In his normal work Hugh had little reason to investigate people’s backgrounds and he’d had to go to a family-law partner for the name of a reliable detective agency. The report that came back three weeks later rather shocked him, not for what it revealed about Price, but for the extraordinary detail it provided on what he’d always believed to be confidential matters, such as Price’s army and medical records and his two youthful convictions for joyriding. But if Hugh felt uneasy about how such information might have been obtained Desmond seemed unconcerned, or at least discreet enough not to comment, and devoured the report with interest. So far as Hugh could make out, Desmond’s plan was to suggest that Price was a loner incapable of making close friendships, a bit of a fantasist who, craving centre stage, had not only exaggerated his friendship with Tom but was using this opportunity to settle an old score, maybe over the girl Tom talked about, maybe over some other grievance that neither would admit to. Why else, Desmond had posed rhetorically, would Price choose to give evidence against his former comrade? Why else would he break the bond of trust wrought in the fires of war?
While Hugh had no doubt this was the right approach, its success would depend on how strongly Price performed in the witness box. If he had learnt anything during this hearing, it was how very differently people reacted under pressure. Perhaps it was the deceptively benign atmosphere of the civil court, with its air of courtesy and consideration, the absence of a jury or any obvious drama, and the leisurely pace dictated by the judge’s need to take notes, but for some reason the intricate traps laid in cross-examination seemed to take many witnesses by surprise. Of the ten character witnesses who’d given evidence for Tom four had faltered under pressure, two quite badly. In Price’s case, of course, the hope was that he would not simply falter but thoroughly discredit himself.
A refreshment trolley came by but the girl had sold out of bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches, so Hugh settled for a ham baguette which proceeded to shed shards of iceberg lettuce over the next bundle of documents he managed to wrest from his briefcase and balance on the minute table. This bundle contained the large amount of background information that Desmond might want to call on at short notice, though in practice he rarely did so. Facts, figures, statements, correspondence, notes of meetings and conversations: the detritus of four years’ preparation, the thousand and one ways of gobbling up huge amounts of time and fees in trying to cover every possible angle: the law in all its obsessive, bloated detail.
It was only as the train neared London that Hugh remembered the envelope Annaliese had dropped off yesterday which he’d scooped up from the hall table and stuffed into his briefcase as he rushed out of the house early that morning. Opening it, he drew out two letters concerning another case and read them diligently but with fleeting interest. Only as he slid them back into the envelope did he realise there was another, unopened letter at the bottom. The envelope was small and flimsy, the sort sold in corner shops to fit the cheapest writing paper. It was addressed to Hugh in a mixture of scrappy letters and random capitals, his name spelt Gwinn without the y or e. The firm’s name was also misspelt and the address lacked a postcode. Above his name was written Confidential underlined three times. The thin sheet inside was folded into quarters. It began Dear Mr Gwinn . . . His eye flew to the end but there was no signature, just as there was no address at the top. Returning to the body of the letter he skimmed the lines rapidly.
Realisation came fitfully, in small darts of disbelief. His first instinct was to reject the whole poisonous thing, to deny the idea in any shape or form. It was just someone with a grudge, trying to stir things up for Tom. Yet even as he began to read it again, a quiet dread spread through his stomach.
To let you know that Tom Deacon went to the family court and got the psyciatrist to say he’s OK to get custody of his kids, as per being recovered from the traumatic stress disorder and being sober. Court case was 2 weeks ago – Exeter. Next hearing January. Linda doesn’t want to give up the kids but its all going badly for her, she’s pregnant and the new man gives her a hard time. But its not right that she gets to lose the boys, not when Tom Deacons lying about the drink and thretening her if she doesn’t keep quiet about it. She thinks she’ll get the kids back later, but she wont. What she needs is some of this money he’s getting from the court. People forget it was her daughter that got killed too. If he’s going to get rich then its only right that Linda gets her share. She doesn’t know I’m writing this but somebody had to, it’s not right the way things are.
As fresh bursts of understanding came over Hugh, his throat seized, he saw the speeding countryside through a sudden mist, he whispered savagely, You stupid bloody fool! You stupid fucking idiot! He had an urge to grab Tom by the collar and shake him furiously, demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing by screwing everything up.
The mist subsided as suddenly as it had come, he drew a steadying breath and began the reckoning, trying to calculate what if anything might be salvaged from the wreckage. He looked at the envelope again, then the letter, but there were no clues as to who had written it. The postmark was illegible, the writing semi-literate. The author hardly mattered though, because he had little doubt that the contents of this nasty little note were accurate; they chimed too well with Tom’s view of what was due to him and the sudden confidence he had shown in getting custody of his children.
Hugh wished he could ignore the letter, but it was too late for that. There was no way to un-read these words, no way to un-learn their message. To know them was to know them for ever.
In a plunge of despair he saw the case unravelling beyond repair. Desmond would have to be told, and he in turn would be duty-bound to go to the judge and admit that Tom had been playing a double game. The other side wouldn’t be able to believe their luck. Tom would be recalled to the witness box for a mauling cross-examination, the judge would decide that the diagnosis of post-traumatic stress was less convincing than he’d been led to believe, and Tom’s damages would be slashed.
