Angie was sitting at the kitchen table, rereading CWWM’s witness statements for the twentieth time, trying to drill their lying hints so deep into her mind that she would be able to ask the right questions, however cleverly they tried to twist the true facts. She felt a large, gentle hand on the back of her head.
‘Time to knock off, Angie,’ Fran said, stroking her rough hair. ‘You know it all now. You need to relax. We’ve asked some friends round for a party to cheer you up.’
‘I can’t. I mean, it’s really kind of you; I just don’t feel like socialising.’ She closed her eyes. How could anyone who knew what she was going through expect her to be polite to a bunch of strangers at a moment like this?
‘There’s method in it,’ Greg said from behind Fran.
Angie looked round over her shoulder and past Fran’s wide hips to see Greg carrying an armful of two-litre bottles of wine. At least it’s the real thing, she noted, instead of that disgusting apple stuff. She smiled at him to make up for the silent ingratitude. He didn’t notice because he was lining up his old-fashioned corkscrew for an assault on the bottles.
‘You need to have a kind of line between all this prep and real life; otherwise you’ll go mad,’ Fran said. D’you feel up to helping make some eats? I’ve got some dips to go with carrots and cucumber and celery. They’ll need cutting up into sticks. OK?’
‘Sure.’ Angie pushed the hair away from her eyes and smiled properly. ‘I can do that. Peeled as well?’
‘Don’t bother with peeling,’ Fran said. ‘Such a waste of good fibre.’
They all laughed. Angie realised they were trying to cheer her up and tried to join in. It was the least she could do after all their efforts on her behalf. And they might be right: she had got herself into a rut of manic rereading and self-doubt. This unwanted party would provide distraction, if nothing else.
While she surreptitiously pulled the strings from the celery and cut off the most discoloured of the carrot skins, Fran tidied up the files and carted them out to the narrow hallway, where a small trolley waited.
‘So who’s coming?’ Angie asked as she breathed in the sweetness of the carrots.
‘Mainly members of FADE,’ Greg said, scratching one bulbous nostril. He bent down to pull a recalcitrant plastic cork from the third huge bottle.
Looking at his narrow shoulders and squidgy biceps, Angie thought he’d have done better with the sort of corkscrew that had arms to act as levers.
‘Ouf. That’s better. And a few neighbours. You’ll like them. There are some bags of breadsticks in the cupboard; you can put them in glasses and dot them about the room.’
Angie did everything she was told, then retreated to the spare room to try to make herself look less like a downtrodden ghost. She’d found a neat black suit that didn’t cost too much in one of the West End’s Oxfam shops. Its label would have impressed her even in the old days, and it was more or less the right size. But it had to be kept for court, hanging on the back of the bedroom door safely shrouded in plastic. Apart from that, she hadn’t any clothes except jeans or the last few pairs of John’s corduroy trousers.
She did her best, picking the least shabby pair of black cords and adding a white T-shirt. The effect was fairly bleak, though, so she stuck her head round the kitchen door and asked Fran if she had any kind of bright scarf to spare.
‘Of course. Hang on a sec.’
Only moments later, Fran emerged from her room with a handful of old Indian silk scarves. They were very soft, and age had thinned them almost to transparency, but they were still beautiful. One was red with gold lozenges on it; another deep green and blue, like the snake tattoo on her arm. There were purple, yellow and orange: more colour than Angie had seen anywhere but a shop window for years and years. She picked the red-and-gold one, added the yellow, and twisted them together, threading the result through the belt loops in her cords.
‘Hey, Angie! You look great.’ As she spoke, Fran bowed, which made her straight red-blonde hair swing like a waterfall.
Fran looked more than great, Angie thought; magnificent really, in a long gipsy skirt of purple cotton and a tight black velvet jacket threaded with silver. She was wearing make-up, too: lots of kohl around her eyes and some smoky pink lipstick. She gave Angie a box of matches.
‘Will you light the joss sticks?’
