idiot who killed his wife and went on TV to beg for help in ‘catching the bastard’ always makes the same mistake – their dialogue is too prepared. Sandwich the lies between truths – I was on a hen weekend, Craig did call me from Amsterdam to say he’d been arrested, he did habitually use pot to relax. Then the lies.
5) Co-operation – do everything they say without hesitation.
The detective leading the investigation, DI Nnedi Géricault from the Major Crime Investigation Unit in Bristol, interviews me with DS Tubby Guy from Grease. The blond guy dons gloves and snoops around the flat. They have had to get a warrant which is presumably why they have taken so long to get here. Thank Fuck.
‘Do what you need to,’ I say, still in utter shock and bewilderment, fiddling with the solitaire on my fourth finger.
I tell them I’m pregnant and that I have high blood pressure – a half-truth so they’ll treat me with kid gloves. Works like a charm.
‘We’ll keep it brief today as clearly it must be a stressful time for you,’ says Géricault.
‘I can’t believe it,’ I keep repeating. ‘Please tell me this is a mistake.’
If there’s one thing I’ve always been able to do well, it’s cry on demand. I learnt from an early age that people soften when you turn on the waterworks – nothing too dramatic, just some light sobbing at the right moment and you’re laughing.
Internally, of course.
‘I’ve known the guy for four years,’ I wail. ‘I live with him. I sleep in the same bed as him. I’m having his baby. How the hell is he supposed to have killed three people behind my back? It makes no sense.’
‘Would you like some water?’ Géricault offers, motioning to the blond in the kitchen. She has a couple of fingers missing on her left hand – the fourth and fifth are stumps. I wonder if they’ll find AJ’s blood spatter in the grouting. You’ll only see it if you’re looking for it. And this isn’t a crime scene.
Yet.
‘How long will this take?’ I ask, glass shaking in my adrenalized grip.
DS Tubby Guy from Grease says ‘It’ll take as long as it takes.’ I’m so thankful I pay my taxes to keep his ass in cheap suits.
As it turns out they stay around two hours forty minutes. They ask all sorts of questions – questions they already know the answers to, like where Craig is right now and where his van is and even questions about my dad’s well-documented vigilantism.
‘Craig didn’t know my dad for long. He didn’t know about what he did in his spare time. He wasn’t one of them.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asks Géricault.
‘I guess I can’t,’ I shrug. And they ask no more about it.
They say I’ll need to move out for a while. I inform them that Craig’s parents Jim and Elaine have said I can stay with them. They take Craig’s laptop and his pot in evidence bags, some of our kitchen knives (not the Sabatiers of course as those babies were hidden in advance) and his spare tool box from the cupboard outside our bedroom.
‘Some people are experts at hiding what they are,’ says Géricault as they are leaving. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ She nods and holds my stare.
It’s clear from this meeting that Craig’s in the frame. I’m a key witness at best; the pregnant, scared girlfriend of a man who was, by day, a mild-mannered builder – by night a vicious, apex predator. They’d got the bastard.
*Gordon Ramsay clap* DONE.
*
So, I guess now you want to know about the old choppy-choppy? Well, it was the messiest, most nauseating thing I’ve ever done. God, when I think how easy it was for murderers in the olden days. All you had to do was lace someone’s tobacco with arsenic or push them in the Thames. They rarely caught people like me back then – sudden death was usually down to ‘The Pox’. Now you’ve got to do all this dismembering and fingerprint-hiding shit.
First I had to make a list for Homebase –
• rubber gloves (1 box)
• plastic sheeting and/or cling film (lots)
• shovel (1)
• bleach (2 bottles, possibly 3)
• duct tape (3 rolls)
• cleaning sponges (several)
• electric power saw and/or bow saw (1 of each).
How did I know what to get? My dad was a vigilante – kids pick these things up.
Then I scrubbed out rubber gloves, bleach and sponges from the Homebase list and decided to get them in Lidl so it wouldn’t look like I was doing a supermarket sweep for dismembering tools. I also added Penguins, Kettle Chips, oil and elderflower pressé. Lies sandwiched between truths.
Annoyingly, Craig’s power saw – a bloody expensive one he’d bought with his Screwfix vouchers – was still in his van which is, as I write, being impounded by police in Amsterdam. I therefore had to buy a new one.
The guy I pounced upon in the masonry paint aisle at Homebase – Ranjit – was only too happy to help. I played my Dumbass Girly Girl role to the hilt, saying the saw was Hubby’s birthday gift and that he ‘wanted to get started on our decking pronto’. Ranjit had just the tool – a power saw. I chose the Makita FG6500S with dust guard and free goggles for two reasons:
1) it cut through wood like butter and
2) it was the quietest.
I bought my bits and pieces, got it all back to Whittaker’s flat and set everything up in her bathroom. It took ages. And then doubt crept in. What if someone heard the saw? What if Jonathan and his folks returned early from the zoo? What if one of Whittaker’s friends popped by just as I’m up to my elbows in Australian long pig? It was getting on for four o’clock. I needed to see what the situation was outside my own private abattoir.
I dressed in my most girly outfit, brushed my hair so it went all Doris Day and grabbed the spare set of Craig’s keys. Up and down the hallway I went like the fucking Avon lady, knocking on doors asking if they’d been dropped in the lift. Only three families were in on Whittaker’s floor – the gays with the cats, the couple in wheelchairs and Leafblower Ron and Shirley who were watching TV and eating haddock and mash judging by the smell.
It wasn’t ideal but I had to chance it. Saw and be damned.
You can do it, Mummy. I believe in you.
When I started, I kept seeing his face flash across my mind. His eyes. His smile. The moment he told me he loved me.
I had to keep telling myself ‘It’s only a dead pig. The pig was a bad, bad pig’ and threw a tea towel over its face when it was staring. ‘I don’t like being blackmailed by a lanky dead Australian pig.’
But
