“I thought we could eat in the conservatory,” Mrs. Riley is saying, leading us through to a large glass extension where a beautiful spread of cucumber sandwiches, bagels, and jugs of iced water is laid out across a large table with a crisp white tablecloth.
“Really, Mrs. Riley, you shouldn’t have.” Nick looks slightly embarrassed and I wonder just how much flirting took place to warrant this kind of reception. Or what she’s trying to distract us from.
“Please, call me Kristy.” She gestures for us both to sit down. “What can I get you to drink?”
We sit around the table, helping ourselves to sandwiches. As expected, Kristy—which is probably short for Kristabelle or Krystal with a “K”—barely touches the food and sits sipping water from an expensive-looking glass.
“So you said on the phone that you wanted to talk about Matthew?” she asks eventually, directing her question solely at Nick. I realize with some annoyance that she’s barely glanced my way since we arrived, acting instead as though Nick has come alone. Her husband ruined my life; the least she could do is fucking look at me.
“We’d be very grateful.” Nick gives her his best look of sympathetic concern. “But only if it isn’t too difficult for you, of course.”
She doesn’t answer him, but instead turns to fix her full attention on me for the first time. “You’re her, aren’t you. Susan Webster.” It’s a statement, not a question, and I suddenly think I liked it better when she was ignoring me. As far as I know, Nick used my new name when he arranged for us to see Kristy; he told her that we’re researching an article on stress in the health profession and as far as he was aware, she’d bought that line. Looks like we aren’t as clever as we think we are.
“Yes,” I reply truthfully. “I’m sorry we lied to you.”
“Don’t be,” she replies matter-of-factly. “I knew it was you as soon as I opened the door. If I hadn’t wanted to speak to you, I wouldn’t have let you in.”
“So why did you?”
“I was curious,” she admits unashamedly, making me feel a bit like a sideshow act. “The famous Susan Webster turns up with a reporter, wanting to talk about Matty? Yours was the last trial my husband ever gave evidence at.” Kristy looks as though it hurts her to remember, which maybe it does. Maybe she has no idea what a lying bastard her husband was. “I always wondered if the two were related. I’ve never forgotten your face; I saw it every time I closed my eyes. For years I blamed you for his disappearance.”
That’s rich.
“But not anymore?” Nick asks.
“No, not anymore,” she replies, avoiding my eyes. “The more I thought about it, the less sense it made to me. Matthew had had difficult and upsetting cases before and he’d never let them affect him. There must have been things going on I didn’t know about. Maybe blaming you was a way of avoiding shouldering my own blame. I just didn’t notice what was under my nose.”
“So you don’t think your husband’s disappearance had anything to do with Susan’s trial? It happened so soon afterwards.”
“It couldn’t have, could it?” Kristy asks. “I mean, he was just giving evidence, just telling the truth as he interpreted it. What happened to you, I mean your conviction, it wasn’t his fault. But I still couldn’t think for the life of me why he would leave us. The police looked into our finances, asked about our relationship, but they found nothing. He had inherited a lot of money from a great-grandfather and made enough to keep us comfortable, as you can see. I knew they were barking up the wrong tree, but I was too shocked to ask questions and I still don’t know now what those questions would be.”
“Did you ever get the impression your husband knew more than he was letting on about Dylan Webster’s death?” Nick asks gently. Kristy’s cheeks redden.
“How do you mean? Like he had something to do with the baby dying?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that . . .”
“But that’s exactly what you are implying! What’s she said to you?” Her finger jabs accusingly towards my face. “Whatever she thinks she knows, she’s lying.”
Now it’s my turn to go red. The heat rises in my cheeks and I can feel Nick’s eyes boring into me, willing me not to explode. I never made him any promises. “And what do you think you know, Kristy? You’re telling me you don’t have any idea why your husband might have done a runner?”
