Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  ‘And he’s stayed cooped up how long?’

  ‘Two years. Since he was sixteen.’

  ‘He’s never been out in all that time?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘God . . .’ Hugh winced at the thought. ‘And they can’t be rehoused?’

  ‘At the moment they don’t score enough points to jump the housing queue. Gloria’s got a doctor’s certificate to say she’s suffering from stress, but then half the estate’s got stress-related illnesses so it’s not exactly a rarity.’

  ‘So who gets priority? Teenage mothers, I suppose. Lesbian asylum seekers.’

  Used to his rumblings against the march of political correctness Lizzie raised her eyebrows briefly. ‘The best hope,’ she went on, ‘is to get Wesley properly diagnosed with agoraphobia and depression and whatever else he’s suffering from, then between the two of them they should chalk up enough points. But the psychiatrist’s rushed off her feet at the moment. She can’t get to see him before the end of the month.’

  Hugh said, ‘The word agoraphobia comes from the Greek for market-place, you know. It’s a fear of going to the market-place.’

  Lizzie gave a snuffle of amusement. ‘Since when did you know any Greek?’

  ‘Since last week, when agoraphobia came up in a radio quiz.’

  ‘That’s cheating.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, in Wesley’s case it’s not fear of crowded places. It’s fear of going out at all. But at least he’s decided to talk to me, to trust me, which is more than he did before.’

  A suspicion entered Hugh’s mind and settled there. ‘What’s he been saying?’ he asked lightly.

  Distracted by some other thought, Lizzie murmured, ‘Oh . . . how much he’d like to live somewhere else. That sort of thing.’

  He waited for her to say more, but she was concentrating on her food. ‘When did you last see him?’ he asked, as the suspicion deepened.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Wesley?’

  She stabbed at some pasta before glancing up with a quick smile. ‘Oh, this evening.’

  Hugh absorbed this slowly. ‘That was your late meeting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought it was a Citizens Advice meeting.’

  ‘Well, it was.’

  As the anxiety bunched in his stomach, Hugh gave up on his food. ‘You went to the estate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He gave an unhappy sigh. ‘Lizzie . . .’

  ‘It was perfectly safe.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone could ever class the Carstairs Estate as safe. And certainly not after dark.’

  ‘But I went with Gloria. And John walked me back to the car afterwards.’

  ‘John?’ Hugh muttered.

  ‘The community pastor.’

  ‘And he deters the local gangs, does he?’

  ‘No one would try anything with John.’

  ‘You mean the muggers stop long enough to check that he’s wearing a dog-collar before they attack? Well, I’m glad they’ve got so much respect for a man of the cloth.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not the dog-collar. It’s the fact that he’s six foot four and perfectly capable of looking after himself.’

  Hugh rapidly amended his picture of John from a saintly grey-haired Bible-pusher to something far more robust, a former army chaplain perhaps, or a Born Again bodybuilder. ‘All the same, I can’t pretend I’m happy about it, Lizzie. You being there after dark.’

  ‘It’s much safer than it used to be even a year ago.’

  ‘But not enough to make Gloria feel secure.’

  ‘That’s because she’s so worried about Wesley.’

  ‘Well, maybe she’s got good reason.’ Hearing himself in this mood, topping each point like some smart-arse lawyer, he took a moment to slow down. ‘Trouble is, you’re always going to be a prime target. White middle-class. A handbag full of credit cards. Everything that’s fair game.’

  Lizzie shook her head a little, as if the comment was unworthy of an answer. ‘I never carry much in my handbag.’

  ‘But they’re not going to realise that till they’ve mugged you, are they?’ If he had disliked himself in the role of point-scorer, the part of fretful husband didn’t suit him much better. ‘Can’t you meet people in a café or something?’

  ‘Not if they’re old and disabled. Not if they’ve got children to care for.’

  He made an uncertain face.

  ‘I take care. Really I do.’

