Lana.’
‘But on New Year’s Eve at least, he was definitely with me.’
‘All night?’
‘Well no, but—’
‘Where were you, here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what time did he leave?’
‘After the bongs, about twelve-fifteen?’
‘The police said Daniel Wells was killed between midnight and four. I didn’t hear him come in.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘He said he was out with the boys on February twelfth. Gavin White was killed in the park around ten p.m. The boys said he nipped outside for a fag around that time. It’s possible is all I’m saying.’
‘Oh god. But that woman in the quarry. That wasn’t him, was it?’
‘I don’t know. They found evidence all over the scene.’
‘But he was in London, he couldn’t have killed her.’
‘I’m as stumped as you are,’ I said, catching sight of my lying face in her glass cabinet. ‘All I know is that I’m afraid. I’m afraid if they let him out, he will come after me for not giving him an alibi. He went a tiny bit Scarface because I said I wouldn’t lie for him.’
‘He’s asked me too.’
‘There you go,’ I said.
‘But I was with him on New Year’s. For a bit.’
‘You’ve got to let your conscience be your guide, Lana. I’ve got the baby to think about. What if he’s released and he hurts us?’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay well away from him.’
‘I haven’t seen him for weeks. I wouldn’t, not now.’
‘But you’re going to give him an alibi for New Year’s Eve?’
‘It’s not an alibi, it’s the truth.’
‘You were with him right up until he killed that man and severed his penis. What are the police going to make of that?’
She wringed her hands. ‘I can’t lie to the police.’
‘I’m not saying you should lie. You should think carefully before claiming he was with you all night. Because if he’s going down, he will bring you down too. That’s the kind of guy he is. I know it’s shocking but we have to protect ourselves. Craig’s capable of anything.’
*
I nipped into town after Lana’s to pick up some pregnancy vitamins and Gaviscon from Boots. Saw Claudia at the perfume counter. She didn’t see me.
My auntie Claudia!
I don’t miss the Gazette at all. Why would I? Why would I miss Claudia’s patronising orders and Ron’s letching, and downing tools every hour to make coffee for people too educationally far above me to make their own? Why would I miss the Cuntasaurus Rex Linus Sixgill and his excruciating attempts to be funny? And, for the record, I don’t give a shit that he wears an eye patch now – cancer doesn’t suddenly make an arsehole clean.
I miss the gonk from the top of my computer screen. That’s all I miss.
My daddy gave you that.
I also saw one of the PICSOs, Anni, pushing a buggy out of Debenhams. Anni and Pidge turned out to be quite good friends in the end – both of them went to the police separately to air their suspicions that Craig had been abusive – they’d seen bruises on me, told them of my evasive behaviour when asked about him. But of course, I had The Act to keep up – poor, manipulated, brainwashed girlfriend. Innocent victim. Deny, deny, deny. Pretty soon even they washed their hands of me. People I Can’t Scrape Off were officially – Scraped.
Anyway I managed to avoid both Anni and Claudia and I was so busy avoiding people I knew that I ran straight into someone I didn’t want to know.
Heather – aka the woman with the yellow scarf who I’d mistakenly rescued the night I killed two rapists in a quarry. Today the scarf was mauve. She caught up with me near the floral gardens.
‘Rhiannon?’ she said, eyes wide. Breathless. Hopeful? ‘Oh my gosh!’
‘No,’ I said feebly, switching direction from where I intended to go – the Cookie Cart – to the car park at the back of the big church and the relative safety of my car. She blocked my escape.
‘I’ve been hoping every day I might bump into you. Can we talk?’
I switched to the river path. She followed me, kept trying to converse.
‘I’ve been coming to the Gazette offices for weeks, hoping to catch you—’
‘I don’t work there anymore.’
‘I want to talk. Please, give me five minutes.’
‘No. I bloody knew I couldn’t trust you. Bugger off.’
She didn’t get the hint. Her foamy soles stalked me like the opening chords of ‘Billie Jean’. ‘Hear me out. I promise it won’t take long.’
I had visions of her mounting my bonnet, such was the fervour in her voice, so eventually we sat on a bench in the floral gardens, looking for all the world like two colleagues having a dainty, cross-footed lunch on a summer’s day. Rather than what we were – rape victim and her heroic serial killer liberator, reminiscing about the night one lost her shit and killed two men to protect the other’s sorry ass.
‘I’ve been thinking about you constantly since that night.’
‘You make it sound like we had an affair.’ I looked around to see if anyone was listening in. The water cascaded over the little weir. Two pigeons were pecking at a discarded sausage roll under the opposite bench.
‘My husband thought I had.’
I afforded her a raise of eyebrow.
‘I was all fidgety and checking my phone for news updates in the days after. I was terrified someone had seen my car or seen us walking back from the quarry.’
‘Keep. Your. Voice. Down.’
‘I was in chaos, Rhiannon. I’d have these night terrors and relive the whole thing, waking up in a cold sweat. It affected my work, it was awful. Anyway Ben – my husband – confronted me about it and I told him.’
‘Oh great—’
‘No no, he was so grateful. He’s not going near the police, I promise. Why would he?
