Page 52

I let another loud, defeated groan reverberate out of me as I tried to process everything.

‘Angus, before we go any further with this conversation, I need you to really carefully consider your actions. Like, really think about it. Both the best and worst-case scenarios of this end up with you going to prison.’

‘But would it help Fran?’

‘It’s not certain, Angus…’

‘Would it help Fran?’ he interrupted, clearly irritated by my attempts to get him to evaluate how drastically his life would change if he went through with this.

‘To be completely honest, it wouldn’t exactly harm her case. Given our current situation, it’s hard to imagine things getting much worse for her.’

I didn’t need to say any more than that for him to stay the course.

But if we were going to do this, we’d need a detailed story for Angus to stick to from his confession, all the way up to his trial.

We’d have to make notes on any discrepancy, any slight inconsistency that could incriminate all three of us, and Angus would have to stick to it like gospel.

He would need to paint himself as a villain – that was for sure – while Fran would have to have been blackmailed or threatened to cover up the murders and dispose of all the various evidence.

Sadly, I thought a jury would buy that part of the story.

Two kids raised by the system would make easy targets.

‘Before we do anything,’ I said calmly, ‘let me make a few calls and see the lay of the land.’

‘What do you mean?’ Angus asked, clearly frustrated by the lack of a straightforward solution and obviously unaware of how low my morals had stooped.

‘If you’re set on going to prison, then let me check if a psychiatric unit or something similar is an option.

You’d have more protection and better treatment there, because’ – I felt like I didn’t need to mince my words around him, either – ‘I don’t know if you’d last a day in a Category A prison, Angus. ’

I wasn’t trying to be mean; I was attempting to help him, although I couldn’t shake the feeling I was semi-reluctantly leading a lamb to the slaughter.

Quietly, I pulled out my phone, ready to ask Vivian for one last favour.

‘So, are you sure?’ I asked Angus one more time for good measure as the phone began ringing.

‘Absolutely. Fran would do the same for me in a heartbeat.’

‘I’m just,’ I said, one hand on the ringing phone and the other pulling through my hair and watching countless strands float down to the floor, ‘trying to think of any legal way we could get justice for Fran, for you, after everything they did.’

‘You think we can rely on the justice system for people to get what they deserve?’

I was desperately trying to stay awake while I drove Angus to the bus stop in silence.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had properly slept since Fran’s arrest. We went through every line of his testimony and every detail of his story, racking our brains to make sure there was nothing we’d missed.

The history Fran had always hidden from me, the ‘it’s not trauma if you don’t remember it’ comments, it had all been so vague and unclear before.

But now I knew exactly what Fran and Angus had gone through, and I finally understood why Fran had done it.

I didn’t agree with it, of course, but I understood why.

While I told Angus that it would probably be fine for me to drop him to the police station, he pointed out that we didn’t want anything that could insinuate a conspiracy between us.

We went over his story a few more times in the car, and I told him to keep details sparse, and not elaborate on anything until he had a lawyer.

Angus would take the fall for everything; he was the one that had killed Macleod and O’Neill, but couldn’t let his sister go down for his crimes.

A last-minute confession. It was tenuous at best, but a guilty plea with a tenuous story was a far stronger case than declaring not guilty and flirting with the burden of proof.

As for evidence, Angus already had O’Neill and Macleod’s rings, still with traces of their blood, which would probably do the trick.

I had spoken to Vivian, who had answered the phone almost instantly when I called, probably thinking I had changed the terms of our deal, which I guess I sort of had.

I told her that she was about to have a new patsy and that when she was called to testify in Angus’s trial, she would recommend a psychiatric unit for Angus to serve out his sentence, otherwise an incriminating email may just find its way into a reporter’s inbox.

While she was quick to remind me that she had no power over that decision, I knew her words would carry weight in court.

It was something, at least, to make what was left of my conscience feel a little reassured about letting Angus go through with this, but all of it felt morally dubious at best.

