The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths Read Online Free PDF

can’t overcome. Jackson stares at the wasp with a face that has the emptiness of sculpture.
    He looks back at his computer, hits some buttons.
    ‘Your course starts soon, doesn’t it?’
    ‘Next week.’
    Jackson ponders a little further. His version of pondering involves hitting the flat of his hand softly against the top of his desk and staring into the middle distance.
    ‘Look, I take your point, but I think we need to leave this with Fraud for now. I’ll talk to – who’s that new guy over from Swansea?’
    ‘Rhodri Stephens.’
    ‘I’ll talk to him. Tell him we take this seriously, that we think there’s a manslaughter prosecution floating around here. We’ll give them time to make a case of it, see where they get to.’
    Because my face doesn’t instantly assume the ‘yes, O Mighty One’ reverence that all senior officers think is their due, Jackson adds, ‘Fiona, fraud is a job for the Fraud Squad. It is not a job for Major Crime and it is not your job to tell me mine.’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘I think that’s our five minutes. Thank you for the coffee.’
    ‘You’re welcome.’
    ‘Good luck with the course.’
    I nod and leave the room.

6.
    It’s three weeks later, but feels more. I’m in a shit flat close to where the M1 disgorges into London, a long stone’s throw from Brent Cross. I’m on the eighth floor of an eleven-story building. One of the lifts is out of order and the curtains on my windows are made of unlined orange cotton. My kitchen contains a packet of sliced bread, some margarine, some peppermint tea bags and a tin of beans. I don’t have a can opener.
    It is midnight, and I have to be at work in Wembley by four. I’m not allowed my car here, and the journey time by public transport is an hour.
    So far this week, I have averaged less than four hours sleep a night.
    I put some margarine on a slice of bread and eat it, standing up, looking out of the window. There’s music coming from the flat above me. Music and an argument.
    I’d like to call Buzz. Not about anything, just to chat. Hear his voice, learn what’s been going on at the office. Laugh a bit too much at one of his jokes, just for the pleasure of feeling his pleasure at my appreciation.
    We’ve been going out for slightly more than a year. I would say it’s been my longest ever relationship but in truth it’s been my first ever relationship. First proper one. I remember when we first started dating I thought, I realize I would like to be Dave Brydon’s girlfriend. The sort who would remember his birthday, act appropriately in front of his parents and think to wear their most expensive knickers on St Valentine’s Day . And I’ve ticked those boxes, all of them. I haven’t just remembered his birthday, but I got everything right at Christmas and have, mostly, remembered our important anniversaries. I don’t get waves of love from his parents – him a manager at a national building products company, her the deputy head of a village school in the Forest of Dean – but my mishaps and misdemeanors have all been fairly minor, all explainable as That’s just Fi for you, I’m afraid . I even got Valentine’s Day right too. I couldn’t quite believe that fully grown adults took all that commercial red-heart pap seriously, but I checked with my sister beforehand who told me yes, they really did. So I did it. Played the part. Wore a nice black dress with expensive undies, red and slutty, underneath. Let Buzz take me to dinner. Expressed surprise and delight when, inevitably, a dozen red roses were produced. Let myself be coaxed into drinking a whole glass and a half of champagne – a lot for me – and happily shared a chocolate pudding glazed with raspberry coulis in the shape of a heart. Then we went back to Buzz’s place where we made red and slutty love, saying that we loved each other and meaning it.
    I look at my phone. It’s mine, not something issued by the training course. All my numbers pre-programmed.