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‘It wasn’t very nice of you to leak that video,’ she says chidingly. ‘Do you know how much extra work you made for my agent? She was up all night drafting a press release for me.’
‘She might as well earn her commission,’ I say. ‘What angle did she come up with?’
‘The obvious one: self-defence after a decade of abuse. You didn’t see my statement to the press? It was all over the news this afternoon.’
‘Forgive me. I’ve been a little distracted.’
Stacey glances out of the window. It’s started to drizzle: my windscreen wipers scrape against the glass. ‘I think you might’ve done me a favour,’ she says. ‘I’ve already had a couple of domestic abuse shelters contact me asking me to be their patron. The Centre for Women’s Justice — or was it Justice for Women? — want me to join their campaign for penal reform for women who hit back against their abusers. Did you know nearly forty percent of female murder victims were killed by a current or former partner, against just four percent of male victims?’
‘I think we both know Felix wasn’t the abuser here, Stacey.’
‘Do we, though?’ she asks. ‘It’s all a question of perspective, isn’t it? That video, for instance. It looks bad for me on first viewing, but once you see the photos of my bruises and black eye, well. That changes things.’
The grey shadow of a fox darts across the road, and I brake to avoid it. ‘I told you those photos would come in useful.’
‘And you were right, Millie. I’m the first to admit it. As soon as Justine – that’s my agent, the bloodsucking leech – as soon as she made the photos available to the press, everything changed. Hashtagbelieve the women: you’ve got to love it. I’ve already had three grovelling voicemails from my producer, but I think I’m going to make him sweat a bit more before I return them.’
It doesn’t matter what I do: Stacey will come up smelling of roses. The police are never going to believe me over her. I’m notlikeable. I’m notrelatable.
‘So why are you here, Stacey?’ I ask. ‘If everything’s worked out so beautifully for you? What do you need from me?’
‘I didn’t kill my husband, Millie.’
‘Nor did I,’ I say tersely. ‘Though you’ve done a very good job at making it look as if I did.’
‘No one’s ever going to convict you,’ Stacey says with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘It’s all circumstantial. Smoke and mirrors. It’ll blow over. You’ll be fine.’
‘So what was the point? Why drag me into it at all?’
She doesn’t reply. When I glance in the rearview mirror, she’s staring out into the darkness. I could stop the car and refuse to play this game any longer. Maybe she has a weapon, maybe she doesn’t: I find it hard to believe she’s going to do me any harm. The last thing she needs is another corpse on her hands.
She turns her head. ‘Why are you such good friends with Harper?’ she asks abruptly.
I meet her eyes in the mirror. ‘We’re not friends.’
‘She’s living in your house,’ Stacey says.
‘Because you drove a bloody car into hers and tried to kill her,’ I say.
‘You only have her word for that.’
She’s right, of course.
‘She says she saw you at the wheel,’ I say.
‘Did she tell you your son was with me when I did it?’
It takes a considerable effort of will to keep the car on the road. ‘You’re lying,’ I say.
‘You know I’m not.’
My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. ‘Stay away from him,’ I snap.
‘What’s that worth to you?’
‘He’s myson.’
‘You tried to destroy my career with your little online stunt yesterday,’ Stacey says. ‘You’ve been digging around in my past trying to find more dirt to use against me. Your son told me that, by the way. Gave me all the details. He’s very loyal. Just not to you.’ She opens the window a couple of centimetres, letting in a sharp blast of cold air. ‘Please pass my best on to your husband, too, won’t you? He did a nice job wiping my computer.’