Angie was soon inhaling the scents from a sand-filled bowl holding several different sorts of incense stick and remembering wild university parties that had smelled just like this.
What would she think now if she met the girl she’d been, with the long ungovernable hair, anarchic humour and tiny skirts? She wasn’t sure, but she could easily see how the girl would pity the dried-up, bad-tempered old ratbag she’d become, and that was awful.
Luckily there was no time to think. The front-door bell rang and Greg went to answer it, bringing back the first batch of guests. Three were women who worked for FADE. Angie had met them several times now and they shook hands in a friendly enough way, although they obviously couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. They were off to the far end of the room in no time to enjoy what was obviously a riveting gossip.
The fourth guest was a stranger: a tall man with thick greying hair and an aura of money and confidence that set him apart from the rest.
‘This is Ben,’ Greg said. ‘He lives round the corner and wanted to come and wish you luck in court.’
‘That’s kind,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Are you involved with FADE, too?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Ben’s voice was much grander than any of the others, whose accents varied from Fran’s tight north London twang and Greg’s looser, all-purpose Estuary to the soft Irish lilt of the prettiest of the women. ‘Not my kind of thing. Although of course I admire what they do.’
‘Have a drink, Ben.’ Greg held up one of the bottles.
‘Better not. I’m driving. Water would be great, if you’ve got some.’
While Greg went off to fetch it, Angie lifted her own glass. The thin red wine was sour but distinctly better than the peculiar home-made version of the previous few days.
‘I also admire your courage,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not easy to be a litigant in person. How are you feeling about the case?’
‘Terrified,’ she said and thought again of the girl she’d been, who would never have admitted any of her innumerable fears.
Most of them had been about being a failure or not popular enough. Or being found out. The people she’d called her friends had been so pleased with themselves and so contemptuous of everyone else she’d felt sure they’d turn on her if they knew what she was really like. Maybe there was something to be said for middle age after all. Even if it did shrivel you up and make you angrier with every passing year, at least it took away the need to pretend to be something you weren’t.
Ben laughed as though she’d been joking, but she was fairly sure he knew she hadn’t. She waited for him to say something else. In the silence beween them, she heard the three women chattering excitedly about someone else who’d just fallen in love. Ben grimaced in their direction, but he didn’t say anything, so Angie had to spin out the conversation herself.
‘But I do feel a bit better than when I thought I was going to be facing Antony Shelley. Ever since we had some preliminary discussions about the actual ownership of the land where the tanks were, I’ve had nightmares about him. Now the other side’s solicitor have told us about this woman who’s taking his place, I feel better. She has to be an improvement.’
‘Trish Maguire won’t be any kind of walkover,’ Ben said, now watching her with a beadiness she found unnerving. She’d seen job interviewers look at her like this, and spies for the Inland Revenue.
‘D’you know her?’ she asked to distract him from whichever of her failings he was trying to assess.
‘Not personally. But I know all about her: wrong side of the tracks made good. Some people can’t stick her; others think she’s a bit of hero. She’s very tough i
n court, however gentle she may seem outside.’
Angie put a hand against her chest, feeling her heartbeat speed up. ‘Don’t. Please. I’m scared enough as it is.’
‘You should be fine, so long as you stick to the point,’ he said with a slight doubt in his drawly voice, as though he didn’t have half as much confidence in her as he had in himself. ‘You must press the other side all the time on all their weak arguments and always address the judge with respect. Whatever else you let slip, never lose hold of that. Respect for the bench is essential.’
Angie had never enjoyed being told what to do, even in the old uncertain days, even by people she knew well.
‘You sound as though you know a lot about it,’ she said coldly, glad to see more guests arriving. As soon as she’d found a way to get rid of this one, she’d find somebody less arrogant.
‘Don’t forget you’ll have Greg with you,’ he said, ignoring her comment, ‘dealing with your papers and reminding you of anything you may have forgotten, so—’
‘Not Fran?’ Angie was so shocked she didn’t even notice she’d interrupted him. Her hand suddenly felt slippery on the thick glass.
