Trish listened to the laboured formalities and wished she could lean over and advise Angie to soften her neck muscles, which would help her vocal cords relax. Her voice sounded as though she was being strangled, and it was clear she was more or less holding her breath as she gabbled her way to the end of each sentence. She’d lose concentration if she went on like this, and the wear and tear on both her mind and body would be tremendous.
‘And so my husband was killed, My Lord,’ she said at the end of her opening speech, ‘and the farm to which we gave over twenty years of our lives was contaminated, all because of the dangerously polluting chemicals the defendants allowed to escape from their land on to ours.’
Trish waited until the judge had finished writing his notes, then rose and in an easy persuasive voice outlined the ways in which she proposed to defend her clients. She chose much less formal language than Angie and felt herself entirely at home. Reaching the end of her speech, she smiled first at the judge, then at her opponent and sat down again, ignoring Robert’s whispered congratulations.
She watched Angie lick her narrow lips and heard her breathe heavily. The judge completed his notes, then nodded to her. Her unsuitably dressed friend had dropped the papers he’d been holding out to her and muttered ‘sorry’. She bent down and was raising her head at just the moment he reached for them. They banged their skulls together and Angie gasped. For a moment she stood, ignoring the notes as she rubbed her head and wiped the back of her bony hand across her eyes.
‘Ange, pull yourself together.’
The snap in the man’s hissing voice would have made Trish want to hit him, but it seemed to help Angie, who took the notes, turned back to the judge and called her first witness.
He was a doctor, the local GP, who had been the first on the scene after her desperate calls to the emergency services. He had seen the blaze from his house ten miles away and phoned 999 himself. The operator told him the fire had already been reported and the electricity shut down. With the ambulance likely to take about forty minutes to reach the farm, he was asked to go straight there. Trish thought of the statement she’d read over the weekend.
There hadn’t been anything the doctor could do for John Fortwell, but he was able to deal with Angie’s shock and advise her about minimising the likely risks to her current and future health from the fumes. He’d also been able to describe the scene in his statement with a vividness untainted by the kind of understandable hysteria Angie herself must still feel.
She asked him to give his name and address to the court and confirm that the statement was his own and that he stood by it. The words she used weren’t precisely the ones Trish expected, but they were near enough. She rose for her cross-examination, met the judge’s gaze and was impressed that he showed absolutely no sign of fellow-feeling or amusement at Angie’s throttled formality.
‘Doctor Jenkins, in your statement you have given evidence about the claimant’s mental and physical condition after the explosion and fire at her property, Low Topps; did you know anything about her state of health before that night?’
‘Yes. She had several times come to consult me in the months leading up the explosion, and so I had given her various checks. Her general health was excellent then.’
‘In which case, what were the symptoms that had led her to consult you?’
‘She was suffering hot flushes and sleeplessness. She wanted to discuss the possibility of taking HRT.’
‘Were there any psychological symptoms associated with the condition?’
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then looked towards the judge to give an uncomfortable-sounding answer: ‘She did not mention any psychological symptoms, My Lord, nor did she show any signs of them in my surgery.’
Trish considered his hesitation, and the emphasis he’d given to the pronoun he’d used, then she said: ‘Nevertheless, Doctor Jenkins, did you have any reason to suspect such symptoms?’
This time the pause was longer. The judge looked over the top of his glasses first at Trish, then at the witness, and reminded him that he had to answer.
‘Her husband had come to see me twice, once in the week before her last appointment and once after it, to ask me to prescribe anti-depressants for her. I told him I couldn’t do so unless she consulted me about depression and reported symptoms consonant with the condition.’
‘What did he say then?’
Trish could feel Robert tensing behind her and ignored it. She knew what she was doing.
‘He gave me a list of her symptoms as he had observed them.’
‘Which were?’
‘Sleeplessness, which, as I said, she later ascribed to the hot flushes; anxiety; lack of concentration and lack of appetite.’
Trish glanced at Angie Fortwell and saw an expression of outrage, which gave her exactly what she wanted.
‘Did you believe him?’
She felt a tug on her gown, nodded briefly to the judge and turned to glare at Robert, who was holding out a small piece of paper. He looked so anxious she took it and opened it to read: ‘Not part of Antony’s plan. Where are you going with this? Fatal to ask questions not knowing answers.’
Hiding a smile at the reminder of one of the first rules any baby barrister learned, Trish looked at the witness once more.
‘Did you believe him, Doctor?’ she said again.
‘Not entirely.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Angela Fortwell was entirely capable of consulting me if she had those feelings, and she had never mentioned them.’
‘To what extent do you believe he could have been describing his own feelings?’ Trish was careful not to let her voice betray how much she cared what his answer would be.
‘I have to say quite a great extent. It definitely did seem the likeliest explanation for his coming to see me.’ The doctor’s reluctance was as clear as the apology in his expression. He no longer looked at Angie Fortwell.
Trish paused for a moment, then smiled at him. ‘Would it be true to say that among the commonest symptoms of depression are forgetfulness, an inability to complete planned tasks, lying about the consequences of that, and …’ She paused for emphasis: ‘And suicidal thoughts?’