Kristy stands up. “I still can’t figure out why you’re here, but if you’re trying to insinuate that my husband was in some way involved in the death of your son, you may as well leave. I’m sorry about what happened to you, Mrs. Webster. Postpartum depression is nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s awful that you didn’t get the help you needed, but if you think I’m going to sit here and have Matthew’s name dragged through the dirt, you’re both sadly mistaken.” She picks up my bag and shoves it at me, venom pouring from her. “Get out, the pair of you.”
36
Take us to Rachael’s office,” I instruct when we’re back on the road. “It seems a shame to come all this way and miss an opportunity to speak to her.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? The mood you’re in?” Nick asks, once again adopting his concerned look. It was sweet at first, but if he keeps it up much longer, I think I might rip it off his face.
“Do you have any better ideas?” I ask instead. “That was a bloody disaster back there! Did you think she was just going to come out and say that she knew what had happened to Dylan? Or were you hoping I was going to be bad cop to your good cop?”
He turns left without saying a word.
The office of ZBH Solicitors is a tall, old-fashioned building, but I know the inside is anything but old-fashioned. A large marbled reception holds a sleek white desk manned by a haughty blonde woman who looks as immaculate as the furniture.
“We’re here to see Rachael Travis,” I tell her, approaching the desk. The woman recognizes me immediately, despite us having never met. Were they expecting me?
“Mrs. Webster, do you have an appointment?”
“It’s Ms. Cartwright,” I snap. “And no, we were in the area and decided to stop by to visit an old friend. Will you tell her we’re here, please?”
I expect her to argue, but she just picks up the phone and dials an extension. From the little conversation I can hear, it sounds like Rachael has been expecting a visit and puts up no fight. I presume Cassie’s earlier phone call—as me—requesting my trial notes has put them on red alert, and the lack of resistance makes me certain I will get nothing from her. She’s probably going to start reading from a prepared statement, if I know Rachael.
“Ms. Travis will see you,” Miss Stick-up-ass tells us, immediately going back to her paperwork.
Rachael’s office is on the fourth floor of the building. When we get there, her personal secretary, Tamsin, smiles warmly at us.
“Emma.” She greets me using my new name, which endears me to her immediately. I’ve only ever spoken to her on the phone, but she’s always been genuinely warm and friendly and never uses the judgmental tone so many members of the firm employ. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person. How are you?”
“I’m okay, thank you, Tamsin, and you?”
“I’m rolling along,” she replies affably. “Ms. Travis is waiting for you.”
“Thanks.”
Rachael’s office is all polished wood and sleek lines. Immaculate law tomes, which I doubt are ever read, line the bookshelves and a comfy-looking armchair sits behind a heavy wooden desk. Rachael stands by the window, her back to the door, although I know she’s heard us enter. After a few seconds or so she turns to face us without smiling. Her face looks different from how I remember. The features are all still the same—sharp angles and high cheekbones, perfectly applied makeup, and large, almond-shaped brown eyes. Her haircut has changed—it looks sharper, more slanty, and shorter—but the main difference is the expression on her face. I remember her bringing me packets of chocolate muffins and cigarettes when I was in Oakdale;
new underwear and notebooks. I remember her smiling and taking my hand across the plastic visitors’ table, with its fag burns and graffiti scrawl, and telling me how hopeful she was of my appeal, an appeal that went nowhere due to lack of fresh evidence. I remember her squeezing my arm and talking in low, comforting tones about how well I looked and how strong I was being, even in the early days when I wouldn’t speak a word back to her.
“Susan, how’s freedom treating you?” She doesn’t sound like she cares now in the slightest; her words are short and clipped and she doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turning to Nick and holding out a perfectly manicured hand. I wonder briefly how many other women are set to make me feel frumpy and unattractive today. “Rachael Travis. And you are?”
“Nick Whitely.” Nick holds out his hand but doesn’t return her false smile. I smugly spread my feathers.
“Whitely,” Rachael muses. “I know that name. But I’m sure I’d recognize you if we’d met before.”
