‘That was the big joke. Thornley and his mates had worked in the hall for so long, and seen so many ceremonies, that he used to brag he could do the job better himself. When Danny came into the pub asking for someone to do it, well, it was just too good an opportunity to turn down.’
I fold Thornley’s affidavit up and pass it back to Fin. ‘I take it you’ve shared this with Terry?’
‘He’s known I’ve been chasing the Scottish angle for some time, and I brought him up to speed just before we stepped into this room. He plans to call the police and the CPS as soon as his office have pulled all the documents together and can email everything over so the charge against you can be dropped.’
‘Good. Thank you. I still have pregnancy brain, so help me here. In terms of who I’m legally married and not legally married to, this development sort of turns everything upside down, doesn’t it?’
He nods. ‘Yes, it does. The police charged you with bigamy because they thought you were legally married to Danny and therefore the second marriage to Martin would have automatically been illegal. Now we can prove your first marriage was invalid, your second one is legal.’
I understand now why Fin wanted to tell me before the start of this meeting, before Eric Dale turns into Jeremy Kyle and reveals who the father of my child is.
‘Please don’t tell Martin about this.’ I point a finger sternly at Fin. ‘I mean it. Not a word. He’s confused enough already. I don’t want this development clouding his judgment on today of all days.’
128
Annie
His Honour, Mr Justice Barrows, returns to his grand, leather, elevated seat in Number One Court at exactly four o’clock.
There is complete silence and all eyes are on him.
Ashley Crewe is standing soldier straight in the dock, with his hands by his sides and a grim look on his face. His eyes no longer glare with defiance, they glisten with the uncertainty of a man who has never been to prison and never expected to go there. A man who was until a few hours ago more prepared for a celebratory party than a spell behind bars. Next to him is Ronnie Croft, looking nothing like the swaggering bully who bounded out of the stolen Range Rover when I came across him and Richardson.
‘Ashley Crewe,’ says Barrows, as though the words taste sour in his mouth. ‘You have lived a life of crime, both here in England and abroad, and you have been found guilty of a brutal and reprehensible rape and a callous and calculated murder. I leave aside the passport fraud charge for the moment. In deciding a fitting sentence for an offence of rape I am bound to take into account the age of the victim, just fifteen years and the force you used, which was brutal and traumatic. Your motivation for the crime clearly extended beyond savage sexual satisfaction and was mired in malice and hatred of her boyfriend, Daniel Smith, a man in later life you murdered. You were then, and you clearly still are today, a danger to society. It is therefore incumbent upon me to exercise my discretion and sentence you to life imprisonment. And it is my recommendation that you serve no less than twenty years.’
Crewe shows no emotion.
‘Tougher than I expected,’ I whisper to Goodwin.
The judge continues, ‘In respect of the charge of murder, I am obligated to also impose a life sentence. Ashley Crewe, this offence cuts to the heart of who you are. You used your vast wealth and criminal connections to transcend borders and thousands of miles in order to take the life of your old adversary, Daniel Smith. I have no doubt that you feared Smith testifying against you, and I strongly suspect, had he done so, then the jury may have recorded more guilty verdicts than they have. In respect of this crime, I recommend that you serve a minimum of thirty years, to run concurrently with the sentence I have already passed down.’
Barrows pauses for a moment, and I wonder if it’s because he’s forgotten about the fraud charge. Then I realise it’s not. It’s because the judge wants to take a longer look at the man he’s just sentenced. He wants to see the effect of the sentence on him. Crewe has already straightened up. His face is grim with anger. The expensive suit and well-groomed looks are now not enough to hide his innate menace.
‘You pleaded guilty to a charge of fraudulently obtaining a passport and using it illegally. I do not for a moment accept Sir Richard’s mitigating argument that you were forced against your will to do this and fled abroad out of fear for your life. In respect of this charge, I sentence you to two years, to run concurrently with the other sentencing.’ Barrows waves a hand dismissively at the dock. ‘Officers, please take him down.’
