‘A birthmark?’ Littlewood looks interested. ‘Can you describe it?’
I picture his smooth, muscular leg. The bedroom was dimly lit, so I only had a vague impression. I tell them, ‘It was brown, I think,’ suddenly doubting myself. ‘Sort of long, like a cigar.’
Littlewood nods and smiles, as if I’m a child who needs encouragement.
‘Anything else you can remember?’
‘Not really.’ I shake my head.
‘Well, that’s it for now,’ Littlewood switches off the recorder and says ‘Thank you very much, Catherine. That was helpful.’
‘Oh, one more thing,’ she adds casually, as I stand up to leave.
‘Yes?’
‘We’d like to take a DNA sample. You don’t mind, do you? It’s a simple process. It’ll only take a minute. Purely routine.’
I hesitate. I don’t like the idea of having my DNA on a police database, but it would look suspicious if I refused, and it could only be to my advantage, right? They won’t find any of my DNA at Charlie’s flat. I’m certain of that.
‘Sure, no problem,’ I say smiling. I am nothing if not co-operative. Co-operative and trustworthy.
Littlewood wasn’t lying. The DNA sample didn’t take much more than a few minutes – a simple swab of my mouth – and before I know it, I’m back outside the police station inhaling fresh air, blinking in the sunlight, feeling like a prisoner who’s been released after years in jail.
Did the police believe me? I wonder as I walk home. It’s impossible to tell. Fisher maybe did, but Littlewood gives nothing away and she’s the one who counts. Will they even bother to check up on the birthmark? My mind is working overtime, analysing the interview, wondering what impression I made and trying to figure out what my next step should be. But I can feel a migraine coming on – that familiar nagging pain just above my right eye – and when I get home all I can do is take a couple of painkillers and crawl into bed.
I’m woken after what seems like only a few minutes by my phone ringing persistently on the bedside table.
‘Cat, where are you?’
It’s Gaby and she sounds annoyed. I can hear the clatter of crockery in the background, the murmur of voices and the hiss of an espresso machine.
‘We were supposed to meet today for a coffee,’ she says testily. ‘I’m waiting for you here in the bookshop café. Have you forgotten?’
I rub my eyes, sitting up. At least my headache has gone.
‘Shit, sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll come now,’ I say. The way things are going I need all the friends I can get and the last thing I want to do is piss Gaby off. ‘I’ll be about ten, fifteen minutes.’
My mouth feels stale, so I brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair and then dash out into town.
I enter the bookstore through the back entrance in the car park and find Gaby sitting in a corner of the café, sipping a latte and scrolling through her phone, a pensive expression on her face.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I blurt, kissing her cheek. ‘I completely forgot. It’s no excuse, but I’ve had the worst few days.’
She runs a hand through her hair, which looks even wilder than usual, and frowns. ‘Yes, I heard about the news story and the photofit. The police called me to talk about Friday night. It sounds like you’re having a bit of a nightmare. Are you okay?’
‘I’ve been better,’ I try to laugh.
Gaby’s big, brown eyes meet mine and they are steady and sympathetic. There’s no judgement or suspicion in them. Just empathy and curiosity.
‘Poor you,’ she says, and I feel the tension in my shoulders relaxing slightly. She pats me on the knee and grins. ‘I know what’ll cheer you up,’ she says, and she bustles off to the counter and returns a few minutes later with two coffees and two cinnamon buns. ‘I won’t tell Sara if you won’t.’
I bite into the sweet, sticky bun, letting the delicious blend of cinnamon and sugar swirl around my mouth. Gaby’s right. It does make me feel better. It’s not called comfort food for no reason.
‘I had to go into the police station this morning,’ I tell her. ‘They wanted me to go through what happened on Friday night. They seriously think I might have murdered that woman.’
Gaby looks at me directly. ‘But you didn’t,’ she says. It’s a statement of fact not a question.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well then. Sooner or later the police will find out who did, and you’ll be in the clear.’
‘Yes, but I’m worried that even afterwards, after this is all sorted, this will stick to me like a bad smell. I’ll always be the woman who was suspected of murder.’ Murder. It’s such a frightening and dramatic word. A word that’s used on true crime programmes and in thrillers. It shouldn’t have anything to do with me. It doesn’t belong in my life.
She shakes her head, takes a bite of her bun, chews slowly and swallows. ‘People will forget, Cat, you’ll see. They’ve got short memories. Anyway, whatever happens your friends will stick by you.’
I feel tears of gratitude welling up in my eyes. Gaby is a true friend – one of the few people I believe is really on my side. She was so good to me after Theo left. She brought me flowers and cajoled and badgered me to get out and get on with my life. I‘m not sure what I would have done without her. I’m not sure I deserve a friend like her.
After coffee with Gaby, I pick up Dylan from school, a little early, as agreed, before all the other parents have arrived.
‘Do you want to go to the park, Dylan?’ I ask as we scurry out of the gate.
‘Yeah!’ he exclaims, swiping an imaginary sword through the air. And so we head to the Abbey Grounds. I sit on the bench for a while and watch Dylan play. He looks lonely there, his little