“I covered Susan’s trial,” Nick replies. “But I don’t believe I interviewed you personally.”
“That must be it then.” Rachael turns to me sharply. “What can I do for you, Susan? Surely you don’t need the services of a criminal lawyer again this soon?” She smiles as if joking, but there is no humor in her voice.
“No, not yet.” I hope the threat is implicit in my words, but if she’s caught on she doesn’t let on, so I continue. “I’ve been looking over my trial notes and there are a few things I wanted to discuss with you face-to-face.”
“Yes, Gemma told me you’d put in a request.” So it was the receptionist who dobbed me in. “What is it that concerns you?”
She gestures for us to take a seat and perches herself on the edge of her desk, an act that may seem casual and relaxed to most people, but I know differently. This way she still towers above us, always trying to gain the upper hand, ever the criminal lawyer.
“There was a drug in my system at the time of my son’s death.” I take a breath and look at Nick, who nods for me to continue. “Ketamine. It could have rendered me helpless, according to my research, and yet its presence in my blood was never brought up at my trial.”
Rachael doesn’t appear surprised by my revelation. Of course not: she already knew about the ketamine.
“Ketamine is a recreational drug, Susan. If I’d brought up the fact that it was in your system at the time of Dylan’s death, there would be nothing stopping the prosecution from saying you were high when you killed him.” I try not to visibly flinch at her words. “You should thank your lucky stars they didn’t spot it themselves; depressed child killer still sounds a hell of a lot better than drugged-up child killer.”
Keep calm. Count to ten. Don’t cry. Don’t hit her.
“But it might have proved that someone else was involved.”
Rachael takes a deep breath in. “And so we come to the reason you’re here. Susan, I know it’s been hard to come to terms with what happened—God knows it would be difficult for anyone to accept that they had harmed their own child—but there was never anyone else implicated in Dylan’s death.”
To think that I once considered this woman my ally. Seeing her standing so coolly in front of me, saying my son’s name so offhandedly, I feel anger begin to bubble up inside me. How dare she talk as if she knew Dylan? It’s all I can do not to scream and throw the DNA results I have in my pocket in her face. I don’t dare speak for a second. Rachael obviously takes this silence as an admission that what she’s saying must be right and plows on with her armchair psychology.
“Lots of people who have experienced this kind of trauma go through intense denial. They search for someone to blame, anyone but themselves. It’s perfectly natural for you to feel like I might have sabotaged your trial; you won’t be the first. What you have to remember is that I’ve done this a thousand times, probably more, and anything I didn’t include at your trial was for a reason.”
Her condescending, patronizing “I know best, you’re the textbook criminal” tone does nothing to alleviate my anger. I take a couple of imperceptible breaths to calm myself down; losing my rag will not help the situation.
“And Dr. Choudry’s report?” I ask in a level tone. “Did that not seem worth mentioning? When that woman stood there telling the whole courtroom how I had severe postpartum depression, did it not seem worth pointing out that my own doctor, who had known me since I was a little girl, said there was nothing wrong with me?”
Ms. Travis has clearly been expecting this also. She looks at Nick imploringly, obviously thinking he might be a better bet when it comes to her female charms.
“Dr. Choudry was in disgrace,” Rachael tells him softly. “One of his patients had been suffering from puerperal psychosis and he had neither diagnosed nor successfully managed her condition, resulting in the most tragic of outcomes. It was expected that he would report that Susan had been fine merely to cover his own shortcomings. Putting him on the stand would not have helped her case, and if the prosecution had got hold of him it would have ended his career altogether.” She turns back to me. “Would you have wanted that?”
“No,” I admit reluctantly. I had no idea how Dr. Choudry’s career had been affected by what I’d done. Mark, Dr. Choudry, Dr. Riley and his family—how many other lives has this ruined? I try to focus on why we are here. I know Dylan is still alive, that I never killed him in the first place and I’m not responsible for any of these lives being torn to shreds. God, how I want to believe that it is true.
