It could have been a comic ruse, a lover’s game to test my sense of humour. I stared at the incident board and tried to make sense of it all. I moved Rebecca’s picture to one side, slightly below my own cut-out image, and traced my finger down through the remaining players. My forefinger stopped at Oliver’s hulking outline. A small photo of a mobile phone had been pinned underneath.

The SMS message to Oliver, from a pay-as-you-go mobile used by the Target, had provided proof for the police that the suspect had been expected at the flat around the time of the murder. Oliver had replied to the conciliatory and friendly message from his old rugby pal and texted back, agreeing to meet on the night in question. The communications were logged on the phone which the police had in their possession. It was vital evidence.

What was he missing? The police had indicted Oliver on the basis of this proof, not to mention the fact that he had been holding the baseball bat when they arrived on the scene. Rebecca had done the rest. She had put the final nail in his coffin, by assuring the investigating officer that she had reached the scene a few minutes after Oliver. She had been an unexpected guest arriving too late to save her ex-boyfriend.

I ransacked cupboards and wardrobes, checking the pockets of all my jeans and trousers unsure of what I’d been wearing when I’d bought the mobile. The receipt had to be somewhere. It had been pocketed with the phone. I tore my clothes off the rails and chucked out all the random contents from jackets and overcoats.

There wasn’t time to replay the CCTV tape which might show me where I’d put the receipt. It now seemed imperative that I hide the tape somewhere secure. I lifted the set of stepladders by the sink and used them to climb up so I could reach the small ventilator shaft above the cooker. Carefully undoing the fastening screws, I removed the greased-up vent cover, and slid the tape well inside before re-covering the hole.

I grabbed a taxi from the rank near the Green Man pub.

‘Finsbury Park!’ I screamed at the driver, giving him the name and address of Handy Mobiles. ‘And step on it. It’s a matter of life and death.’

‘Sure thing, mate. Hold on tight,’ laughed the cabbie who’d heard it all before. ‘Dreadful day. Wonder when the rain’ll stop.’

My silence put paid to conversation as we weaved in and out through the London mayhem. I lit up another cigarette, inhaling deeply, before the driver slid open the panel and asked me not to smoke. Perhaps it was something in my manner that made him back off but as he pulled the glass back again, I heard him secure the door locks.

He watched me in his rear-view mirror as I chain-smoked.

87

Rebecca