have said to me. I thought of nothing else but her.
She saw it. Saw my rage. Saw my hurt. Saw what her words had done and she crumbled. Her own anger was gone and her hands reached out grabbing at me in apology, trying to reel me back in, sorry, sorry, sorry spilling from her lips.
I backed away at first but stopped and let her hold me. Words fell from her, telling me she didn’t mean it, any of it. I knew that wasn’t true. But she told me she’d have hated it if I had killed Ogilvie, not what she wanted, knew I loved Sarah, was so sorry, didn’t really want him dead, couldn’t believe someone had murdered four people, so sorry, what had happened to us. Why us? So sorry.
I stared over her shoulder, lips pursed, eyes straining back, fighting off all the emotions that had been strangers to me for so long. My hate for Wallace Ogilvie simply strengthened. My determination bolstered.
I squeezed her, comforted her. But my eyes remained fixed on a spot on the wall behind her. Just a random bit of paintwork, stared at it hard, burrowing into it.
‘I know,’ I told her at last. I didn’t particularly know what I was telling her but I knew it was what she wanted to hear. Comfort words. I knew.
She sobbed into my shoulder, soaking it with guilt, grief and apologies. She was incoherent now, the pills kicking in faster than ever before, accelerated by a broken heart that offered a motorway straight into her bloodstream.
She wept and mumbled till she fell asleep. Long after she had dropped off, I continued to hold her and stare at the spot on the wall. I knew that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stop. More than ever I had to see my plan through. For Sarah and for her. I was barely more than halfway there and to stop now would ruin everything.
So much more to do.
Eventually I picked her up without waking her and carried her upstairs. I pulled back the cover and lay her, fully dressed, on the bed. I slipped off her shoes and kissed her full on the lips before tucking the duvet round her again.
I had so much more to do. The police would be here before long and I had to be ready for them. It would be Rachel Narey, of that I was pretty sure. And hoped.
CHAPTER 23
The door. It would be her.
She was prettier than she’d looked on television and in the papers. Smaller though. Her dark hair was tied back but wisps of it escaped and played with her face. I tried not to look too long or too obviously.
She introduced herself and shook my hand. Soft but firm. Textbook for a female cop probably. She made a show of looking around the room as if taking an interest in the decor. Looking for signs of something else no doubt. No signs to be seen, DS Narey. Made sure of that a long time ago.
There was a guy with her. DC Dawson. Balding, narrow eyes and wide shoulders. She did all the talking.
Small talk to start with. Weather, traffic, the house. Disappointing, I’d expected better. When I didn’t bite, when I just sat and looked back at her, she soon gave up. I knew why she was there and she knew I did.
Cut to the chase, Rachel. Mention his name.
‘Wallace Ogilvie.’
There. That wasn’t too difficult, was it?
‘Wallace Ogilvie. I take it you have heard that he has been murdered?’
‘I’d heard. I read the papers.’
‘You will know why we are here to speak to you then.’
‘Is that a question?’
‘If you want. We have to explore every avenue connected with his murder. You are one of these avenues.’
‘Am I? I don’t see how.’
‘We have to wonder about people who might have a grudge against Mr Ogilvie.’
‘Someone obviously did.’
‘That’s what we have to establish. When did you last see Mr Ogilvie?’
‘Six years ago. At the trial.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘You asked me when I last saw him. I told you when.’
‘OK. How did you feel when you heard he’d been killed?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I felt nothing. It’s been six years. I don’t care anything about him.’
‘That’s hard to believe. Given what he did. I know I’d be pretty angry if it was me.’
‘Yes, you probably would.’
‘And you aren’t?’
‘I’m not. Not any more.’
‘After what he did?’
‘I said.’
‘So you did. It was a terrible thing.’
‘I’m very aware of that.’
‘Of course you are. Where were you on the twelfth of this month?’
‘Am I being accused of something?’
‘No. But we have to establish some facts. Establish the whereabouts of everyone involved at the time concerned.’
‘I’m not involved.’
‘I have to ask.’
‘So ask.’
‘Where were you on the twelfth of this month?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must have some idea.’
‘What time?’
‘The hours around midnight.’
‘Working or asleep.’
‘You weren’t working, we’ve already taken the liberty of checking with your boss.’
‘Sleeping then.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I can’t. But I sleep at night so that would be my best guess.’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘My wife. But then she would have been sleeping too. You can check with her.’
‘We will.’
‘Thought you might. She’s out.’
‘We will come back. If you read about Mr Ogilvie then you’ll have read about the other killings.’
‘Is that a question too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you know where you were on the nights when they took place?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t even know when they were. But I am guessing you have already checked my shift rota.’
‘We have. You were working on one of them and off on the other two.’
‘There you go.’
‘What do you think of those killings?’
