I take a deep breath. ‘I think I’m being framed. No, I know I’m being framed.’
He frowns. He won’t want to hear that, any more than Penny did.
‘How’s that then?’
‘The DNA evidence – it must have been faked. Yes, I was in the flat – I’ve said that right from the start – but I never had sex with her. I never even touched her.’
Gis’s frown deepens. It’s not just that forensics don’t lie; he thinks I’m asking him to believe the entire CSI team are lying too.
‘But you and Challow are old mates, aren’t you? Why on earth –?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t think he has anything to do with it – I don’t think any of them do. They just processed the evidence they were given. But that’s the point – they were given it. Someone staged that scene.’
Someone put my hair there. I don’t know how, but I know why.
The hair – it’s a message.
Because when Alex testified in court that she never planted those strands of hair in Gavin Parrie’s lock-up, I knew it was a lie. I’d known for months. Not right at the start – not until it was far too late. But I knew. And I said nothing. I didn’t stop her, because it was the only way to stop him. He was guilty and we had nothing else. But it was still a lie. And now Gavin Parrie is making me pay.
Gis is staring at me and I drag myself back. ‘They’re saying I tried to make it look like suicide so the police wouldn’t go looking for DNA.’
Gis makes a face; he knows that makes sense. As far as it goes.
‘But then I fucked up by not hanging around long enough to realize the engineering team were there and would stop the train.’
‘OK, so –’
‘But he’d have wanted someone to stop the train, wouldn’t he? He put that DNA on her body and he needed them to find it, so they’d make the connection – so they’d come after me.’
He frowns again; he’s not following me. ‘Hang on a mo. He? Who are we talking about here?’
‘Gavin Parrie.’
His eyes widen. ‘Parrie? You think Parrie’s behind this?’
I hold his gaze. ‘Who else could it be?’
‘But he must be tagged –’
I nod. ‘He is. But all the same.’
He hesitates, then nods.
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Find that engineer – the one who called it in. I need to know if he saw anyone else on the bridge just before it happened. Because if it was Parrie, he couldn’t just throw her over the side and flee the scene. He had to wait – wait until those engineers were close enough that they would definitely see the body fall and have enough time to stop the train.’
Gis jots down a few lines, then he closes his notebook and looks up.
‘OK, boss. I’ll see what I can do.’
* * *
Marina Fisher pauses at the French doors. Her son is on his hands and knees looking at a stag beetle edging carefully across the flagstones.
‘Tobin, darling, I need to talk to you.’
But he doesn’t seem to have heard her; he’s completely absorbed, completely focused.
The beetle lifts first one leg, then another; its mandibles prod the air as if feeling the way.
‘Tobin?’
She steps closer. ‘Tobin, I’m talking to you.’
Still nothing.
‘Leave that alone, sweetheart,’ she says, in the sort of patient tone that has a very limited shelf life. ‘I need to talk to you for a minute.’
Again, nothing. She steps out into the blinding sunlight, reaches down for her son’s hand and pulls him to his feet. The beetle must sense a change in the air current, because it scuttles away now and disappears behind one of the tall terracotta urns.
‘I was looking at him!’ wails Tobin. ‘And now you’ve made him run away!’
‘I’m sorry, darling, but this is important. Mummy needs to talk to you.’
He pouts and refuses to look at her as she leads him back inside and lifts him on to a kitchen chair. He starts swinging his feet, banging his shoes against the chair legs.
‘Tobin, darling, Mummy just had a phone call from her friend Niamh. You remember Niamh, don’t you?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Well, she’s had a phone call from the policemen who came to the house, and they’d like to ask you some questions.’
He looks up, suspicious but intrigued. ‘What ’bout?’
She flushes slightly. ‘About the last time Caleb was here. Do you remember that night?’
He looks down, starts kicking the chair again. It’s getting on her nerves.
‘Well, Niamh says it might help Mummy if you could talk to them. It won’t be scary or anything. No one will hurt you, they’ll just ask you questions. And Mummy will be in the next room.’
Bang bang bang
She reaches out and grasps one of his legs, holding it firmly. ‘Don’t do that, darling.’
He’s still kicking the other leg. And he’s still not looking at her. She reaches to his forehead and pushes back the curls. His skin is hot to her touch; he’s been out in the sun too long.
‘So can you help Mummy, Tobin? Can you be my special, helpful, clever boy?’
The kicking stops. He looks up, almost shyly. ‘Is it a game, Mummy, like last time? I liked that game.’
* * *
It’s gone six when Erica Somer gets home. She pushes open the main door and climbs listlessly up to her own flat; she can’t remember the last time she felt so damn tired. As she rounds the corner from the stairs she can see a bouquet propped against her front door. White roses, a dozen or more, dotted with stems of blue agapanthus. She feels tears coming into her eyes. Giles knows how much she loves those.
She unlocks the door and shoulders it open, drops her bags in the hall and takes the flowers
