AN: Jon is a misogynist...it felt gross writing in his POV. I'm so sorry!

The Three Dragons was dead when Jon strolled in at 12pm. He spotted Rita sitting on a stool near the bar, with a glass of coke and a slice of lemon. A pair of old men were playing cards a few metres away.

Even if he hadn't met her, he'd have known she was a policewoman. They all had that look about them, that posture and way of sitting, deliberately taking up space. As it went, Rita wasn't bad looking; a bit overweight, yes, but she had a nice rack. And she had evidently been reading his new book on Jack the Ripper. It lay beside the glass of coke, a business card stuffed between its pages. The thought of her reading it gave him a certain morbid thrill. He wondered whether or not she had reached any colourised prints yet. They took some getting used to.

She didn't turn round when he sidled up to her. 

'Boo.'

'Very funny,' she said coldly. Her manner unnerved him.

'I was going to buy you a drink for being so obliging,' Jon said, climbing onto a stool beside her. 'I'll get the next one. Please. What do you want?' Rita pulled her drink towards her and stared at him warily. She was like a cat ready to pounce. He had to be careful in case the claws came out. The barman, middle aged and tanned with grey stubble and tattooed arms, came out of a back room with some supplies. He gave the pair a disinterested glance, then bent over to restock the fridge.

'No thanks,' Rita said, politely but loud enough for the barman to hear. Ah, so that was the way she wanted to play it. Poor little Rita, menaced by a man trying to be friendly, a gentleman in fact. It would probably work, too. 'You said you wanted to give your side of the story. So, let's hear it.'

'Whatever you'd like to know, Rita.' Jon took his wallet out. 'I'm an open book.'

'I have a lot of questions.' She spoke quietly. 'But I'll start with the main one.'

'What's that?' Jon said.

'Did you kill Erica Scott?'

Blood rushed to Jon's ears as he struggled to digest what she had asked. She was like the rest of them. Looking for a reason to catch him out, to depict him as a sleazy bastard. Putting the worst spin on his actions. 'Where did you get that idea?' he said. Then he realised he had not denied it. 'Myself and Erica - we were very good friends. She was one of the people who 'got' me. Her death has shocked me. That's why I've not been acting myself. I've said and done things that are deeply out of character. And for that I apologise.'  

'I see,' Rita said.

'May I ask who's been suggesting such a thing?'

'That doesn't matter. Did you do it or not?'

'Of course not!' Jon laughed in disbelief. 'And if I had, you of all people should know I wouldn't confess to you in public. In a public house no less.'

'I am aware.' Rita's calm tone maddened him. Jon had the sudden impulse to grab the bitch and smash her head on the wooden bar. She had to be trying to gauge his reactions but what an infuriating way of doing it. It was an accident, he'd say. Of course he wouldn't do it, not here, but the thought brought calm for a moment.

'I'm curious, Rita. Why did you think it was me?'

Rita looked at him. As Jon watched the seconds before she replied seemed to stretch on interminably. She took a sip of coke. 'I don't think anything, Jon. That's why I asked.'

'You must have got the idea from somewhere,' Jon pushed. 'Was it DI Sabbagh?' He raised an eyebrow. 'You can see she has psychological issues. Not that I'm wishing to impugn her character, you understand. It cannot be easy for her with all the challenges she's had.'

'A lot of women you come into contact with seem to suffer from psychological issues.' Rita placed her glass down on the table. 'As you may know, DI Sabbagh has been suspended and may lose her job. As I'm sure you are aware, she was investigating Erica's murder. Now she isn't.'

Jon stared at Rita. The conversation was not turning out how he had expected. He scrambled for a response. 'Uh...wow. Let me guess, I'm responsible for that as well?'

'Someone followed her into a restaurant and took photos of her eating a meal with her family, who had just attended a protest about Gaza. These photos were then sent to her boss to make it look like she had been one of the protesters.' Rita gave him the same cold look she'd given him from the start. Hard work, wasn't she? Jon wanted a drink himself. Something strong. Coke wouldn't suffice, unless it was the other type of coke.

Rita drew herself up and finished her glass. 'Does that sound familiar?'

'Do you really think I did that to her?' He let the shock he felt into his voice, slapped his forehead with his hand. 'Poor woman. I'm so sorry that I ever gave you the impression that I could be the type of person who'd do that. That goes totally against my morals.'

'There's history between you, so I would say you are a suspect.'

'Please know, I would never do that. I'll confess that DI Sabbagh has been a thorn in my side. But I know how it is to be accused of something you didn't do.' He spoke softly and looked Rita in the eye, silently imploring her to believe him.

'Yes. I remember,' she said thoughtfully. Jon was aware of the barman's presence behind them. Last he looked the bloke had been on his phone. Was he listening? How much had he heard? He knew why Rita had been so insistent on sitting in full view of the man. It made him paranoid. 'The incident at the cafe. Sandra Horsforth made clear her view on her sister's death.'

'Sandra can't accept that it was an accident, and that I wasn't involved in Frances's death. I wasn't there.' Jon sighed. He had rehashed aspects of this story so many times he knew it off by heart; it was like learning hours of lines for the school play when he was a kid.

'I think pursuing the case gives her life meaning. It is tragic for her. But what am I supposed to do? As well as losing Frances, I lost seven years of my life. One day, I hope Sandra can move forward. I am very sorry about the fact she can't seem to, but, truly, Rita. I did everything I could.' Jon thought he detected a slight softening of Rita's gaze. A bit of charisma could work its magic after all.

When Rita didn't reply, Jon asked, 'Can I let you know what really happened to Frances that night?'