‘Fuck you!’ shouts Crewe. The first words he’s said to the court. ‘Fuck you to hell and back!’ He points across the court, at me. ‘I’ll get you, you bitch. I’ll fucking kill you for this.’
‘Get him out of here,’ says the judge, angrily.
I watch three police officers manhandle him out of the dock and force him noisily downstairs to the holding cells.
Ronnie Croft stands alone in the dock. I see terror in his eyes.
Mr Justice Barrows waits until all the commotion has died away, then he deals with his final business of the day. ‘Ronald Croft. You have admitted a charge of Murder. In sentencing you, I have taken into account the mitigating factors of your youthfulness and your impressionability. Undoubtedly, you were pressured into committing this crime, but commit it you did. I have also given due weight to your guilty plea and the frankness of your statements to the police. None the less, you took a man’s life - and for that you will be sent to prison for ten years. Take him down.’
Nisha, Goodwin and myself head for the exit. We have no desire to hear the jury being thanked. No wish to be in here any longer than necessary. What I need, is to calm myself down. I need to ignore the threat. It’s certainly not the first and won’t be the last that’s been made against me.
I walk away from my colleagues. There are people to call. News to tell. Lives to change.
129
Paula
Solicitor Eric Dale is in a fluster. Martin has gone missing. ‘I have another appointment,’ he splutters. ‘I can’t stay here much longer. I told my office the timings for this were far too tight. Should we go on without him?’
‘Not yet,’ I say calmly. ‘He may just have gone outside for some air. I’m sure you can give us another fifteen minutes.’
Dale flaps his short, chubby arms. ‘Very well. Fifteen. Yes, fifteen should be all right.’
Fin has gone to try to find Martin and Terry is in the corridor, calling his office. This delay has got me thinking about the fact that Danny and I were never married, that our whole life together started out as a big mistake and that all those times I threatened to divorce him were completely needless.
My mobile phone rings. It’s in my handbag and I thought I had turned it off. To be honest, I’m glad of the distraction. I take it out and answer, ‘Hello?’
I recognise DI Parker’s voice. ‘I’m at the hospital right now, Detective Inspector. Can I call you back a little later?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Are you hurt?’
‘No. I’m fine. I’ve just had the baby. A month premature, but he’s okay. Actually, he’s more than okay, he’s gorgeous.’
‘That’s brilliant!’ She sounds genuinely delighted. ‘Congratulations! You’ve just landed yourself the hardest and most rewarding unpaid job in the world.’
‘I know,’ I laugh.
‘I can call you later,’ says Parker, ‘but I wanted to tell you, before it hits the media, Ashley Crewe’s trial has just finished.’
‘Oh.’ My mood flattens. ‘Please don’t give me bad news.’
‘I won’t. Crewe received two life sentences. One for the attack on you, and one for Danny’s murder.’
‘Thank you.’ I close my eyes. Close them because I feel tears come. Close them because I see Danny, in his best suit at that wedding hall in Gretna. Close them because I see the beautiful child waiting for me, who may well be his.
‘The judge set a minimum sentence of thirty years,
’ adds Parker.
Thirty.
He’ll be seventy-one, I tell myself.
He’ll be seventy-one when he comes out and Danny will still be dead. I keep the unfairness to myself. ‘Thank you for calling me,’ I tell the DI. ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness in letting me know so quickly.’ As I’m talking, Fin opens the door and walks in. Martin is behind him. And he is followed by Terry. ‘I need to go now. Thank you again, for all that you’ve done.’
I end the call and drop the phone in my bag.
‘I’ve been to see the baby,’ says Martin, looking emotional. ‘He’s a very handsome little chap.’
‘He is,’ I say, welling up again.
Martin comes over to me. Squats low, so he is level with my wheelchair. ‘I don’t care what the DNA says. If you need help raising little Mr Handsome, I’ll be there for you. As a friend – or as a husband.’
