Chapter 50 Bail
It’s a remarkable feature of Muswell Hill that killing your husband is not the social faux pas that it perhaps once was.
While no one seems to believe Cait is innocent (‘dark horse’, ‘it’s always the quiet ones’), everyone is extremely understanding, especially in the supermarket.
The woman at the self-service tills in M&S, who knows I’m one of Cait’s friends, even asked what advice Cait would give to someone looking to unburden themselves of a partner past his sell-by date.
She told me she was asking for a friend.
Tor and I spoke briefly about Zac last night.
I told her I was satisfied that the ransomware was genuine, and had paid the additional money as required, but that the laptop hadn’t yet been un-encrypted.
She seemed pleased, but quite jealous of my time with Zac, and asked several questions about him as he’s not responding to her texts.
Of course, I’ve not told her that he’s now committed to breaking all ties.
This morning, we’re at a small and quiet coffee shop just at the top of Muswell Hill.
Tor, Sophie, Aisha and I are sipping skinny lattes, staring longingly at the homemade cakes and trying to work out how best to help Cait.
The breaking news for the day, we’re all delighted, surprised or disappointed to find out, is that after her Crown Court hearing, Cait has been released on conditional bail.
Apparently, as the charge is for manslaughter not murder, the evidence against her is circumstantial, she’s a domestic abuse sufferer, and sole carer for her girls, she’s not a risk to anyone.
However, the downside is that, as she’s no longer living rent-free at the taxpayers’ expense, there’s the issue of accommodation.
‘It would look poor for us to host a criminal,’ says Tor, clicking her new nails on the table. ‘Papers would play merry hell with it.’
‘She’s not a criminal, she’s your friend,’ I say, placing my hand over Tor’s to stop the anxious tapping, no doubt coming from being denied her route to sexual satisfaction.
‘And she has to live somewhere – her house is a burnt-out shell,’ says Sophie, who arrived flustered from school, bemoaning some boy in her class who keeps climbing out of the window.
‘Can’t she stay with her mother again?’ says Tor. ‘Isn’t that what families are for?’
‘What, like Christmas and criminal charges?’ says Sophie. She’s marking as she speaks, which appears to involve writing ‘Where’s your homework?’ across blank pages.
‘Yes, but she wants the twins to keep going to pre-school in Muswell Hill, so they experience as little change as possible,’ says Aisha.
‘But the optics, politically,’ says Tor. ‘Especially if they link this to Lawrence.’
‘Tory Politician’s House of Sin,’ I say, and smile at Tor, which she does not appreciate.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ says Sophie.
‘She’s not been found guilty.’ Aisha makes this statement in bright yellow-and-blue leggings which she says are for Ukraine, which is a nice way to help the war.
‘But she’s hardly innocent,’ says Tor. ‘We all know she had a good enough motive.’
‘We’re all innocent until proven guilty,’ I declare, which makes me as innocent as anyone. It makes you wonder about who invented that little statement.
‘No one would blame her,’ says Tor. ‘But we’ve all got to think about the risks.’
‘What risk?’ says Sophie, glaring now.
‘Having a killer in your house is a risk.’ Tor glares back.
‘Cait is not a killer. She was abused for years,’ says Sophie. ‘We need to show compassion.’
‘Indeed,’ I add. ‘She never tried to stab or burn any of us.’
‘But what if she did do it in a moment of madness?’ says Aisha. ‘You know, we all snap at some point.’
‘So you won’t have her either?’ I say to Aisha.
‘I don’t think it’s fair on Ranni,’ she says. ‘He might see it as a veiled threat, you know. We’re in stage three of the battle – our troops are deployed and fully engaged.’
‘You lot! I’d have her if we didn’t live in a cupboard,’ says Sophie.
‘And I’d have her at mine, but with Stephen’s mother’s condition being so touch and go . . . it’s just not possible.’ I look down at the table, blink several times with a sharp intake of breath through trembling lips. Two hands reach out and comfort me.
‘We’ve got to acknowledge that she’s mentally disturbed and needs professional help,’ says Tor.