‘Didn’t Greg tell you? I warned him that the combination of you and Fran could look too female. The courts are still a traditional sort of place, and you don’t want your case imprinted on the judge’s mind as a bit of girly froth. If you have a bloke with you, you’ll avoid that. I must go in a minute, but I’ll send Fran over with another drink for you. Give me your glass.’
She handed it over obediently and watched him cross the room to Fran, saying something that made her laugh and blow him a kiss. Then he moved on to Greg, who left the little knot of people he’d been entertaining to talk privately to Ben. They had their heads together and it looked as though Ben was asking for something. Greg shook his head and Ben appeared disappointed but almost deferential, which seemed odd.
Someone behind Angie was telling a joke, which aroused gales of laughter and made her feel excluded from everything. What was she was doing with all these cheerful people, who all knew each other so well and treated her as a cross between a museum exhibit and an inadequate entry for an agricultural show? Ben stuck out his hand and Greg shook it, then opened the door and ushered him out.
‘Here, love,’ Fran said, bringing a full glass of wine. Angie grabbed her opportunity.
‘Who is Ben?’
‘Just a neighbour.’ Fran looked worried. ‘Why?’
‘He seemed to know an awful lot about me and my case.’
‘Greg found out that he’s a lawyer, so we started to ask him things whenever we got stuck. You don’t mind, do you?’
Angie rubbed her forehead, wishing she’d grown out of paranoia as well as the need to hide her fears.
‘I suppose not. I was just shocked when he casually told me you wouldn’t be sitting with me in court, as though I ought to know. When did you decide?’
‘Only this evening, love.’ Fran smoothed Angie’s hair back from her forehead. ‘When Greg phoned Ben to invite him to the party at the last minute and they were chatting about the case, Ben pointed out how it might look if you and I were sitting together in front of the judge. Greg and I talked it over – you were changing at the time, I think – and decided he was probably right.’
‘Angie! Remember me?’ The bright attractive American voice came as a welcome distraction.
She turned away from Fran, to see the plump smiling young man who’d done the preliminary research into the dangers of benzene.
‘Hi, Marty,’ she said, kissing him. ‘Lovely to see you! You know, your notes are the clearest anybody provided. You must be a proper scientist.’
‘I haven’t done any seriously since school,’ he said, thrusting a plate of crudités at her. ‘Have some of these. Keep up your strength for tomorrow.’
Chapter 6
Trish prepared as methodically as she always did before court. Her dark hair was blown dry to the flat neatness that would make her wig sit well, and her make-up was discreet. Her black suit was as well pressed as her gown, and her bands were crisply starched. She had the whole case mapped in her mind and could see several different routes to take if Angie Fortwell’s cross-examination enticed any of her witnesses away from the line she’d planned for them.
When facing other barristers you’d know more or less what they were going to say. You did sometimes get surprises, but usually you’d worked out every possible argument so you could counter any one of them. With an amateur, a litigant in person, you were on much wobblier ground.
‘Feeling OK?’ Robert said as he came into her room to collect her.
‘Absolutely fine.’ She resisted the temptation to brush the shoulders of her jacket or tweak her hair. ‘Have you got the documents?’
‘My pupil’s already gone ahead with two trolleys. Let’s go.’
Trish slowly got to her feet, testing her reactions. She’d expected to be nervous and was glad to notice nothing out of the ordinary. You needed some apprehension to get the adrenaline flowing and keep your mind sharp.
She stepped out beside Robert, feeling her ribs expand with every breath she took. He knew better than to talk or offer advice just before a court appearance, and she was grateful for that.
Angie waited by the security guards as Greg fed their bags of documents through the scanner. They rattled towards her over the narrow metal rollers and she hauled them off one by one. Her black suit felt odd: tight around her stomach and yet much less heavy than her usual clothes. She felt exposed, too, with her legs out of trousers for the first time in years.
