The Guilty Party. Mel McGrath

really don’t think this was the same woman, Cassie,’ repeats Dex.

      Could I really be the only one who saw Marika Lapska raped in that alley on the night of 13 August? What if no one is lying? What if I didn’t see what I think I saw? What if my eyes are deceiving me? But no. I remember so clearly the scarf illuminated in the light of Dex’s phone. The colour of the pattern, as yellow as the moon that night. The bright, sunny blueness of the pom-poms. And what if Dex is right and there are a zillion of those scarves, what are the chances that the woman in the alley and the drowned woman are one and the same? Very high, I’d say. A virtual certainty.

      ‘I know I saw this woman being attacked. It could have been the same guy who killed her. People, she died.’

      ‘Casspot, do we even need to do this now? It’s my birthday weekend,’ says Bo.

      ‘Why don’t you just call the cops yourself if you’re that convinced?’ Dex says. ‘No one’s stopping you.’

      ‘Cassie, I forbid you to do that. We’d inevitably get dragged in,’ Anna says, giving Dex an urgent, accusatory look.

      ‘God, no. I’ve got enough on my plate,’ says Bo. Anna is staring intently at Dex.

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes, really.’

      ‘Casspot, you’re being tiresome,’ Bo adds more harshly than he probably intends. ‘And I can tell you now, I have absolutely no intention of going to the police. Because I didn’t see shit. As I keep saying.’

      ‘And I didn’t see anything that could be remotely helpful either,’ says Anna, settling herself into the sofa. ‘We were all rather pissed. Including you, Cassie.’

      Dex has moved over to the French windows leading out to the garden now and he’s holding up the wine glasses. ‘Come into the garden with me, Cass, while Anna works her miracles with the veg.’

      It’s cold outside. A blanket of midnight blue from which the odd star shines.

      ‘Isn’t this amazing? We should make the most of it.’ He stands and surveys the scene with the lights of Fortuneswell below us and beyond them, Chesil Beach and the wide midnight blue selvedge of the sea. ‘There was a doc on the TV the other day about kids with alcoholic parents. It was just on, you know? It was talking about, you know, how the kids often . . . about how they develop these saviour complexes because they couldn’t save their parents. The doc said they often grow up unsure about what’s real.’

      ‘Fuck’s sake, Dex. I know it was her . . . and it’s sort of low to bring my mum into it, don’t you think?’

      ‘You really don’t know it was her. I had the best view and I hardly saw anything.’

      ‘You saw a woman being raped. We all did.’ Dex removes a rollie from his pocket, lights it and takes a deep inhale. The thick scent of grass drifts over and out towards the sea.

      ‘You know it’s an offence to leave the scene of a crime, right?’

      ‘I could just go to the police on my own?’

      ‘C’mon, Cass, you know as well as I do that Anna’s right. They’d want to know who you were with. Or there’d be CCTV or something. One way or another we’d get dragged into it. That woman’s just some rando. We live in a city of eight million randos. We can’t fix everyone.’

      ‘She probably came to London looking for a better life. Don’t we owe her at least a bit of concern?’

      ‘Look, either she made a really bad choice or she just got really unlucky. It could have happened to anyone.’

      ‘I could call Crimestoppers and leave an anonymous tip-off.’

      This is where you tell me that you’re already dragged into it, Dex. Into something, anyway. This is where you come clean.

      Dex sucks on his rollie. ‘Cass, I love you but you’re missing the point. I’m begging you, stay under the radar. Think about that promotion you’re after. What if they decide to prosecute you for leaving the scene of a crime? You think you’re going to get promoted if you end up with a criminal record? You’re not going to be able to work in a school at all. That’s it. End of career. Finito.’

      He smiles and, reaching out, grasps my chin between the index finger of his right hand and the thumb, a gesture from the old days, whenever I got tearful or scared.

      ‘There’s nothing to be gained here, except some misplaced conscience salving. You want to do something virtuous give fifty quid to your favourite charity. You won’t get arrested and you’ll probably be doing more good.’

      ‘I’m not trying to be a do-gooder. I’m trying to do the right thing.’

      ‘Well, don’t.’

      It’s cold now though the rain has stopped at least. A moth flaps around Dex’s head and, as he bats it away, flutters against the light.

      ‘Why did the police come and see you?’

      He turns, the light now illuminating his left cheek, leaving half his face in the shadows. ‘Did Gav tell you that?’

      ‘He seemed to think you were in a lot of trouble.’

      Dex shakes his head. ‘Gav’s all over the place at the moment. He’s got the wrong end of the stick. You remember that scrap I got into with the numpty at the festival about whether or not I was looking at his girlfriend? The cops were just trying to find out what started the rioting, you know, covering all bases. It was nothing.’

      He takes my wine glass and puts it down on the concrete and with one arm around my shoulder he presses me to him. ‘I’m sorry, Cass, but think about what me and Gav have got ahead of us. We really, really don’t need this. For the next four days I just want to pretend I’m young and free again. Is that so much to ask? Tell you what, if you’re still upset about that woman at the end of our trip, we’ll revisit it, OK?’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘Good.’ He plants an unexpected kiss on my lips.

      And so it’s done. The decision made. There will be no more mention of Marika Lapska or the events at the Wapping Festival. For the next four days the official Group version will be that nothing ever happened.

5

       Bo

       A little after 3 a.m., Sunday 14 August, Wapping

      The arm around his neck pulling him back smells familiar. He twists his head round and meets Dex’s face.

      ‘Mate, drop it.’

      ‘What?’ His body is peeling. He feels weird and wired. He spins back to look at the bloke who, just a few seconds ago, was about to slug him. He hears Dex say, ‘Sorry, mate. My friend’s a bit, you know . . . he’s not trying to disrespect you.’

      What the fuck? thinks Bo. He bloody does mean disrespect, he means a fistful of it. He watches the bloke’s body language soften. Stupid bastard wants out of the scrap, looking for any excuse. He’s so tight now, though, everything he’s seen tonight, the adrenalin. Bloody great neither of them has a knife or a gun. He could easily have slipped a blade between that guy’s ribs, thought no more about it, the way he is now. How wired his body feels. His legs slacken, cease their forward momentum, the muscles melting into one another. He’s rooted to the spot. He’ll be fucked if he’s going to give way but it looks like he might not have to come forward. It’s all those hours in the gym, Bo’s thinking. Not the job title or the river view apartment or the strings of women. That fucker knows nothing about any of that.

      ‘Get out of here, mate, just go,’ he says.

      The bloke hesitates. Bo knows exactly what the fucker’s