by Val McDermid
Accustoming herself to living here had turned into something very different from Magda's first imaginings. Philip had barely had time to learn the darkling route from bed to bathroom before he'd been killed. The breakfast conversations and evening entertainments Magda had pictured never had the chance to become habit. That she occasionally allowed herself to admit that this was almost a relief provoked shame and guilt that triggered a dark flush across her cheekbones. Transgression, it seemed, was not something she could wholeheartedly embrace yet.
She was trying, though. If she was honest, she liked coming home to her flat after a night with Jay. There was something a little sleazy about rolling out of bed and putting on yesterday's clothes, something sluttish about crossing central London unwashed on the Tube, knowing she smelled musky and salty. They'd agreed long before the trial that they couldn't start living together until that was all done and dusted. Jay had pointed out that they didn't want anything to muddy the waters of other people's guilt. There was no suggestion that they should try to hide their relationship. Just a sensible acknowledgement that there was no need to trumpet it from the rooftops just yet.
So in the mornings, Magda came home alone. Dirty clothes in the laundry basket, dirty body in the power shower. Coffee, orange juice, crumpets from freezer to toaster then a skim of peanut butter. Another demure outfit for court. And another day of missing Jay and wishing she was by her side.
It wasn't that she had to brave the oppressive grandeur of the Old Bailey alone. Her three siblings had worked out a rota which meant one of them was with her for at least part of every day of the trial. Yesterday it had been Patrick, dark and brooding, clearly away from his City desk out of wearisome obligation to the big sister who had always taken care of him. Today it would be Catherine, the baby of the family, abandoning her graduate anthropological studies to be at Magda's side. 'At least Wheelie will be pleased to see me,' Magda told her hazy reflection in the bathroom mirror. And there was no denying that Catherine's perpetual lightness of spirit would carry her through the day. Too much isolation made Magda uneasy. Growing up as the oldest of four children close in age, then student flats, then hospital life had conditioned her to company. Among the many reasons she had for being grateful to Jay, rescuing her from loneliness had been one of the most powerful.
Magda swept her tawny hair into a neat arrangement, her movements expert and automatic. She stared at herself judiciously, bemused that she still looked like the same old Magda. Same open expression, same direct stare, same straight line of the lips. Amazing, really.
A stray tendril of hair sprang free from its pins and curled over her forehead. She remembered a rhyme from childhood, one that had always made Catherine giggle.
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good
She was very, very good.
But when she was bad, she was horrid.
For as long as she could remember, Magda Newsam had been very, very good indeed.
And now she wasn't.
3
Subject: Ruby Tuesday
Date: 23 March 2010 09:07:29 GMT
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Good morning. The sun is shining here. A blurt of blue irises that wasn't there yesterday hit me when I opened the front door this morning. Almost dispelled the gloomy prospect of watching over 120 Legal Practice students to make sure they're not cheating in their conveyancing exam. But not quite. Every crappy little job I have to swallow right now reminds me of what I should be doing. What I'm trained to do. What I'm best at.
Strange package at the breakfast table this a.m. with an Oxford postmark and no covering letter. Is this your idea of fun? If so, you're going to have to explain the joke. Your Scorpio sting in the tail, I don't always get it.
Wish I was in Oxford; we could walk from Folly Bridge to Iffley and say the things we don't write down. I might even sing to you.
Love, Charlie
Sent from my iPhone
Subject: Re: Ruby Tuesday
Date: 23 March 2010 09:43:13 GMT
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hi, Charlie
poetry like that, maybe you should be petitioning the Creative Writing department for work. All those novels about serial killers and profiling - you've got the inside track, you could teach them how to get it right. Poor you. Poets shouldn't have to invigilate exams!
Nothing much to report here. This morning, I am supposedly working on The Programme. When I first envisioned 'I'm Not OK, You're Not OK; Negotiating Vulnerability' I had no idea it would come to consume my life.
Thinking of you. Wishing we could run away and play.
LKx
Subject: It's a mystery
Date: 23 March 2010 13:07:52 GMT
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
1 of 2
Another secret admirer? I don't think so. :-} One would be more than enough anyway, as long as it was the right one. If not from you, then from whom? The only other people I 'know' in Oxford are the few remaining dons at St Scholastika's who taught me, and I can't think why any of them would be sending me a package of newspaper clippings about a current murder trial. Unless someone mistakenly thinks it might interest me professionally because of the Schollie's connection? If so, then it's someone who isn't very current with my present status as the pariah of the clinical psychiatry world.
I've scanned in a couple of the articles for your edification. Just so you know what I'm talking about.