  It was the Denzel Lewis case that had first taken her to the Carstairs Estate, he remembered with an echo of misgiving. Denzel was a twenty-one-year-old serving life for stabbing a youth to death. When Denzel was refused leave to appeal, his sisters had come to Lizzie for advice on raising money for a new legal fight. But then – and Hugh could never work out quite what had triggered it – Lizzie’s interest in the case had deepened. Ignoring the training guidelines to keep an emotional distance from her work, she had got involved in the campaign to free Denzel. Perhaps it was Denzel’s proud, articulate sisters Jacqui and Sophia who’d convinced her of his innocence, perhaps it was the word on the block, which had it that he’d been framed, but she began to read up on the evidence and talk to Denzel’s friends and accompany his sisters to meetings with the new lawyers. Even then Hugh hadn’t appreciated how much she’d taken the case to heart until she announced she was going to visit Denzel in prison, and subsequently spoke out for him at a campaign meeting.

  If Hugh had been forced to say whether he thought Lizzie’s time well spent, he would have been pushed to answer. There was the small matter of the forensic evidence, a jacket splattered with the dead man’s blood which had been found in Denzel’s bedroom, planted there, according to Denzel, by someone out to frame him. And there was his alibi, which had changed rather too often to inspire confidence. But Hugh tried to keep his doubts to himself. Once, in the early days, he’d uttered a rather sweeping opinion on Denzel’s chances of getting off, and been accused by Lizzie of jumping to conclusions without being in full possession of the facts, a charge hard to deny either as a lawyer or a husband. Since then he’d taken a seat very much at the back of the campaign bus, acting as home supporter and sounding board.

  ‘So . . .’ he said brightly. ‘What’s the latest with the Denzel campaign?’

  ‘The solicitor’s drafting a new application for leave to appeal but it’s not likely to get very far.’

  ‘So, what next?’

  ‘Well, the sisters are planning a new campaign to appeal for witnesses. Sophia’s targeting the local radio stations, newspapers and churches, while Jacqui’s organising a leafleting operation to cover every household in the neighbourhood – the Carstairs and Summerfields Estates, as well as the shops and offices.’

  ‘Quite an undertaking.’

  ‘Well, there has to be a witness out there somewhere, someone who can support Denzel’s alibi.’

  ‘It’s been quite a while,’ Hugh ventured.

  ‘But that might just work to their advantage. There might be someone who’s had the case on his or her conscience all this time and might finally be ready to come forward.’ Catching the reservation in Hugh’s face, Lizzie added, ‘Some people do have consciences, you know. Even on the roughest estates.’

  ‘But their whole culture’s about steering clear of trouble, isn’t it? And witness statements and court cases are serious trouble.’

  ‘You’re not allowing for people’s better natures.’

  Hugh said, ‘That’s the difference between you and me, Lizzie. You still believe in people’s better natures.’

  ‘So do you,’ she said firmly.

  Basking briefly in her good opinion, he rather wished he shared it.

  Lizzie took some salad. ‘Anyway, if anyone’s that nervous about coming forward there’s always the witness protection scheme.’

  It was all Hugh could do to maintain a neutral expression. The idea was so wildly unrealistic he thought she must have abando
ned it weeks ago.

  She went on, ‘I’m seeing Chief Inspector Montgomery tomorrow actually.’

  ‘And what does he say?’

  She looked up from her food. ‘Well, darling, I don’t know till I see him, do I?’

  ‘But . . . he knows you’re coming to talk about witness protection?’

  ‘Oh yes. We’ve talked about it before.’

  Hugh stared at her unhappily until she glanced up again, when he busily topped up her drink.

  Lizzie put her knife and fork down and, with the air of getting things out into the open, said calmly, ‘You’re worried about it?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . .’ He hesitated, aware that he was about to overstep his self-imposed boundary and give an opinion. ‘Because so far as the police are concerned the case is done and dusted. They’ve got their man banged to rights. The last thing they want is a new witness crawling out of the woodwork, someone a foxy defence lawyer could use to launch an appeal and get their hard-won conviction overturned.’ He stopped abruptly before he could say more and drained the last of the bottle into his glass.

  ‘So why would Montgomery tell me witness protection is definitely a possibility?’

  Because he’s lazy and incompetent and out to impress you, Hugh felt like saying. Instead, he said with a shrug, ‘Who knows?’