'First, tell me about Erica.'

'Erica was...something.' Jon smiled sadly. 'Down to earth, vivacious and had a wicked sense of humour. She was rather easy on the eye too as it goes. I would never have wanted to hurt her.' He took a breath. Rita wasn't about to let up on him. 'And, she believed in my innocence.' Sighing deeply, he said, 'She was...special. People wanted to make it out to be something...dirty, but it wasn't.'

'Really? Which people?' It was unsettling the way that she took charge of the conversation. She didn't believe him, he thought. But she wasn't giving any indications either way. Her face was just a mask. If they hadn't been in so public a place he would have lost control by now at the questions the bitch was asking, the rudeness, the fact she just had to have her answer no matter what the cost was to anyone, not caring who might be listening.

As it was he was teetering on the edge.

'Donna Markham, for one,' Jon said. 'You've come across her, right?' He stood up. 'Excuse me. I really do need a drink. Sure I can't get you one?' Rita shook her head. He could feel her eyes on him, scrutinising everything he did. 'You don't have to look at me like that. I'm not a rapist.'

She just shrugged. No apology for making him feel like one. No tension or stiffness. 'Right.'

Jon walked over to the other side of the bar. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the barman leaning over to Rita. 'Scuse me,' the man said in a thick northern accent. 'That bloke's not bothering you, is he, love?'

Rita said something Jon couldn't catch. The barman poured her a lime and soda, taking an annoyingly long time to do it. Jon drummed his fingers on the sticky counter. After several minutes the barman ambled over and said, 'Yes. Can I help you?'

'I'll have a Guinness, please,' Jon said. The man grumbled something and reached for a glass, pouring the beer glacially, a dim look in his eye. He made a show of counting the right change painstakingly, then gave the cash back to him. Jon took his beer and walked back to sit beside Rita. 'Ah, that's better.'

'Donna Markham,' Rita reminded him.

'Donna, Donna...you've met Donna,' Jon sighed. 'Erica loved her. She loved her very much. I don't know if you've ever known someone with borderline personality disorder. It is not easy to deal with. She would frequently self harm, and Erica would have to take her to hospital. She would have the most terrifying rages. She'd flip from love to hate in a few seconds.' He cast his mind back to recall other things Erica had said about her cousin. 'And Donna was paranoid about me in particular. She became very possessive. I think she was jealous of what we had.'

'So you think that Erica found her a burden,' Rita said, sucking on the bit of lime from her drink.

'She would have never admitted it. But at times, yes. Before she started the podcast, Donna hadn't really worked for years. Erica had to help her out with money.' As he spoke Rita gave him an odd look he couldn't work out.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

'You know, I keep coming back to that bag Sandra had with her in the cafe. You saw it. They were Erica's clothes. I recognised her style instantly. Maybe I should have challenged her. But that would have gone down like a lead balloon, wouldn't it, with everyone there arrayed against me?' He laughed. 'Right?'

'Yes. The bag is an issue.' Rita took a sip of her lime and soda. 'But it doesn't prove Sandra's guilt.'

'Doesn't prove it?' Jon said in a hissing breath, pressing his glass on the table.

He'd had enough.

He stood up until he was right next to her, in her face. 'You think I did it. You give Sandra the benefit of the doubt when she literally had Erica's things in her possession, and a knife. You won't give that to me. You won't admit that I might be right. That's too much, after what your friends have been telling you about me, Subeera and Aimee and God knows who else. That poison they've fed you with. I should have known. You think I did it and you brought me here to confess in front of witnesses. I won't, because it wasn't me.'

'OK,' Rita said, looking him in the eye. 'But everyone who could have done it will, and so far, has, said the same thing.'

'Oh. Oh. So I could have done it.' His voice raised. The old men playing cards stopped their conversation and turned around. 'You don't have the guts to say outright you think I killed someone I once loved. But you do think it. Don't you?' His arm shoved Rita's lime and soda glass, knocking it onto the counter. Cold fizzy liquid poured across the bar and onto Rita's lap, splashing Jon's shirt. 'I didn't do it. You know deep down I didn't, or you wouldn't have asked to meet me. Admit it!'

'That's it, pal,' the barman shouted, stomping over past the wooden gate. 'Enough of this shite. Don't threaten women in my pub. Blokes like you aren't welcome.' He stood with his hands clenched into fists, a full metal ice bucket in one of them as if to sling it. 'Out you go. Fucking twat.' He turned to Rita. 'Sorry for this trouble, love. Do you want me to ring the bizzies for you?'

'Thanks, but that won't be necessary,' Rita said.

'OK. If you're sure, love.' The barman gave her a worried look, then advanced towards Jon. 'I won't have this in my pub. Get out of here and don't come back.'

Jon recognised he had lost the battle. 'My God I - I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so out of control,' he said softly as he loped towards the door.

He gave Rita a last lingering stare, breathing deeply as his anger subsided.

Once he was outside, he ducked beside a rose bush beside the entrance, leaned against the wall. His thoughts lingered on the way that she had protected her drinks, the way that she'd kept her eyes trained on him. He clenched and unclenched his hands.

Like he'd have tried anything on with the dried up cow anyway.

One of the old men who had been playing cards left the pub. He didn't give as much as a glance in Jon's direction. A few minutes later, a young couple Jon had not even noticed followed the elderly man out. His frustration building, bile rising in his throat, he was about to call it a day when Rita emerged.

She looked warily around and Jon knew he hadn't been seen. She walked briskly away from the pub in the opposite direction to where he was standing, stealing a glance behind her.

He hung back a few moments, until he was sure she hadn't seen him, then followed her.