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He knew he was doomed, and that there was nothing that could save him. Even if he’d been rushed to hospital, the only thing the doctors could’ve done was dose him up with morphine and speed his end.
And the worst thing was that it wasintentional. The person who’d done this to himmeanthim to suffer before he died.
I told you in the beginning:I’m one of the good ones. I don’t make moral choices, but pragmatic ones: I killed my father because it was necessary, not because I enjoyed it.
But not all of us are like that.
Some of us deserve our Hollywood reputations.
Trust me, I did my best to save Felix. But I didn’t kill him. I didn’t killanyone.I was set up by a brilliant, ruthless psychopath.
And when I tell you who that was, it’ll blow your mind.
chapter 49
millie
Tom puts into words what I’ve been thinking for the past two days:If I had a husband I wanted to get rid of, I’d be looking for a fall guy.
I gave Stacey the benefit of the doubt when she didn’t return my phone calls after the first police visit to our house on Wednesday, despite the increasingly urgent messages I left on her phone. I told myself she had a lot on her plate: her husband had disappeared, bankrupt investors were clamouring at the door, and now she was being interrogated by two detectives investigating her missing spouse.
But everything changed the moment DS Mehdi told me Stacey had no recollection of Felix’s nosebleed.
Tom’s right: how plausible is it she’d forget something like that? In fact, she did more than justforget: she denied unequivocally that it’d happened, denied he’deverhad nosebleeds, even though I distinctly remember her saying he was prone to them when he was stressed.
And then there’s Felix’s phone.
I can’t think of a single innocent explanation for how it came to be hidden at the back of our airing cupboard. Tom’s right about that, too: Stacey’s the only person who could have put it there. Perhaps I could accept that, in the stress of the moment, shereallydidforget about the nosebleed. But actively planting evidence to incriminate me – that wasn’t a mistake.
I don’t need Tom to tell me how much trouble I’m in. Without Stacey’s corroboration, my explanation for the blood on my clothes and shoes is weak at best. Add in the bloody fingerprints and my public altercation at the Hurlingham with Felix, and who’s to say where reasonable doubt lies?
Against my better judgement, Tom dissuades me from going to the Glass House to confront her the night I get back from my interview at the police station.
‘If you go tearing over there this time of night she’s just going to ignore you,’ he says. ‘She simply won’t come to the door. Go and see her at the studio on Monday. If she refuses to talk to you, you’ll have your answer.’
Two days later, I take the Tube to the INN building in west London, where theMorning Express Show’s studio is located. Inside, the atrium is bright and airy, with acres of chrome and glass. Vast photographs of the network’s stars, including Stacey, hang on invisible wires from the double-height ceiling like flags at the UN.
I give my name to the receptionist, and wait while she calls Stacey’s secretary. ‘I’m afraid Ms Porter is on-air at the moment,’ the girl tells me a few moments later. ‘Her assistant says he won’t be able to tell Ms Porter you’re here till they cut to the news in about twenty-five minutes. Is she expecting you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, I’m happy to wait.’
I take a seat on the minimalist white leather and chrome sofa. Behind the reception desk, the network’s current output plays on a huge screen. The volume is off, but live subtitles roll across the bottom of the picture. Stacey is interviewing an MP and his husband: it seems the politician has been caught having an affair with his special advisor, a woman who is also married. As far as I can make out, the tabloid opprobrium that’s come his way has less to do with his adultery and more to do with letting down the LGBTQ+ cause by indulging in a heterosexual affair.
Stacey’s approach is very much softly-softly; her face is wreathed in compassion as she leans towards the MP, nodding sympathetically and exuding matronly warmth. That doesn’t stop her from luring him into admitting he lied about being gay in order to win over the progressive liberal demographic in his constituency.
It’s a masterclass in velvet-glove manipulation.
The interview is followed by a cooking segment, and then finally the programme cuts to the latest national headlines from INN, before going to regional broadcasters for an update on local news. Five minutes pass, then ten. Stacey doesn’t come into reception to find me.
I go back to the receptionist. ‘Would you mind calling her assistant to make sure Ms Porter got my message?’ I ask.
She picks up her phone, and I watch her smile slip as she listens. Her expression is cool when she ends the call. ‘Please wait a moment,’ she tells me curtly.
She beckons to the security guard standing by the main entrance. I watch them whisper for a few moments, throwing me occasional sidelong glances, and then the security guard approaches me.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ he says, in a tone that suggests he’s bracing for trouble.
‘Why?’