I well up even further, then look to Fin. ‘Did you say something to him?’
He shrugs.
‘Look at you,’ Fin says, passing a pack of tissues to me. ‘You’re in no fit state to look after yourself. Take this man’s offer. Snatch his hand off.’
Eric Dale clears his throat and takes a sealed envelope out of his pocket. ‘Perhaps this is an opportune moment to reveal the results of the tests my office carried out.’
‘Perhaps it’s not,’ says Martin. He turns to me, ‘I don’t have to know the result. I don’t want to know. My life is empty without you. I love you. Despite trying not to, I do still love you. And I’m sure, regardless of blood, I can love that gorgeous little boy of yours.’
‘He’s yours as well,’ says Fin.
I glare at him.
‘Come on,’ he replies, ‘do you really think I would let this DNA circus come to town and not know the result in advance?’
Dale looks totally deflated.
‘Congratulations,’ says Fin, shaking Martin’s hand. ‘You’re the father, Martin – and another thing – you’re still married. Legitimately, legally, no-question-about-it, still married.’
130
Annie
It’s 4.30 a.m. on Saturday.
My tired mind is hugely comforted by the thought that Ashley Crewe will have spent his first night in jail. Wormwood Scrubs. Not Full Sutton where his brother is. Ronnie Croft is in Wakefield, safely away from Crewe.
Despite getting back late last night from London, my lovely family and I set off half an hour ago to climb the massive Derbyshire peak where my son Tom proposed to Lily. The two of them went there a lot, until Polly came along and made hiking a more difficult venture.
Thorpe Cloud is a rare beauty spot. It’s what’s known as a reef knoll. It’s basically a big limestone hill that lies between the Peak District villages of Ilam and Thorpe. Apart from the vertiginous views down onto Dovedale and the famous slippery stepping stones spanning the river, what makes this such a special place is that at certain times of the year, you can actually see the sun set, not once, but twice. It’s an astro-geographical phenomenon called a double sunset. A planetary doppelganger. A moment not to be missed. Though Tom swears that the most magical views from Thorpe are at first light, like this morning, as mist hangs over the fields and the sun burns away the last blackness of the night sky.
My son carries his daughter on his shoulders while Dee and I jokingly hold hands, as we did as young sisters, when we walked with our parents. On my back is a rucksack. And in it, a steel urn containing the cremated remains of Lily Josephine Parker, the great love of my son’s life.
It also contains a small trowel, some lily bulbs, a bottle of Bucks Fizz, paper cups and a Bakewell tart, Lily’s favourite dessert.
Dee shines a torch and to my shame she seems far fitter than me as we make the ascent. We are all breathing heavily, even shoulder-riding Polly, by the time we reach the top and see the first signs of dawn breaking across the valleys below us.
‘There’s no one else here,’ says my granddaughter triumphantly. ‘We have it all to ourselves.’
‘It’s just how your mummy liked it,’ says Tom.
I hold her while Tom walks nostalgically on the roof of the iconic limestone hill. I see him stretch out his right hand and I know he’s looking for the ghost of my daughter-in-law to thread her fingers into his. He stops for a moment and looks up to the red and purple bruises in the sky and I can feel his pain. I think of Jack and I long to wrap my arms around him, feel him hug me one more time, and I have to fight back my own tears.
‘When can we have cake?’ asks Polly.
‘It’s not cake, it’s tart,’ says Dee. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘It tastes like cake,’ insists Polly. ‘And I need some, because I’m hungry.’
‘In a minute, sweetheart,’ I tell her, as I walk past, to be with Tom.
I’m about three metres away, when he slowly drops to one knee and raises his head a little. I stop because I realise that he’s at the spot where he proposed and suddenly I blub. I have to turn from him. I put my hands to my face and I lose it for a second. Then I rub my eyes. Rub them as though I’m cleaning a stubborn stain from a filthy old sink.