As the train drew into Paddington and Hugh joined the crowd streaming along the platform he went through the options once again, as if the exercise might conjure up some miracle when he knew there was none. The only hope was that the judge would appreciate that damaged men did stupid self-defeating things, particularly when it came to their children, and that trauma rather than any defect of character had caused Tom to make such a serious mistake.
Hugh reached Court 12 just before ten and waited outside. Isabel was the first to appear, swathed in a long coat, scarf and woollen hat. She said her cold was better, though her blocked nose, watery eyes and rasping voice told a different story.
‘Listen,’ Hugh said, ‘I have to have a long, hard talk with Tom. We may get into court late. If you could hold the fort?’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘You could say that, yes.’ Seeing Desmond and Sanjay coming round the corner, he added, ‘But no time to tell you now.’
‘Just let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ she said, and went into court.
Desmond wore an indolent smile. ‘Morning, Hugh. Tom here yet?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘But we’re expecting him?’
Christ, I hope so, Hugh thought in momentary panic. ‘So far as I know, yes.’
‘I’ve got a query about the leave he spent with Price when they were stationed in Germany. I’d like to know if they intended to take their leave together or if it just happened. Did Price tag along or did Tom invite him? You understand what I’m getting at?’
‘I’ll ask him as soon as he gets here.’
‘And Tom’ll be around later in the week, won’t he?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Because I’ll probably put him into the witness box first thing on Thursday. But best not to say anything just yet. In case things change.’ Then Desmond made one of those gestures that were so characteristic of him, a raising of his eyebrows, an upturning of one hand, as if to suggest
that everything of importance was now settled.
‘Desmond, something’s come up,’ Hugh plunged in unhappily. ‘I need to talk to Tom first but it’s almost certain we’ll have to ask for an adjournment.’
Desmond was very still. ‘For what reason?’
‘To have a conference with Tom.’
‘It won’t wait till lunch?’
‘No.’
‘Something serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re making me nervous, Hugh.’ But if Desmond was hoping for reassurance he was disappointed. ‘You’ll let me know as soon as possible?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bearing in mind that any significant delays will run us out of time on Friday.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
When Desmond had gone, Hugh paced along the passage to the stairwell, then to the balcony overlooking the Great Hall and back again several times. Finally he saw Tom on the stairs, climbing steadily, head jutting forward, the rucksack high on his back. A few steps from the top Tom twisted round and looked over his shoulder directly at Hugh, almost as if he’d expected to find him there.
‘Managed to survive the train,’ Tom announced, walking straight past so that Hugh was forced to fall in beside him. ‘It was crowded as hell. But I did what my therapist told me. Concentrated on this woman. Oh, not in that way.’ He gave a derisive snuffle. ‘She was fifty if she was a day. But I spent the time trying to imagine what her life was like. You know, the job she did, where she lived, that sort of stuff. And it worked. Took my mind off the fact that we were packed in like bloody sardines.’
‘Good. Tom, we need to talk.’
Tom shot him a questioning look which Hugh ignored as he led the way to a window at the end of the passage. The window, tall and arched in the Gothic style, had a seat below, but neither of them sat down.
Hugh began with the simpler of his two tasks. ‘Desmond wants to know about the leave you and Price took together in Germany. Did you invite him to join you? Or . . . how did it happen?’
‘Didn’t have to invite him. He just tagged along like he always did. Most of the unit were away on long leave. The rest of us had twenty-four hours. I was heading for Hamburg with my mate Shortie when Price got wind of it and came and invited himself along. Then Shortie chickened out, so I got landed with Price.’
‘Did you ever invite Price to join you on any other leave?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Like I said, he tagged along sometimes. But ask him? Nope, I never asked him.’ He started to move away.
‘There’s something else.’
Tom paused, wary now and a little impatient.
‘I have to ask you, Tom – have you been to the family court and applied for custody of the boys?’
Tom turned his mouth down in an expression of exaggerated bewilderment. ‘Huh?’
‘Have you already been to the family court?’
Tom gave him a long stare. ‘I don’t get it. What’s the problem?’
‘Yes or no, Tom.’
‘But what’s it gotta do with anything? I mean what’s it matter?’
‘It matters.’
The bewilderment again. Then with a light shrug, a gesture of showing willing, Tom said, ‘It’s like I told you, Emma Deeds put in my application and we’re waiting to hear back. But nothing’s gonna happen till – I dunno – January, something like that.’
‘But has there already been a hearing, Tom? That’s what I’m asking. And did you offer new medical evidence?’
Turning slowly away, Tom elbowed one arm free of his rucksack, then the other, before swinging it onto the window seat. He stared out of the mullioned window, his bony features flattened and calcified by the light, so that for a fleeting moment, set against the Gothic battlements, he might have been a prisoner from long ago, looking out on his lost freedom. ‘So what’s the big deal?’