‘Just keep to the main bullet points. They’re going to search all over it to try and find a weak spot, but if you stay succinct and keep your words short, there’s less for them to pull apart, okay?’ I instructed as we approached the bus stop.

‘Okay,’ was all Angus said to me. Like he was a teenager I had just finished nagging about his homework.

‘It’s not that much of a plan, really,’ I murmured, mostly to myself.

‘A bad plan is better than no plan,’ Angus quietly said back to me. His initial hope and excitement had faded, as if he was now realising what he was actually committing to.

I don’t even know why I was expecting more than the simple ‘Thanks’ he said before getting out the car and then sitting on the small bench at the bus stop, his hands resting neatly on his thighs.

I had expected a handshake, or maybe even a hug.

But no, he just sat there in silence, avoiding any eye contact while I wrestled to find the bite of the clutch.

As I drove back, part of me wondered if Angus would actually go through with it.

Another part wondered if the Germans had thought of a word to sum up shared feelings of both guilt and hope.

But I figured that my situation seemed too niche for any language.

The next morning, I rallied enough strength to have a shower.

Perhaps it was the fact that I finally had something to feel moderately positive about, as minuscule an opportunity as it might be.

It felt slightly emasculating to be sitting down in the shower the whole time, but standing up seemed sort of superfluous anyway.

I no longer had the energy to be on my feet for long without feeling lethargic.

My hair, which had become matted, knotty and greasy, seemed that it would never become clean, no matter how much shampoo I slapped on and swirled around my scalp.

Although I tried to resist, I kept thinking about Angus and what was happening right now, whilst scrubbing myself to the bone.

Had Angus really turned himself in? Was he now in custody?

What was even the procedure in cases like this?

Did they just stop the trial completely?

After a while, I realised that I had spent close to twenty minutes letting myself catastrophise. The hot water was quickly becoming cool, so I exited the shower, towelled myself off and walked out the bathroom to the bedroom.

I had had several voicemails from Andrew in the last half hour, telling me there had been a drastic change in the case, and that he would keep me posted and let me know ASAP if it was good news.

He had something of an upbeat tone, which made my heart flutter a little.

Did he think there was a chance? Had mine and Angus’s plan actually worked?

Only ten minutes later, he sent me a text:

She’s out.

Before I had a moment to process, Mep, who had been continuously getting stronger over the past few days, emitted a small, rattly mew to let me know someone was approaching the door. Sure enough, I heard the doorbell ring a few seconds later.

Surely that wasn’t Fran already?

I threw on Fran’s pink fluffy dressing gown, the only clothing that I had within my reach, dragged it over my chest, tied up the ribbon and quickly trudged my way downstairs to throw open the door.

But as I jerked the handle down and swung the door open, I didn’t see my wife, but a balding, middle-aged man. Steve.

He must have seen how my face dropped in disappointment, as he seemed to almost recoil at my change of expression. His eyes then glanced down to the rather vibrant shade of pink I had wrapped around me.

‘Hello, Steve.’ I tried to keep my face as stern as possible, not letting it turn into the same colour as I was wearing.

His face almost cracked into a laugh, but he stopped and steadied himself, as if he had suddenly remembered the seriousness of the situation.

Deep down, I could tell he wanted to make some kind of wisecrack, but instead, he silently passed me a supermarket carrier bag.

Inside, in a Ziplock bag, was the Nesmuk knife that Fran and I had received as our wedding present.

The potential murder weapon. Wait, let’s not kid ourselves – the murder weapon.

‘I called up some of our friends and asked around. CCTV spotted a car coming to pick Clark up. He’s gone up north. The car is registered to this address.’

Steve reached out and passed me a small, folded-up piece of paper that was Dora the Explorer branded.

He must have seen the confusion washing over my face.

‘It was the only paper I had available,’ he justified, looking at me as if I was one to talk. ‘I’m going to give this information to Vivian at 9 a.m. tomorrow, which gives you the rest of the day to do what you need to do.’

I unfurled the piece of paper to look at the address. I didn’t even recognise the post code, but knew if it began with a D, chances were it was past Birmingham. At least a two-hour drive away.