‘Just here,’ shouts Tom. ‘I’d like to do it just here.’
I swing the rucksack off my back and go to him. ‘How do you want to do this? Would you like to say some words and toast her memory first? Or—’ I try not to hesitate or sound as awkward as I feel ‘—would you like to scatter Lily’s ashes first?’
‘Bulbs first, Mum.’
I open the flap on the rucksack and take out the lily bulbs and trowel.
‘Polly, come on,’ he shouts. ‘You show Daddy where you want to plant Mummy’s flowers.’
She rushes over and for a second my son hugs her. He holds tight, then he talks to her, rubs her cheeks and kisses her.
Polly bounces away from him. Jerkily breaks into a song and with it, a ragged dance that is more like schoolyard hopscotch. ‘Ring-a-ring-o-roses, a pocket full of posies,’ she sings awfully out of tune, bouncing from one foot to another. ‘A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down!’ She drops to the floor and slaps the turf resoundingly with a flat hand. ‘Here, Daddy, here. Do it here!’
‘I’ve got it!’ Tom drives his trowel through the grass and marks the spot.
Polly is already off and playing her part again. ‘The king has sent his daughter, to fetch a pail of water. A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all falled down.’ I smile at the mangled English as she drops again and her father faithfully follows with his trowel.
Dee is busying herself dividing the Bakewell tart and I hear the pop of the Bucks Fizz cork as Polly concludes, ‘The cows are in the meadow, lying fast asleep. A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all jump up again!’
She runs on the spot. ‘Put the rest here, Daddy. The sky looks nice from here. Mummy would like to see it when she wakes up.’
Dee comes alongside me and we wrap our arms around each other for a moment. Life goes on. Bitter-sweet, as it is, we learn to cling to those we love. I look around and it’s almost completely light now. Tom drops the final lily bulbs into their designated spots and covers them with mounds of soil that Polly then dances flat.
‘I’m ready now, Mum,’ says Tom as he brushes his palms clean together.
I take the urn from the rucksack and carry it to him, worrying how traumatic he might find this last part.
‘I’m all right,’ he says, reading my mind. ‘This is all, all right.’
He uncaps the top and puts it down. I grab Polly’s hand so she doesn’t get too close to the edge of the hill. ‘This was your mummy’s favourite spot,’ I tell her.
‘I know that, Grandma,’ she says indignantly, ‘and Daddy’s too.’
Tom takes the open urn in both hands. ‘I love you, Lily Parker. Polly and I will never stop talking about you. We’ll never forget you and you’ll live forever in our hearts. God bless you – you wonderful wife and mother.’
He shakes the opened urn. Ash billows and swirls upward like a genie in the hig
h-rising wind. He shakes it again. Polly snuggles against my leg and says, ‘Mummy’s up in the clouds with Granddad now, isn’t she?’
‘She is, sweetheart, she is indeed.’ I pick her up and hold her tight as Tom empties the last of the ash and then walks toward us. He has his brave face on. A smile masking tears.
‘Well done,’ I tell him.
He hugs me and Polly at the same time, then he says resolutely, ‘Time for food and drink.’
‘Not until you’ve washed your hands,’ his five-year-old says sternly. ‘Grandma, just look at Daddy. He’s covered in Mummy dust.’
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Acknowledgements
An enormous thanks to the team at Aria, especially my talented editor, Lucy Gilmore, for her support throughout. Also, the copy editor Sue Smith and proof reader Sue Lamprell for their advice and attention to detail.
My gratitude to my agent Luigi Bonomi of LBA for your help and encouragement. Lastly, but by no means least, thank you to you, my readers.
DLM
About D.L. Michaels
D.L. MICHAELS is a former award-winning TV executive, who married in Tuscany, has one teenage son and lives on an old converted farm in the Peak District. Favourite writers include Harlan Coben, Patricia Cornwell and Nicci French.
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