concrete against you.

It’s what I like to call a finger-food case: lots of little crumbs, but nothing really substantial. ’

I nodded. I was sure this was something he told all the girls.

‘From what I can see, Fran, you’ve been the model defendant.

Your last encounter with Gordon O’Neill was you trying to help him.

There’s no motive for you to attack him, no criminal record, nothing for you to gain from Gordon’s death.

There’s no trace of a murder weapon. I mean, you put the man’s bins out, for crying out loud. What kind of murderer does that?’

‘So, what do they have on me? Why have I been arrested? Must be more than a reasonable doubt?’

‘Between you and me, sounds like the police needed to make an arrest for the case. Superiors were afraid of the media frenzy that could be drummed up. Not sure if you knew this, but this O’Neill guy?

Man was a fraudster. What they’re going to try and charge you with is the video footage of your last visit to O’Neill, traces of you in the house, and a passer-by that claims to have seen a woman matching your description throwing body parts in the river.

That last one is the clincher. So, to conclude: you’re not the one who did it, but you’re the one they think is most likely to have done it. ’

I scoffed, somewhat relieved. One, he hadn’t mentioned Angus or his ‘I’ll kill you’ note, which was one of the many worries I had floating around my head.

Two, he had been paid to believe me. It may have been delusional, but it was slightly comforting to have someone on my side.

Three, it looks like they hadn’t discovered any of O’Neill’s appendages; that was probably a nice aperitif for a school of trout.

‘Well, that’s barely anything. How can they pin this on me?’

‘I’m sure you remember Thomas Macleod, that man who died seven or so years ago –nasty murder. Well, he and O’Neill were friends, which makes you a link to the two murders. Definition of wrong place, wrong time, if you ask me. But that doesn’t make you guilty. Just very unlucky.’

‘So, how will you spin it?’ I asked, hoping I was using the lingo right.

‘I think an act of neighbourly goodwill shouldn’t make you a suspect to murder,’ said Andrew, leaning back in his chair casually and tapping his pencil against the edge of the desk like a kid in class.

‘But your past isn’t ideal. Raised in the system – being in care generally predicts higher adult criminality.

You’re the perfect scapegoat for the CPS, I’m afraid. ’

What a lovely way to put it. I felt so glad I wasn’t being pigeonholed.

‘Do I get bail?’

Andrew looked solemn. He took a sharp breath and then grew increasingly shamefaced as he began to speak, like he was about to tell me Fluffy the dog had died right before Christmas.

‘No. I’m sorry to say that you’ll be held at a prison on remand until the trial. Bear in mind, this is only if they charge you. They could be looking through their notes now and realising they don’t have enough to pin this on you. So, let’s just cross our fingers.’

They charged me.

We were led into another room, where Andrew and I sat on one end of the desk, and Cecilia and this CPS lawyer sat on the other. I wondered if she was Isla: a slim, beautiful, tall brunette with a stunning balayage, sitting quietly as Cecilia recounted the allegations.

Andrew, and the woman I presumed to be Isla, seemed to have some history.

They sparred verbally for a bit, my confidence only knocked when Andrew abruptly backed down as the woman began listing all the times she had won cases against him.

I wasn’t listening to most of what was being said, but I knew the features of an oh shit face all too well.

Andrew had told me that mentally shutting down may actually be a good thing, and that I should respond with a ‘no comment’ unless it was a name, date of birth, or address question. Those, I could answer.

‘It lets us get our ducks in a row,’ he said to me, an expression he was repeating with grating regularity.

I saw maybe-Isla and Cecilia whispering to each other in the hallway, after the interview.

They stopped as soon as they spotted me being led out of the room by Paul.

Both of them looked on with part sneers, part pity as I was steered across the hallway and back into my cell – I mean, suite. My very, very nice suite.

The magistrates’ hearing the next day was quick.

I gave my name, my date of birth and then my address – the new one, although it did make me wonder if I had changed it on my banking statement.

I was told by the clerk that I was charged with the murder of Gordon O’Neill on 10 September.

I was then told I would be remanded in custody.

The whole thing only took two minutes before I was led back out again.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought I might have spotted Gareth in the gallery, nestled right at the back.

The figure was too far up and too obscured in shadow for me to really see.

It was then that I realised that I had almost completely disconnected from any kind of reality.

I couldn’t tell what day it was, where I was, or where even I was going next.

But it was probably better this way. Besides, Gareth hadn’t even been able to look at me when I’d been arrested; clearly he had gone beyond any kind of care for me.

I looked down at my wedding ring, thinking about the vows we had said to each other five years ago, and wondered if he was still wearing his.