Greg, who hadn’t bothered to dress up for court and was wearing his usual saggy jeans and sweater, followed the bags. There were no embarrassing bleeps or hold-ups. He was waved through and they made their way to Court 14.
The building was intimidatingly churchy, with high gothic arches in the main hall and a floor of inlaid coloured marble. But the court itself was a plain room, not nearly as large as the exterior suggested, with a slightly shabby red carpet, cream-painted walls and mid-brown wooden furniture. In a way it was a bit like a meeting room for hire in a not-very-expensive hotel.
Greg showed her where to sit and explained who else would be in the room with them. Most of yesterday’s resentment had been overtaken by gratitude. Without him and Fran, she’d have found it hard to get this far, and, if she had, she’d have been fainting with the anxiety by now.
The double doors from the corridor burst open and a small party fluttered in, with their black gowns streaming out behind them. They looked frighteningly clean. And rich.
Angie felt her hands brushing down her lapels and forced herself to stop. Unlike Greg’s jeans, her clothes were perfectly clean, and she’d never suffered from dandruff. There was no need to feel at such a disadvantage, even if she didn’t have a wig and gown like theirs. The first was a tall thin woman with glossy black hair, who must be Trish Maguire. Her face was pale but not entirely natural.
Looking closely as she approached, Angie saw she’d shaped her eyebrows with a dark-brown pencil and smoothed them over with something, maybe hair gel, and she’d lengthened her lashes with mascara. There was a faint apricot coloured stain over her cheekbones and her lips were a little richer than seemed likely to be their natural colour. From far away she wouldn’t look made-up, just defined in a way Angie had failed to achieve. Women barristers were probably taught to do this when they had their first lessons in advocacy.
‘Good morning,’ she said in a voice that made sense of Ben Givens’s comment about the wrong side of the tracks. There was none of his pomposity and it wouldn’t have sounded out of place anywhere. ‘You must be Mrs Fortwell. I’m Trish Maguire. How do you do?’
Angie’s knees felt insecure, as though they might give way and dump her on the floor. The other woman’s gentle dark eyes held all the compassion she’d longed for since John’s death and not found anywhere. Angie tried to think of something to say as they shook hands.
>
A moment later the kindness might never have existed. Maguire’s expression retreated into cool formality and she turned her back to talk to the men who’d come in with her. One was about her own age, even taller, broad-shouldered, and very good looking in a smooth kind of way. The other, much younger, was a bustly little fellow with freckles and an engaging grin.
He busied himself opening his document cases and laying papers and folders out in what was obviously a preordained pattern, while the elder stared at Angie with all the arrogance she’d expected from the lot of them.
She couldn’t bear it, so she introduced Greg as a way of shifting his disdain from herself. He gave his name as Robert Anstey and didn’t bother to shake hands.
The next few minutes were like being blindfolded and whirled round and round in a cement-mixer. People came and went and said things Angie couldn’t hear or understand. There was a roaring in her ears. Only Greg’s hand on her wrist kept her together. He explained the significance of each new arrival until a door behind the judge’s throne opened and an usher brought in the judge, a tall man with a calm and empty face, wearing robes not all that different from the barristers’.
Everybody stood until Mr Justice Flambard had lowered himself to the bench, then they all sat.
‘No, no,’ Greg whispered. ‘You stand now, Ange. And you begin. Remember?’
She remembered all right; she just wasn’t sure she could do it. The words should be easy enough to say. She fumbled about in her mind for the sense of outrage, for the idea of justice denied, for John. This was her one chance to establish the truth about his murder.
He’d been the best of men, she reminded herself: honest, hard-working, faithful, kind. So kind. And he’d been rubbed out of life by the very people who were paying Trish Maguire a fortune to fight her now.
A faint sensation of something that might be courage made Angie raise her chin. She looked at the judge, who peered at her over his half-moon glasses, and smiled encouragingly, nodding to get her started.
A Poisoned Mind Page 6