  ‘I think I’d realise if he was stringing me along.’

  Ah, but would you? Hugh thought with a pang. It seemed to him that her innate optimism, her wondrous belief in the possible, could sometimes lead her to take too much on trust.

  ‘And you’re assuming the police don’t have any interest in justice,’ she said, with a hint of challenge.

  ‘Well, yes – I mean, no. Their idea of justice is a conviction, isn’t it?’ He got up to fetch another bottle from the rack. ‘And no matter how well-intentioned a cop might be, he’s never going to want to accept that he might have put the wrong man away, not when the evidence is as strong as it was in the Denzel Lewis case.’

  Lizzie murmured automatically, ‘Or seemed to be.’

  ‘Or seemed to be. Though having your victim’s blood all over your jacket is a bit hard to argue away, whichever way you look at it.’ Hugh drew the cork and came back to the table. ‘The thing is, witness protection is incredibly expensive, Lizzie. I mean, megabucks. So the police aren’t going to use it unless they’re going for a major result, the conviction of a big villain. They’re not going to use it to help the defence get someone off, someone who’s, well . . .’

  ‘Guilty?’

  ‘In their eyes, absolutely.’

  Lizzie had gone quiet, staring down into her wine glass.

  ‘What?’ he prompted her.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, tell me.’

  Her eyes glittered with a strange light. ‘You think the campaign is hopeless, don’t you?’

  He was startled as much by the question as by her tone, which was taut, almost accusatory. ‘I’ve never said that.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s obvious.’

  Hugh stared at her. ‘That’s not fair, Lizzie. I don’t have any views on the campaign. Apart from anything else I’ve never met Denzel. I don’t know the full story.’ He made a gesture of bewilderment, as much at the fact that they were having a disagreement as anything else. ‘Really . . . I wouldn’t dream of having an opinion.’ What baffled him wasn’t that she had guessed at his doubts but that she should accuse him now, and so bluntly, as if he’d been openly disloyal. ‘I was only playing devil’s advocate, looking at it from the police’s point of view, that’s all.’

  Absorbing this with a small nod, Lizzie picked up her glass and cradled it in both hands.

  Hugh felt the tightness above his heart he always felt when their harmony was disrupted. On the few times they argued, it was usually about trivial things, like the route to a friend’s house or their memories of some half-forgotten event, and then they tended to argue wildly and inventively, transforming the dispute into an elaborate joke. More serious discussions were conducted according to tacit rules of engagement that required attentiveness and consideration, any emotion directed firmly at the subject, not at each other. Yet here they were, disagreeing for no apparent reason, and worse still, disagreeing unhappily.

  Because he couldn’t bear to let the situation go on for a moment longer, he came clean. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so I’ve had a few doubts about Denzel’s innocence. But only because he seemed to change his story every five minutes. But they were never firm doubts. I mean, nothing I’d ever try to defend, and certainly not to you, because you know all about it and I know damn all. And I trust your judgement, Lizzie. If you believe in him then that’s all I need to know.’

  The sense of injury lingered in her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have minded so much if you hadn’t been speaking in your sceptical lawyer tone,’ she said. ‘No – in your expert sceptical lawyer tone.’

  He grimaced contritely.

  ‘It was just the last thing I needed.’

  ‘Of course it was.’ He reached across and squeezed her hand.

  The tension began to slip from her face. ‘It’s been a long day, that’s all.’

  ‘And there I was, talking complete bloody rubbish.’

  ‘I know you didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘And the way I said it . . . sorry.’

  ‘Trouble was, it reminded me of what Denzel’s up against.’ She gave a painful smile. ‘For a while there you almost sounded like the enemy.’

  ‘The enemy, Lizzie!’ As the word resounded in Hugh’s mind, he had a fleeting image of Tom leaving court earlier, talking about orienteering with people as the enemy.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘why don’t you go and ask Denzel’s solicitor all about witness protection? He’ll know far better than me. Get him to look into it.’

  She turned the idea over in her mind, and seemed to warm to it. ‘Yes . . . Yes.’ Then, with a small shiver, as if to shake herself free of the subject, she began to clear the plates.