‘It would.’
‘Did Mr Fortwell mention those, either in connection with his wife or with himself?’
‘No.’ Doctor Jenkins was firm. ‘Absolutely not. Never.’
‘And did he make any further appointments to return to your surgery?’
‘He did make one more, which he failed to keep. When my receptionist phoned him, he said he had forgotten.’
‘What inference did you make then?’
The doctor glared at Trish, then looked more politely towards the judge: ‘That he had forgotten.’
The judge didn’t bother to hide a smile.
‘Thank you, doctor.’ Having got exactly what she wanted, Trish sat and left him to be re-examined by Angie Fortwell.
She had just risen to her feet for her next stint when the judge said he thought this would be a good moment to adjourn, inviting them all to return to court at two o’clock. Angie looked puzzled, then made to sit down again. The bearded man with the worryingly loose red lips shook his head and stood up beside her, pulling down the cuffs of his hand-knitted sludge-green jersey.
The judge also got to his feet, everyone else followed suit and bowed. He left by the door behind the bench and the others collected their bags. Trish overheard Angie muttering, but couldn’t distinguish any words.
She felt Robert twitching her gown and turned her head, leaning back to hear him hiss:
‘If you were my pupil, I’d take you behind the nearest bike sheds and give you the thrashing of your life. What did you think you were doing just then?’
Trish giggled. Robert’s exaggeration was too absurd to take seriously. She couldn’t even remind him that he ought to have a bit more faith in her experience – and at least fake some respect for his leader. Still laughing, she straig
htened up and found herself only inches from Angie Fortwell, whose weather-beaten face looked even more accusing than it had done in the newspaper.
‘It’s just a game to you, isn’t it?’ A film of tears looked like an extra lens plastered over each eyeball. ‘You think it’s funny.’
Trish sobered at once.
‘How can you?’ Angie stopped to take a deep breath. ‘If you had any idea of the kind of man my husband was—’ A few tears fell. She had to breathe in again, across a sobbing exhalation, and nearly choked. She clutched her hands around her stomach as though to hold in unbearable pain.
The scruffy man with her tugged at her elbow, trying to make her stand up straight. At last Angie swallowed hard and stopped hugging her stomach.
‘You shouldn’t be able to laugh,’ she said. ‘There are people involved here, real people in real pain. It’s not so funny when you think of it like that, is it?’
‘You and I can’t discuss the progress of the case.’ Trish tried to ignore all the sympathy that was making her feel so queasy.
Angie coughed with a harsh sound that must have rasped her already tight throat.
‘You’re trying to suggest he killed himself. But he didn’t.’ Her voice was rising. ‘He’d never have done that. He was murdered by your clients. And you’re an evil bi—’
The man grabbed her, turning her and pulling her against him. He had one hand on the back of her head, holding it hard against his shoulder. Trish thought he was more interested in keeping Angie quiet than in providing comfort.
You shouldn’t mistrust someone just because he had an uncontrolled beard and inappropriate clothes, or even because he’d snapped at a woman in extremis and wouldn’t let her speak. But there was something about him that set Trish’s teeth on edge.
She left them to it.
‘Not bad,’ Robert murmured into her ear as they pushed their way through the crowd of angry spectators. ‘At least you didn’t join in. But you’re dicing with danger, you know. Getting an illegitimate guesstimate of the deceased’s mental state was never part of Antony’s plan. And it doesn’t fit with the skeleton argument, so you’re likely to piss off the judge. And—’
‘Robert.’ Trish paused until he’d wheeled round to look at her. ‘Remember the climbing analogy?’
‘Of course.’
‘If you don’t shut up, I will cut the rope and let you drop into the crevasse and die. This is my case now and we do it my way. OK?’
Watching his face made her think the lunch hour they were about to share might be a little tense.
The first lesson after lunch was chemistry. David dreaded it. In the old days all science lessons were just boring and difficult. Now it was different. He’d been given Jay as his partner in experiments instead of Sam, who’d been moved up into the A stream this term, so he had to spend the whole double period watching to make sure Jay didn’t do anything dangerous.
At first, he and Sam had barely noticed the new boy, except for laughing privately about his awful spots and the short kind of round haircut with the weird fringe. Then Mr Watson, the science teacher, had asked David if he’d help look after Jay while he found his feet. David probably would have said yes anyway, because you didn’t say no to Mr Watson unless you had a seriously good reason. But it was the way Mr Watson looked at Jay that made David really want to help.
Trish used to do it to him when he first came to live with her. She’d looked scared all the time, as if he might do something awful, but sugary and sympathetic too, which made for a really creepy mixture. And she’d watched everything he did in a way grown-ups didn’t usually unless they were doctors. Peering at him, checking everything he did and didn’t say, or do, or eat, or read, till he had nothing left of his own at all. He’d wanted to shout and scream and throw things. But of course he couldn’t.
Jay could, though. In most places David felt like cheering him on. But it was different in the labs. The stuff there was dangerous. Even thinking about what a spray of acid could do to someone’s face made him feel ill.
