“Sure.” He stood up, gave me another slightly awkward smile, and slid out of the room, and I was left alone, trying to figure out what this all meant. Was I seriously a suspect? But how? Why? Surely they could tell that Gabe had been killed long before I got home?
But could they? It dawned on me that I had no real idea how accurate time-of-death estimates were. I could just about have made it home by three. The fact that I hadn’t, they had only my word for that. Could they really tell for certain, four or five hours after the fact, whether someone had died at two or three a.m.? Suddenly I wasn’t sure, and I wished more than ever that I’d called the police the instant I walked through the front door and saw Gabe’s blood on the floor.
In my pocket the borrowed phone vibrated and I pulled it out. It was another email, but not from a sender I recognized. Sunsmile Insurance Ltd. Subject line: Important: paperwork attached. Was this a pen test Gabe had set up and forgotten to put in the diary?
More to have something to distract me from the agonizingly silent wait than because I really thought it was important, I clicked to open it up.
Dear Ms Cross,
I’m delighted to confirm your joint life insurance policy with Mr Gabriel Medway is now active.
Please read the attached policy schedule carefully as it covers some important exclusions and conditions of cover, and keep it safe as you will need it in the event of a claim.
Your cover started from the date of your first payment, 1st February, and renews annually on the anniversary of your policy.
Congratulations on choosing the peace of mind only Sunsmile gives,
Sue
Sunsmile Insurance
What the… this made no sense. I certainly hadn’t taken out a life insurance policy. Had Gabe? But surely he would have told me? We had never bothered before. We didn’t need one for the house—we had paid for it outright with Gabe’s savings and my share of the money Hel and I had inherited from our parents—and as freelancers we weren’t covered by most income protection plans anyway, so cover for loss of jobs or sick pay wasn’t really an option. As for the rest, the chances of either of us dying had seemed—until a couple of days ago at least—so remote as to be laughable. We’d always told ourselves that it would be different when we had kids. Then it would have seemed like the responsible thing to do, to protect them in the event of something happening, however unlikely. But until then, surely it was just a waste of premiums.
Was it spam? Some kind of strange phishing attempt? For a moment I considered replying to the email to try to find out more—but when I glanced up at the sender details, in spite of the personalized footer, the email address was a generic Do Not Reply. It was quite possible that Sue wasn’t even a real person.
A PDF was attached at the bottom of the email, and in spite of my misgivings and Gabe’s voice in my head lecturing me about trusting strange attachments, I clicked it.
The text was already small, and on the tiny phone screen it was almost impossible to read, but I could make out the first few lines.
Gabe and I had apparently taken out a life insurance policy, in each other’s favor. And the payout was one million pounds.
I dropped the phone. It clattered to the tiled floor with a noise that made me jump convulsively, my nerves already stretched to the breaking point, and I scrabbled to pick it up, my breath loud in my ears.
This was impossible. It was impossible. Even if Gabe had set something up, which was unlikely, one million pounds? It was an absurd sum—almost twice the cost of our little house. Far, far more than we needed to live on, either of us.
No, if this was real—and it seemed like it might be—there was only one explanation. Someone else had set it up. And more than that. Someone was setting me up.
I was being framed.
The thought was almost unbelievable, and staring down at the phone in my hand, I still couldn’t quite make the realization sink in, even though it seemed to be the only explanation. But how? Why?
I couldn’t answer either question. Instead, what lurched over me with a shocking pulse of adrenaline was a realization: The police had my phone. Which meant they had access to my Gmail account. Which meant I had a matter of hours, maybe even minutes, before they noticed this email too.
I had to show Malik the email, get my side of the story in, before whoever had the phone put two and two together and made five.
I stood up, feeling little electric prickles of shock running over my skin, and went to the door. When I pulled it open there was no one outside, and I was about to stick my head out and call for Malik when Hel’s voice came into my head again, her tone warning. There’s a reason they always suspect spouses. You’ve got means, and you’ve got opportunity. The only thing they’re lacking to make a case is a motive. So please, please be really careful not to give them one.
Fuck. Fuck. I had no idea what I should do. Sit tight and wait for the lawyer? But if they discovered the email in the meantime, it would look very, very bad that I hadn’t mentioned it.
No. I should show it to Malik now, this minute. After all, I’d done nothing wrong. If I got in there fast, before her colleagues stumbled on the email, I could trust her to listen to my side of the story. Yeah, because trusting the police went so well last time, said a sarcastic voice inside my head, and this voice wasn’t Hel’s—it was my own.
I thought of the last time I’d called the police—this exact force, in fact—to report my boyfriend, a serving police officer, for domestic abuse. Not only had they not listened, hadn’t even filed a report, as far as I knew, they’d done something worse: they’d retaliated. Parking tickets for places I’d never been had begun to appear through my letter box. I was the victim of “random” stop and searches at strange times, getting hauled down to the station when they found lockpicks in my bag and questioned for hours until I could prove I wasn’t a burglar. I got dropped calls in the middle of the night; I was turned down for car insurance when my car was flagged as stolen. And all of it had started from the moment I dobbed Jeff Leadbetter in to his colleagues—and they went running straight to him.
And okay, Malik wasn’t Jeff. She hadn’t even been on the force at the time I’d reported him, as far as I knew. But this was far, far higher stakes than a bad breakup. If I got this wrong, I could end up in jail for the rest of my life, and Gabe’s killer could end up walking free.
The only thing they’re lacking is a motive. Don’t give them one.
I was still trying to make up my mind when I heard Malik’s voice approaching from up the corridor, and ducked swiftly back inside the interview room, my heart thumping.
“… know, but I just think we should nick her,” I heard. The voice was faint but coming closer and accompanied by the click of heels.
“Okay, yeah, her prints are on the knife, but I still feel—” Miles began, but Malik broke in impatiently.
“The knife’s the least of it, Al—it’s everything else.” The footsteps had come to a halt, as if Malik had stopped halfway up the corridor, the better to make her case. “The timings are fishy as hell, her phone was conveniently switched off so we can’t check her movements, and then to top it all off she waits the best part of an hour to dial 999.”
“I just—” Miles tried again, but Malik was barreling on.
“Not to mention the SOCO’s initial report says there’s absolutely no sign of a breakin. Explain that.”
“The perp could have rung the doorbell,” Miles said, rather meekly, and Malik let out a snort.
“You think our vic would let some stranger into the house and then sit there quietly with his headphones on while they cut his throat? He was built like a tank. No, sorry, I don’t buy it. I say we nick her now. End of.”
“How’s that meet the necessity test, though?” Miles said. “I mean, what’s really changed since the other night? If the boss didn’t think it cleared the bar then, I just don’t see how anything’s different today. Bottom line, she’s not really changed her story, and she’s not a flight risk, is she? She’s cooperating. She’s attending voluntarily.”
“Call it my Spidey sense or whatever, but I just don’t trust her. It’s all far too convenient the way she’s got an excuse for everything—the phone loses charge, then she gets ‘lost’ on the way home”—I could practically hear the air quotes—“and then this supposed ‘blackout’ or whatever she’s claiming happened when she did finally get in. No, I’m sorry, Al, taken all together it’s just too much. I’m not buying the grieving-little-widow act. I’m going to talk to Rick before her solicitor gets here.”
“Well, you’re the boss,” Miles said, and I could hear the shrug in his voice. “Want a cuppa before we go back in?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks. I want to catch Rick before he goes for lunch, see if I can get the thumbs-up. Solicitor reckons she’s going to be at least half an hour, so it’s not like we’re in any hurry.”
“Kay. I’ll just ask her if she wants anything, then see you back in the interview room?”