“Not only that,” Rachael continues, “but we were trying to prove you were depressed. If we went around calling witnesses to say there was nothing wrong with you, you’d still have been found guilty but you’d have served twenty years.”
“It’s a fair point, Ms. Travis,” Nick relents, and I think for a second he is about to give up and leave. He’s right, it is a fair point. Maybe I really have just been looking for someone to blame.
Before I received the photograph with my son’s name on it I thought Rachael had done the best job she could do. Maybe she’s just a crap lawyer. But Nick hasn’t finished. “So could you explain one last thing to us, as you’ve been so forthcoming thus far?”
This time Rachael does look surprised, and I try to hide the fact that so am I. We haven’t discussed any other “things.”
“Go on,” she says slowly.
“I’m wondering if you can tell me why you made seventeen phone calls to Mr. and Mrs. Webster’s house in the week leading up to the trial, when Mrs. Webster was being treated in the hospital for her so-called depression? What exactly did you and Mr. Webster have to discuss?”
My mouth falls open. Rachael blinks a couple of times and looks at me. He’s got her.
“There was some trouble with the, um, the funding,” she replies eventually. My legal fees were paid from our joint account and I was never aware of any difficulties. “Mr. Webster thought it best that Susan wasn’t troubled with anything to do with finances, so he dealt with me directly.”
“Really?” Nick asks, feigning surprise. “It seems that Mr. Webster has a different version. He told us you were gathering evidence to help Susan in any way you could.”
He’s spoken to Mark? How did I not know about this? Rachael, to her credit, recovers well, but I can see her mentally kicking herself.
“Of course, that was another reason for my calls. I don’t really see that this is any of your business. Who did you say you are again?”
Her tone suggests that this chat is over, and Nick, without losing an ounce of cool, gets to his feet and tells her so. I am too flabbergasted to say much except good-bye.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” I demand when we are outside, the door firmly closed behind us so Tamsin can’t hear. Before Nick can answer, the door opposite us opens and a face to launch a thousand ships peers out from behind it.
“I thought I heard voices.”
“We weren’t speaking,” Nick replies, quite rudely. Obviously he d
oesn’t play well with other pretty boys. The man frowns.
“Weird. Wait a second, are you Susan Webster?” Before I can answer, Nick steps in front of me.
“Who are you?”
The man flicks his eyes to Nick briefly, then back to me. “Rob Howe.” He puts out his hand, and when I give him mine to shake, he holds on to it a little longer than is usual. “I’m the ‘H’ in ZBH.” He gestures with his head towards the large letters on the wall.
“You’re Rachael’s boss?” He laughs at the surprise in my voice. “I was expecting someone . . .”
“Less devastatingly handsome?”
Nick grunts. I feel my cheeks redden; Rob’s don’t. “Older.”
“Susan, we have to go.” Nick nudges my arm.
“Do you have time for a quick word?” Rob asks. He moves his eyes pointedly to Nick. “Alone?”
I can almost feel Nick opening his mouth to object. Before he does, I cut in. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I tell him.
“Are you sure?”
“Nick, seriously. What do you think is going to happen to me in the hallway of a law firm?”
He shrugs, like he could think of a million things but he knows none of them will be well received. “Fine. See you at the car.”
As we both watch his retreating back, Rob says, “He’s overprotective. Who is he? Your brother? Boyfriend?”
I don’t want to give too much away so I just shake my head. “A friend. He’s just looking out for me. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Rob lowers his voice and I have to step closer to hear him. He smells expensive, and in a tailored Armani suit he looks it too. He must be under forty, well built, and his face has been chiseled by a steady hand. He’s perfectly clean-shaven. “I’m glad you have someone looking after you. Do you want to step in here? My PA is out for lunch.” His hand is on the door to his own office and he gestures with his head to Rachael’s door, which we are still standing outside.
How I Lost You Page 17