‘There was a hearing?’
‘Okay, there was a hearing,’ he said on a tense note. ‘But it’s like I said – nothing’s gonna be sorted till January.’
‘And did you get a medical report for this hearing, Tom? Something to say you were better?’
A pause, then Tom gave a snort of disbelief. ‘How would I do that?’
‘I don’t know. Go to another psychiatrist?’
‘Yeah? And where would I get one? Yellow Pages?’
‘I need an answer, Tom.’
Tom’s profile took on a haunted expression, and something harsher, like bitterness. Flicking Hugh a dark scowl, he said, ‘There’s nothing to answer. Okay?’
‘Do I have your word on that?’
‘You can have whatever you like,’ he muttered.
‘Just your word, Tom.’
Tom was shaking his head. ‘I still don’t get what this’s got to do with anything, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Well . . . it’s to do with playing it straight, Tom, with not saying one thing to one court and something different to another.’
Tom argued with sudden vehemence, ‘Jesus, if you think I’m gonna tell the family court I’ve still got raging post-traumatic stress, then you must be bloody joking. Christ, they’d turn me down quicker than look at me. And then the boys would end up in care. In bloody care. And then I’d never get another chance. Never.’
‘Tom, I understand how much you want the children—’
‘There’s no way I’m gonna risk my boys. No way! I love my boys. I need my boys. They’re all that keep me bloody going. No way I’m gonna give ’em up.’ He glared accusingly at Hugh. ‘So don’t even think about it.’
‘But this way you’re risking both cases, Tom. You’re risking having your damages cut and you’re risking’ – he almost said ‘losing your children’ but rapidly amended this to – ‘forfeiting the goodwill of the family court.’
‘But no one has to know,’ Tom argued. ‘The family court stuff happens in private. No one’s allowed to tell what happens in there. So who’s gonna find out? Who’s gonna know?’
‘I found out, Tom. I know.’
‘It was Emma Deeds, was it? The bitch.’
‘No, it wasn’t Emma Deeds. I don’t know who it was.’
Tom gave an incredulous frown. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘It was an anonymous letter.’
Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Linda.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come on.’
‘The person didn’t give a name.’
‘But it has to be Linda, doesn’t it?’ Tom scoffed furiously. ‘The stupid cow.’
‘Well, whoever it was, the fact is that I do know, Tom, and I can’t pretend I don’t.’ But Tom was too busy fuming against Linda to take this in. ‘Listen,’ Hugh said when he was a little quieter, ‘don’t let’s get too worried till we see what Desmond says. You never know, there might be a way to limit the damage.’
He had Tom’s full attention again now. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Well, Desmond’s the expert, Tom, not me. He’s the one who can advise us on the best way forward.’
‘But this stuff – it’s just Linda playing stupid bloody games! It’s crap. It’s nothing.’
‘When you say nothing . . . ?’
‘It’s not true. Okay? It didn’t happen.’
Voices echoed in the passage, and Hugh glanced round to see two barristers emerging from the next-door court.
Hugh dropped his voice. ‘Look, Tom, whatever’s done is done. But it’s going to be far better to have it come out sooner rather than later. Believe me. Because something like this will come out, you know. It always does.’
‘I’ve just told you – it’s a non-event! It didn’t happen!’
‘Are you saying you didn’t get another opinion?’
Tom gave a sudden shiver. ‘For Christ’s sake, just drop it, will you?’
‘I can’t just drop it, Tom.’
‘You’re my solicitor, you’re meant to be on my side.’
Letting this pass, Hugh
said, ‘Look, if we go to the judge and tell him the whole story, how you persuaded yourself you were well because you were so desperate to get custody of the kids, then he might take a lenient view.’
‘But we’re almost there, for fuck’s sake. We’re almost done.’
‘This is only the hearing, Tom. The case isn’t over till the judge hands down his judgement. That could be six weeks away, maybe longer. Till then he can consider any new evidence that comes his way. Recall us for an explanation. Change everything.’ Adopting a reasonable tone, he said, ‘Okay, he might knock a bit off our damages. But once he understands why you did it – well, he might not clobber us that hard, Tom. With a bit of luck he might give us no more than a small rap over the knuckles, financially speaking. But if we say nothing and the opposition find out – Christ, Tom, they’ll tear us apart, they’ll take it to appeal, and then we could really lose out. I mean, a serious amount.’
Tom was staring at Hugh in a new way, as if he hated him. ‘No way.’
‘But it’ll be far better in the long run.’
Tom’s breath broke into ragged gasps, he lifted a trembling hand. ‘This is my claim. My illness. And I’m saying no deal. You got that? No deal.’
‘For God’s sake, Tom – you could be putting everything at risk.’
Tom’s face contorted, his eyes glittered, he seemed on the point of rage or tears or both. He gave another shiver, more violent than the last. ‘No deal.’
‘Maybe I’ve explained it badly . . .’ But Hugh trailed off, knowing he had explained it as best he could and that for the moment at least Tom was beyond reasoning.
Unforgotten Page 8
