‘Once the police understand how much in love we are and that we’ve been planning our marriage for quite some time, they’ll realise that you had absolutely no interest in that Mitch chap. We only have eyes for each other.’

He leant across and aimed his puckered lips towards mine. His tongue flicked in and out like a viper’s. Spittle hit my face and threatened a return of the bile. I swallowed hard, motionless against his shoulder.

Arthur had planned it all. He had left no trace and somehow had managed to put Oliver in the frame. He was giving me an alibi, a chance to wipe the slate clean with regard to a motive for murdering Mitch. If Arthur and I were to be married and if we were in love, then I wouldn’t have wanted to bludgeon my ex-boyfriend to death. It would be Amber’s word against mine, and Arthur’s.

Arthur was offering me an escape route. I guessed he’d perfected what he was going to say to the police. He must have known I was happy to leave Oliver in the frame. He may have found out about our history together, maybe even about the rape. This way, if everything stacked up, his original plan of framing Oliver and getting rid of his love rival, looked likely to work.

‘I love you, Rebecca Carrington,’ Arthur announced.

82

Arthur

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to phone Amber, fuelled by desire to witness her misery and to gloat over the turn of events. Smug arrogance at the overwhelming success of my operation, coupled with a strong urge for revenge, forced me to phone my ex-girlfriend and invite her round.

She was even more pitiful in appearance than the last time I saw her. I hardly recognised her. Her once-lustrous brown hair straggled greasily round her face and weight loss had rendered her body cadaverous.

‘Amber, how well you look,’ I exclaimed, amazed by my own insincerity. She had morphed into my mother; ragged, sad and ugly. However, I felt an urgency to discuss recent events with someone closely linked to the crime and wanted to milk the aftermath for all it was worth.

It was risible that she expected me to believe that the Target would have had an inkling of interest in her. Sexless and delusional was my summation. My derision turned to confusion though when she ungloved her left hand and wiggled her tiny claw under my nose. It took a minute for the penny to drop.

‘We were to be married,’ she crowed. The anticipated breakdown of grief didn’t materialise. Instead this tramp, who had unceremoniously spurned and cast me aside, was glorifying in the role of grieving fiancée.