‘Well, here’s to mentally disturbed women everywhere!’ says Sophie.
‘She’s better off at her mum’s,’ says Aisha. ‘Anyway, a group of pre-school parents have petitioned the management committee. They don’t want Cait on the premises under the current circumstances.’
‘She’s banned from picking up her kids now?’ Sophie throws her head back and swears at the ceiling.
‘They think it would cause too much disruption, and the press would be hanging off the railings to get photos.’ Aisha plays anxiously with her wedding ring.
‘Shit, if your mates won’t stand by you when you kill your fucking husband, who will?’ says Sophie.
Tor crosses her arms defiantly, and Aisha closes her eyes meditatively.
‘Look, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll explain the politics to Cait. I’m sure we can pick up the girls between us.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ says Aisha. Sophie nods.
‘Ditto,’ says Tor. ‘Ask my nanny if you need help.’
‘We mustn’t fall out over this,’ I say.
After our coffee shop meeting, I walk back to the car and receive three messages from Stephen.
He apparently needs to speak to me urgently – again.
His mother’s dragging out her near-death experience by convalescing in a private hospital, although I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with her any more.
All I can hope for is that she’s suddenly croaked.
While I only need another fifty thousand for the house deposit, we still need a million in cash to raise the mortgage.
I call him as I walk up the Broadway to the unbearable din of traffic, children, sirens, and shop refurbishments.
‘What?’ I say, clasping the phone to my ear.
‘The police called me today.’
‘About what?’ This is not what I want to hear.
‘About that missing man, Jason Mercer. They’re asking if I know him. And if you might. Do you?’
‘No,’ I lie.
‘They want to know if I had any worries about you?’
‘What kind of worries?’ I say, taken aback by this intrusion. It comes to something when the police, who can’t spot a murderer at five paces, are seeing cracks in our marriage.
‘They wanted to know if I thought you were having an affair.’
‘They asked me that too,’ I say.
‘Why would they think you’re sleeping with a corrupt policeman?’ he says.
‘Perhaps I’m just the most eligible prospect because they know you won’t fuck me,’ I say, a tad tense perhaps. The group standing at the bus stop turn and stare. I smile and nod.
‘They asked if I ever thought about having you followed.’
‘I’d be flattered if you were that concerned about me,’ I say.
‘They also asked if I’ve ever paid anyone in Bitcoin.’
‘Bitcoin?’ I say. Why would they ask about Bitcoin? Do they know about the money from Zac? Were they watching my bank accounts? I feel a flash of self-recrimination for treating the police so lightly. They might look stupid but perhaps it’s an act.
‘Ah! I know what it is,’ I say, realizing what DS Birch is getting at. ‘They think you paid Jason Mercer to follow me, because you thought I was having an affair.’
‘It’s all a bit weird, isn’t it?’ says Stephen. ‘Anyway, they need to catch this guy. He sounds like a horrible bloke. Oh, and I told them about the . . .’
‘Hold on, can’t hear you,’ I shout, then dart into a charity shop and close the door.
‘What was that?’ I ask.
‘I told them about the anonymous letter. The one saying you’re not who you say you are.’
‘Listen to me, you idiot,’ I say firmly. Then I have to say sorry quickly to the nice old lady at the till who looks a little shocked.
‘Calm down,’ he tells me. This does not calm me down. ‘I thought it might be from this Jason Mercer. They want to see it.’
‘If you give them that letter, Stephen, I’ll . . .’ I seethe into my phone, then stop. I feel a wave of dizziness and put my hand on the counter. A smiling reindeer stares up at me from the woman’s sweater.
What will I do to stop my husband giving them the letter? Withdraw my affection? Stop sexual favours? Stop sharing my thoughts? In the middle of Crisis, I realize I’ve lost any hold I had on my husband. I’m his childminder, diary-manager, social secretary and cook – all replaceable services.
‘Are you all right?’ Stephen asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, quietly, but I’m not. If I don’t have a heart, why does it feel as if something is breaking?