  When they had loaded the dishwasher, he looped his arm round her shoulders and squeezed her to him. ‘I hate it when we have a misunderstanding.’

  Her arm came up round his waist. ‘Me too.’

  ‘I get this pain in my chest.’

  ‘Ouch,’ she murmured sympathetically.

  ‘I feel I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Poor you. Is it gone now?’

  ‘Almost totally.’ He kissed the top of Lizzie’s head. ‘How lucky we are.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Their good fortune was something they touched on all the time, a thanksgiving in good times, a refuge in bad, and a return to safe ground on the few occasions like this when they managed to upset each other. Sometimes they listed their blessings one by one – the children, their health, the house – sometimes they talked about the outlook over the garden, the view to the hills, the magnificence of the trees, all ways of saying the same thing. Tonight, though, they simply stood side by side, heads touching, for half a minute longer before kissing lightly and separating to do their chores. While Lizzie scooped up the large shoulder bag she used for work and took it to her desk in a corner of the living room, Hugh went upstairs to prepare for the morning. He had to be out of the house by six with his clothes packed for a couple of nights in London. First, Ray, his law partner from pre-merger days, with his unshake-able enthusiasm for networking, had talked him into going to a Law Society dinner. Then, somehow or other, he’d agreed to meet his old friend Mike Gabbay not for the quick drink he’d suggested but for dinner and to stay the night with Mike and his wife Rachel in Belsize Park.

  As he was gazing at the open bag wondering what he had missed, Lizzie came in and reeled off, ‘Cufflinks? Bow tie? Evening shirt? Shoes?’

  ‘I wish I wasn’t going.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy yourself once you’re there.’

  ‘I’ll probably end up drinking
too much.’

  ‘Well, try to keep off the port. You know it always gives you a terrible hangover.’

  They were in bed by midnight. Before turning off the light they lay face to face, hands linked, legs intertwined, and smiled at each other, taking reassurance that no harm had been done by the unexpected discord at dinner, confirming that their equilibrium was safely restored. After a moment Lizzie’s eyelids drooped and, kissing her softly, Hugh reached for the light. She turned away onto her side and drew her knees up. Fitting himself around the familiar shape of her back, Hugh dropped his arm over her waist and, finding her hand, held it close up by her neck. Her breathing steadied quickly, she was asleep within seconds. He would have been close behind, his thoughts were drifting fast, when a worry nudged him back towards wakefulness, something to do with Tom Deacon. At first he assumed it was the hurdle of Price’s evidence tomorrow, then the fact that Tom was drinking again, but when he finally fell asleep it was to dream of two small boys leaning into the wind on a rain-swept mountain.

  THREE

  Normally Hugh tried to avoid racking up unnecessary expenses on his clients’ accounts, but wedged into a standard-class airline-style seat over the wheels of a bumpy carriage, attempting to balance papers and coffee on the minute drop-down table, he wished that for once in his working life he’d splashed out on first class and paid the difference from his own pocket. He had to steady the jolting coffee with one hand, leaf through the bundle of documents with the other until he managed to locate Price’s statement. He read it as he had read it many times before in the hope of getting some key to Price and the world of soldiering that had formed such an important part of Tom’s life. According to Price, he and Tom had become close mates during the four years they had been in the same unit, drinking and carousing together, standing each other an occasional loan, confiding their hopes and fears. Price described the Tom Deacon he’d first known as outgoing, sociable, a bit of a joker, his personality unaffected by service in the Gulf War. But three years later, after their return from Bosnia, Tom had become moody and short-tempered, the result, Price claimed in the crucial passage, of being unable to cope with the horrors he’d witnessed there. To counter this claim Hugh had entered in evidence Tom’s army record, which also noted a deterioration in Tom’s attitude at this time but cited problems at home and his frustration at not being able to obtain a rapid discharge as the underlying reasons. According to Tom, the Army had got it at least half right, he’d certainly been keen to get out, but from disillusionment with soldiering rather than problems at home, while Price’s version of events was such a blatant fabrication that he could only be driven by malice. But if Price was lying, the question was why.