‘Come on, Dave.’ Jay whacked him on the back. ‘Cheer up. Watson can’t lay a finger on you even if you haven’t done your homework. An’ if he shouts too much you can just tip over the Bunsen burner and set his trousers on fire, innit.’
David shuddered, pretending he was pretending. Jay gave him a look as clear as anything Trish ever did.
‘It’s a joke, mate,’ he said. ‘You’re meant to laugh.’
‘Hee hee.’
Angie spent the first part of the afternoon demolishing Trish’s attempt to establish the fact of John’s depression, and she did it with unexpected neatness and apparently no emotion whatsoever. Trish was relieved she’d got herself together so quickly but more than a little surprised.
At last the doctor was allowed to go and Angie’s next witness was called: an estate agent specialising in the sale and purchase of farms like hers.
Trish listened to his account of why it would now be impossible to sell the farm, and asked her questions to establish that few such properties were selling in this particular area of the north-east of England. It was all textbook stuff and it took no particular skill. Even Hal, the pupil, would have managed all right, and Robert could have done it standing on his head. She reminded herself to hold on to her patience the next time he criticised her handling of the case.
He was still sulking as they left court, and the short walk back to chambers with the documents was conducted more or less in silence. Hal looked uncomfortable so Trish suggested Robert should let him go home as soon as he’d seen to the stowing of the files in her room.
‘What about me? D’you need me straight away?’ Robert said. ‘Or have I time to nip over to the hospital to see Antony? I can’t think what Liz is doing leaving him at the mercy of the NHS instead of moving him somewhere more civilised.’
‘You get great care in the NHS,’ Trish said mildly.
‘That’s as may be, but there’s better company in any private hospital. Knowing him, he’ll be dead bored and in dire need of decent conversation.’
‘Fine,’ she said, not having the energy to waste on his snobbery. ‘See you later. Give him my love, won’t you?’
As soon as Robert had gone, Trish felt released into a much bigger space. Now she could follow her own ideas wherever they took her, without being pulled up or questioned by anyone.
What she wanted first was more information about Angie’s bossy bearded friend. Somewhere there should be reports provided by the firm of enquiry agents retained by CWWM. They’d spent several weeks following all the members of FADE, in an attempt to find something that could be used to discredit the organisation.
Here was the file. There were far too many individual reports to read in detail. Trish went straight to the conclusion:
‘We are satisfied they’re harmless do-gooders, acting out of genuinely held beliefs about protection of the environment. All the volunteers who have been researching aspects of the case have other, legitimate, jobs or are legally living on benefit.’
Antony’s scribble in the margin made her smile: ‘Tiresome, isn’t it?’
Trish should have known he’d have considered every possible way of getting his clients off the hook. Still, she wasn’t giving up yet and scuffled in the mountains of paper to find the photographs and individual biographies that had been supplied with the report.
There were about thirty pictures. Most had been snatched in streets, banks, shops, pubs and libraries. Angie Fortwell appeared in one or two, but Trish recognised Greg Waverly in all of them.
She’d met a few environmental protesters with friends over the years, and none of them had struck her as being like him. They’d all been either products of well-organised pressure groups, who’d understood spin and presentation and would never have appeared in court in a ravelled jersey and grubby jeans, or else savagely angry individuals whose private demons would have been too urgent to keep them involved in tedious complex litigation.
<
br /> She turned to the biographical notes and skimmed through Waverly’s. They showed he’d been living on benefits after an organic food-supply business had failed. His bankruptcy had been discharged two years ago, and he’d moved in with Frances Showring eight months after that, when he’d also become a paid-up member of FADE. There’d been rumours that he’d set up the food business with profits made in the dotcom boom but the investigators hadn’t gone that far back. All they’d been asked to establish was whether he had any hidden assets now. None had been found. The collapse of his company had wiped him out financially.
Was he so humiliated by his failure that he’d looked for a way of publicly beating a much more successful company?
CWWM was active right across the world and had delivered record profits for its shareholders in almost every one of the last twenty years. What could be better for a despised bankrupt than triumphing over them in the Royal Courts of Justice, while still looking as though he lived under a hedge?
A voice disturbed Trish an hour later, saying: ‘What on earth are you doing now?’
She looked up to find her eyes blurred with all the close peering she’d been doing. Blinking to focus better, she saw Robert in the doorway.
‘Sorry,’ she said, as she rubbed her sore head. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. How was Antony?’
‘Shocked by the way you’re going with the case.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant how was he? In pain? Weak? Confused?’
‘I told you: shocked.’ Robert pulled off his coat and flung it over one of the chairs that stood near the wall under the regimented bookshelves. ‘And what’s all this chaos? What are you looking for now?’
Trish pushed the hair out of her face, reminded herself yet again of how Robert must be feeling about her elevation and bit down on everything she wanted to say to him. After a moment’s hard effort, she smiled.
‘I was looking at the FADE biographies when I stumbled on something else. ’
A Poisoned Mind Page 7
