‘Actually,’ I blurt, my face hot, ‘I did know her a long time ago. We went to school together. But I haven’t seen her in years.’
‘Oh?’ DI Littlewood nods, revealing nothing. Sergeant Fisher smiles awkwardly, sits down on a toy car, picks it up and places it on the coffee table. Delilah sits next to him, wagging her tail and watching him intently. He scratches behind her ears and clears his throat. ‘Can we ask where you were last Friday night, the thirtieth of August.’ he asks. ‘Were you anywhere near the town centre?’
‘No, of course I wasn’t,’ I say quickly. Too quickly.
DI Littlewood observes me with polite curiosity. ‘Where were you, if you don’t mind me asking?’
And if I do mind? I think. Out loud I just say: ‘Um what time?’
‘Why don’t you tell us about your whole night. From six pm until the morning?’
‘Friday?’ I’ve had time to think, rehearse this in my head. I know what to say. ‘I dropped off Dylan, that’s my son, with my ex at about six o’clock. He takes him every other weekend. Then I went to Weight Watchers.’
‘Weight Watchers?’ DI Littlewood jots something down in her notebook. ‘You don’t look like you need Weight Watchers,’ she adds politely.
‘No, well I lost a couple of stone after my husband left. It turns out divorce is the best diet ever,’ I laugh bitterly. ‘I should probably write a book about it. Sod the Keto diet, try the Divorce diet.’
Sergeant Fisher rubs his round belly and chuckles. ‘Divorce didn’t work for me. I could probably do with going to Weight Watchers myself, though I don’t know how I’d handle all that being-weighed-in-front-of-everyone stuff. Where do you meet?’
‘In the Phoenix Centre.’ I rummage in a drawer and hand him a flier with Sara’s phone number on it. ‘Sara Walters is our coach. If you speak to her, she’ll confirm that I was there.’ Sara knows everyone in this small, rural town and she loves to gossip, so if there’s anyone that didn’t already know that I’m a suspect in a murder case, they will now. But I don’t really have a choice. I need this alibi.
‘Did you go straight there from your ex-husband’s place?’ Sergeant Fisher asks, leaning forward, sucking the end of his pen.
‘Yes.’
‘And how long were you there? At Weight Watchers, I mean.’
‘About an hour. But after that . . . I went for a drink.’
‘Where?’
‘At the Black Bear.’
‘The Black Bear?’ Littlewood frowns and purses her lips. ‘I don’t know it.’
‘It’s in Tewkesbury.’
‘Tewkesbury? That’s quite a long way to go for a drink . . .’ The way she says this makes it sound suspicious. Then again, she manages to make everything I say sound suspicious.
‘Yes, my friend wanted to see the band that was playing there.’
‘Oh, so you went with a friend?’
‘Yes, from Weight Watchers. Her name is Gaby. Gaby Wright.’
Littlewood puts on her glasses and jots the name down. ‘Do you have a contact number for her?’
I give her Gaby’s number. Gaby will back me up, I think. Gaby and I will have a laugh about this when it’s all over. But the questions are coming hard and fast and I’ve no idea how a murder investigation is usually conducted, but I’m beginning to think they’re being quite thorough if I’m someone they don’t view as a person of interest.
‘Just Gaby?’ Littlewood peers at me over the top of her glasses. It makes her look like a strict schoolteacher, one who’s caught you cheating on an exam.
‘Yes.’
‘So, what? You had a few drinks? How long were you there?’
‘Until closing time and then I went home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Not exactly,’ I admit, and I flush with embarrassment. An image flashes into my mind. A handsome face, black hair, luminous green eyes, a pale, gym-toned stomach. Luke.
‘Oh?’ DI Littlewood leans forward and picks up her pen.
‘I met someone at the pub. His name is Luke . . .’ I break off, realising that I never asked his second name. I’m not even sure that Luke is his real name.
‘And when you got home. Did you go in alone?’ She catches my expression. ‘I’m sorry if this seems nosy, but it could be important.’
‘No, he came with me. He stayed the night.’ I say. My cheeks are on fire now.
Sergeant Fisher tries to hide a smirk behind his hand and DI Littlewood stares studiously at a spot above my head. My sex life is none of their business, I think crossly. I’m a grown woman. I’m single. If I want to sleep with a man I barely know, that’s up to me.
‘So how did you meet . . . this . . . Luke?’ she asks, stressing the name, as if she has doubts that he’s real.
‘Er . . . we just got chatting in the pub.’ My business, I think firmly.
‘Right. And what time did he leave?’
‘He left in the morning. I’m not sure what time, but it was light.’ I remember that when I woke up that morning daylight was streaming in through the gap in the blinds and Luke was already dressed in the suit he’d been wearing the night before. He must have showered and used my toothpaste because he smelled fresh and clean as he bent over me and kissed me on my bare shoulder.
‘You were out for the count,’ he grinned, kissing my neck again, and I breathed in his scent, trying to keep my mouth closed, so he wouldn’t smell my morning breath.
‘But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,’ he said. ‘And thank you for a beautiful evening. I’ve got to go to work. I’ll call you, okay?’
I close my eyes, trying not to think about how happy I was that morning. How excited and buoyant, like a child. Is it possible that that was just a few days ago? I feel a century has passed since then.
‘He had to
