Chapter 9 Soap
I spot a box of Lindt on the bookshelf left over from Stephen’s birthday. Cait is counting knife wounds, and I am thinking about chocolate. I walk over, open the box and take one. It is the right decision. It removes the taste of blood from my mouth.
‘Do you want a choccy?’ I hold the box out towards Cait but she glares back.
‘Lalla, I don’t think he could’ve fallen on his knife seven times, do you?’ she says, sharply.
‘Who knows what happens in those fleeting moments?’ I shrug, which doesn’t appear to appease her curiosity.
‘The police’ll ask these questions. I’m just trying to help.’
‘Police? You said you’d do anything to help, and I need help wrapping him up.’ I kneel down and pick up a roll of adhesive tape from the floor as she peers closely at the knife wounds.
‘You definitely shouldn’t move him, Lalla. You have to leave everything exactly as you found it . . . for the police.’ She seems to have decided to take on the role of head girl at a crime scene.
‘The oak parquet will stain,’ I say, but even this concern doesn’t move her.
‘Did you stab him all those times?’ she asks. ‘Is that why you didn’t call the police, Lalla?’
‘Well, he wouldn’t stop fighting. I had to fight back,’ I say.
Her small hand reaches out for mine and she squeezes my fingers. I pull her down and she kneels beside me. I think this is a good sign.
‘It’s manslaughter at most. But you’ll need a good lawyer.’
‘You know how courts are with women. How they were with you even though it was Owen on trial. Insinuating you were a liar. We’re women, Cait, the law doesn’t work for us.’
‘But a man’s dead. You have to tell the police.’
‘How will that look now? A mother stabs an intruder seven times and carries on with her son’s party. I can see the headline already.’
‘Just explain that you were traumatized,’ says Cait quietly. ‘It does happen. You block things out that you can’t cope with, and just carry on for the sake of the children.’
‘So traumatized, I spent the next two hours laughing and drinking with friends?’
‘They’ll find out eventually,’ says Cait, scratching away at her neck.
‘Not if you help me. You know all about crime scenes. You’re an expert.’
‘No,’ she says, slightly preoccupied. I see that she’s staring at the knife that’s still embedded in the man’s chest like a sacred object.
‘Pass me the knife,’ I say, realizing additional leverage might help.
‘No! I don’t want my fingerprints all over it. It’s a murder weapon.’
‘It wasn’t murder.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I mean the manslaughter weapon.’
‘I’m going to scrub it anyway, just pass it over.’ Cait shakes her head so vigorously it really annoys me so I reach over, grab her hand, pull it across the corpse and close it around the knife handle. She shrieks as I force her to pull the knife out of his chest, then let go of her hand.
‘There. Not so difficult, was it?’
Cait stares at the bloody knife in her hand and looks like she’s going to be sick.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Not good,’ she says, but her face betrays passion rather than revulsion. Even so, she drops the knife. ‘I could never do what you did. It’s wrong.’
‘You might need to if Owen breaks in again,’ I say.
‘I’m not brave enough,’ she says. ‘I never was.’
‘Cait, look, just help me get him out of here. We can dump his body somewhere in Wood Green, the police’ll think it’s just another everyday London stabbing. What do you say?’
‘You can’t just dump a dead body on the street,’ she rails. ‘It’s teeming with your DNA, clothes fibres, saliva, hair . . . And my DNA now! They’d have our genetic fingerprint within hours.’
‘You see, that’s the kind of thinking that’ll help us get away with it. You’re so good at this,’ I say, smiling at her enthusiasm.
‘I can’t do this. I won’t,’ she says, and stands quickly. One foot slips on a sticky trail of blood and she lurches forward. She manages to stop herself by grabbing one end of the sofa, but not completely, and her other hand lands on the dead man’s chest.
‘Blood!’ she cries and stares down at her hand like an amateur Lady Macbeth, her whole palm dark crimson like an autumn leaf.
‘It washes off, Cait. A little bit of soap and water and it’s gone,’ I say, trying to calm her down.
‘I’m going to the police,’ she shouts, unhelpfully.
‘Cait, your fingerprints are all over this knife. They’ll arrest you,’ I say and take her arm.
She acts as though she’s going to be my next victim, recoils from my hand, shoots me a terrified look and rushes to the door holding her bloody hand out in the air, looking rather guilty, I can’t help thinking to myself.