Hope the seminar programme is going well. I don't know where you find the energy. If I end up teaching students how to do what I used to do best, I will send them all on one of your weekend courses to teach them to develop empathy.
Sorry about the weather.
Love, Charlie
2 of 2
From the Mail
THE BATTERED BRIDEGROOM
Two city whiz kids callously murdered their business partner on his wedding day then enjoyed a night of wild sex together, the Old Bailey heard yesterday.
The evil pair smashed Philip Carling's skull then left him to drown just yards away from the Oxford college garden party celebrating his wedding, the court was told.
Shocked wedding guests taking a romantic stroll by the river found the bridegroom's body floating by the landing stage where the college punts were moored, blood from his shattered skull staining the water.
Paul Barker, 35, and Joanna Sanderson, 34, are charged with murder and fraud. They owned a specialist printing firm in partnership with their victim, which gave them unique access to sensitive City information. Carling, 36, had allegedly threatened to expose Barker and Sanderson as devious fraudsters who were lining their pockets by insider trading.
The prosecution alleges that the two conspirators silenced him within hours of his marriage last July then spent the night in an orgy of noisy sex.
Carling's widow, Magdalene, 28, was in court yesterday as Jonah Pollitt QC outlined the details of the double-crossing conspiracy that her husband's partners carried out at the society wedding in the grounds of St Scholastika's College, Oxford.
While the friends and family of the happy couple celebrated with champagne and smoked salmon, the cold-hearted pair were murdering the groom. Carling went missing shortly before he and his wife left for their Caribbean honeymoon.
The court heard how Barker and Sanderson had been introduced to each other by C
arling three years ago. They soon became lovers. A year later, Sanderson quit her job as a merchant banker to join Carling and Barker's company as sales and marketing director.
According to the prosecution, the scams that may have cheated genuine investors of hundreds of thousands of pounds began soon afterwards, using contacts of Sanderson's to set up the money-grabbing trades in stocks and shares. Philip Carling was kept in the dark. Discovering the truth cost him his life.
The trial continues.
From the Guardian
INSIDER TRADING REVEALED
Two directors of a printing company specialising in sensitive documents relating to city take-overs used their inside knowledge to perpetrate a series of frauds that netted them hundreds of thousands of pounds without the knowledge of their business partner, a court heard yesterday.
Paul Barker, 35, and Joanna Sanderson, 34, stand trial at the Old Bailey charged with fraud and the murder of their partner Philip Carling, who was threatening to expose them to financial watchdogs and the police. Carling, 36, was killed within hours of his marriage, with the reception in full swing only yards away.
Yesterday, giving evidence for the prosecution, Detective Inspector Jane Morrison of the Serious Fraud Office told the court that the conspiracy had come to light as the result of information received from the widow of the murdered man.
Magdalene Carling and a friend had been dealing with the dead man's personal effects following his tragic death when a computer memory stick came to light which contained details of Barker and Sanderson's frauds, along with draft letters to the DTI and the police outlining the insider trading and Mr Carling's desire to clear his name even at the cost of implicating his partners.
DI Morrison said, 'The letters expressed his shock at discovering what his partners had been doing. They referred to his wedding and said he wanted to start married life with a clean slate. As far as we can discover, he was killed before the letters could be sent as part of a cover-up by Barker and Sanderson.'
For the defence, Mr Ian Cordier, QC, asked if it were possible that Mr Carling could have been ignorant of so large-scale a fraud in so small a firm where he was also a partner.
DI Morrison said that given the way responsibility was structured following the arrival of Ms Sanderson at the firm, it was very unlikely that Mr Carling would have uncovered what was going on in the normal run of business. It had not been a particularly clever or complex scheme, she added, but it was clear that Mr Carling was not involved in that side of the business.
The case continues.
From the Mirror
CALLOUS KILLERS MADE LOVE FOR HOURS
Two company directors accused of murdering their business partner on his wedding day spent the night after his death in a noisy sex romp, the Old Bailey heard yesterday.
Steven Farnham, a fellow guest at the fatal wedding of Philip and Magdalene Carling, stayed in a hotel room next door to the one occupied by the alleged killers, Paul Barker, 35, and 34-year-old Joanna Sanderson.
He said, 'There was a connecting door between the rooms, so the soundproofing wasn't very good. Paul and Joanna were obviously having sex, very loudly and over a period of a couple of hours.
'I was disgusted. Philip had been brutally murdered only a few hours before. Paul and Joanna weren't just his business partners. They were supposed to be his best friends. But they didn't seem to be grieving at all.'
Asked by the defence if sex were not a common reaffirmation of life after a death has occurred, Mr Farnham replied, 'I'm a stockbroker, not a psychologist. All I can say is that I was devastated by Philip's death. The last thing I felt like was having sex. And they were supposed to be really close to Phil, so I don't see how they could act as if everything was normal and nothing had happened.'
The prosecution alleges that Sanderson and Barker killed their business partner during his wedding at St Scholastika's College, Oxford, to prevent him exposing their illegal insider trading activities which netted them a fortune.
The trial continues.
Subject: Re: It's a mystery
Date: 23 March 2010 14:46:33 GMT
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hi, Charlie
Fascinating stuff. Makes me glad I've given up newspapers! It must be pretty bewildering for you, though, getting all this strangeness in the post. What an interesting life you lead. I suspect you'd find me very dull by comparison.
I can't help thinking you're looking at this through the wrong end of the telescope. If the package came from someone who was interested in you professionally, wouldn't it have gone to the university? I think this is something that connects to you personally. Which make me think it must be something to do with your old college. Anyone connected to Schollie's could get hold of your home address through the alumnae office, couldn't they?
One of the things I've learned from NV is that hardly any of us has mastered the art of asking the right question. Perhaps you should consider what your correspondent has failed to send you? I always like the answer that's not there . . .
I have three one-to-one NV clients this afternoon. My colleagues tell me I should throttle back on the f2f stuff now the program is doing so well, but I don't know. I still like the feeling that comes with making a successful intervention in someone's life. You understand that, I know, even if they're not letting you do it right now.
Till tomorrow.
LKx
4
My mother disappeared when I was sixteen. It was the best thing that could have happened to me.
When I say that out loud, people look at me out of the corners of their eyes, as if I've transgressed some fundamental taboo. But it's the truth. I'm not hiding some complicated grief reaction.
My mother disappeared when I was sixteen. The guards had walked away from the prison leaving the door unlocked. And I emerged blinking into the sunlight.
Jay Stewart leaned back and read her words, head cocked critically to the side. It did exactly what it needed to do, she thought. Arresting and intriguing. Pick it off the three-for-two table, read that intro and you couldn't not want to carry on. That was the secret of getting the punters to part with their money. Simple to understand, hard to do. But she'd done it once already. She could do it again.
When she'd decided to write her first book, Jay had done what she always did. Research, research, research. That was the key to any successful endeavour. Check out the market. Consider the opposition. Acknowledge the potential pitfalls. Then go for it. Preparation is never procrastination. That was one of her key Powerpoint presentation slides. She'd always been proud to say she'd never plunged headlong into anything.
That was just one of the things that wasn't true any more.
Not that she was about to admit so fundamental a change to anyone except herself. When her literary agent had taken her to lunch the week before so he could reveal that her publisher was dangling a new contract before them, Jay had made a point of appearing as cautious and noncommittal as ever. 'I thought the bottom had dropped out of the misery memoir business with the market crash,' she'd said when Jasper had raised the subject halfway through their finicky starters of scallops with mango salsa and pea shoots. As she waited for Jasper to marshal his reply, Jay stared at the food and wondered when exactly it had ceased to be possible to find simple well-cooked dishes in expensive restaurants.
'And so it has.' Jasper beamed at her as though he were the teacher and Jay the favourite pupil. 'That's why they want something fresh from you. Triumph over adversity, that's what they're interested in. And you, my dear, are well set to be the poster girl for triumph over adversity.'
He had a point. Jay couldn't deny that. 'Hmm,' she said, dissecting a scallop and putting a delicate forkful in her mouth. An excuse not to say more till she had heard more.
'Your story's an inspiration,' Jasper persisted, his lean and wary face uncharacteristically kindly. 'And i
t's aspirational. The readers can relate to you because you weren't born with a silver spoon in your mouth.'
Jay swallowed, raised an eyebrow and smiled. 'The only silver spoons around when I was a baby were those cute little coke spoons my mother's friends wore on chains round their necks. Not many of my readers came from that universe either.'
Jasper gave a tight professional smile. 'Probably not, no. But your publisher's market research indicates that readers do feel close to you. They feel they could be you, if things had just been a little bit different.'
No chance. Not in a million quantum universes. 'Tangents,' Jay said, her attention on her plate. 'The facts of my life touch the edges of their lives in enough places for them to feel a shivery sort of connection. I see how that worked with the misery memoir. The readers can snuggle under their duvet, all smug and cosy because they escaped my descent into the procession of hells my mother dragged me through in the first sixteen years of my life.' She drew her breath in sharply, hearing it whistle through her teeth. 'But triumph over adversity? Isn't that a bit like rubbing their noses in it?'
