Dedication
In memory of Magdalen Nabb.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
About the Author
Also by Frances Fyfield
Copyright
About the Publisher
Acknowledgements
With heartfelt thanks to Ian Goldup, and Rebecca Cobb, Coroners, for facts and information.
Thanks also to Judith Dorey, for giving me the atmosphere of a place where clothes are lovingly restored.
All errors are my own.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Scene 1
Following his acquittal, which happened without too much of a fanfare but with dramatic abruptness on the fourth day of the sixth week of his postponed and protracted trial, the Defendant waited outside Court Three in the Central Criminal Court long after everyone else had departed. He was admiring the older part of the building. He had been granted the accolade of the original, seventeenth-century courtroom that had once led, via a trapdoor in the floor, to the cells of Newgate Gaol beneath. Two centuries ago, prisoners would enter the court via this hole in the ground; it was said that the judge would hold a perfumed nosegay to his face to mask the smell of incarcerated humanity. Ring a ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies, Atishoo, atishoo! We all fall down. Or maybe, as Ms Shearer, QC, his learned Counsel for the Defence had said, this ditty referred to the plague years.
He was waiting specifically to say goodbye to her. He knew very well she detested him as thoroughly as anyone of her bloodless and ruthless temperament could entertain such an emotion. He had his own, foul smell. She would be better at carefully concealed contempt than she would be at affection and as for sentiment, Jehovah forbid. She was fifty-one, walked like an aggressive ballerina, acted like a wheedling prima donna specialising in outrage on behalf of her clients, and had the ability to make herself believe in them absolutely for as long as it took. Her desire to win was lethal. He had charmed her at first, but that was a long time before. Ms Shearer had got what her ugly face deserved.
The trial had gone wrong on her, with the right result, certainly, one achieved through exploitation of weakness, legal argument, bullying, manipulation and luck. The suicide of the prime witness could only be called a misfortune. A thoroughly professional hatchet job on her part, in other words. It was for the prosecution to prove their case and for her to destroy it; she had done the latter but the result would not cover her with glory simply because it would be seen as an outrageous piece of cruel luck, rather than advocacy.
She would not want to say goodbye. She would never want to see him again, but he was fresh out of jail and for the first time he was leaving the court via the front door and not via the prison van. The prison van, he had told her, was an exquisitely uncomfortable mode of transport, like travelling on the inside of a human time bomb complete with moulded plastic seats and manacles.
Freedom could wait. He knew she had to come through that door over there in order to find her own way out and he knew she would be hoping he was long gone, never to be seen or heard of again, but he wanted a chance to stress to her how much they had in common, to thank her, of course and above all, to let her know exactly what they had achieved between them. As if, after all those hours spent together, she did not know already.
She wore her high heels as if born in them, clicking over the tiled floor, hesitating when she saw him, alone apart from the security guard who waited to see them out. The space was suddenly vast. His small legal team had melted away as soon as the Judge left his seat. No one else wanted to say goodbye. The Prosecution’s pathetic posse of lawyers and disgruntled police had exited stage left, shepherding away that bitch of a girl with a bag who would have spat at him in passing if not held back. They might all be elsewhere, rending their garments like biblical penitents. So, it might just be the two of them, then; after all those hours spent together saying goodbye.
Her hesitation, a slow little click-clack of the black shoes, as if pausing in a dance, turned into certainty. Ms Shearer would never give herself the option of running away.
‘Still here, Richard?’ she said. ‘Doesn’t the fresh air beckon or something? It’s over.’
‘I wanted to thank you.’
She was standing back, but he reached forward and touched her arm above the elbow. She was heavily laden with leather panniers of paper over each shoulder; her face was old and cold, paler than his prison pallor, a face devoid and exhausted and still ugly.
‘No need to thank me. I was only doing my job.’
‘So you were. Can I carry your bags, miss?’
‘No. My luggage is my own.’
She began to steer her way round him, her distaste palpable. He was furious. After all those hours.
‘I only wanted to walk out of here with you. My saviour. And you can’t even bear to do that?’
She put down the document bags and rubbed her right shoulder, weariness overcoming her. Spoke loudly in her harsh voice.
‘No, I don’t want to walk out of here with you, even if it’s the wrong time of day for the newspapers. You wanted to say goodbye, so goodbye, Rick Boyd. I’ve done the job and I’ve got another. Another innocence to prove.’
‘Shake hands, then.’
In an automatic gesture of politeness – she was good with gestures – she extended her right hand towards him. He glimpsed the long, ringless fingers with the talon nails he had seen so often turning the pages of paper in his presence, looking for the weaknesses in the words and always finding them. In the last second, her hand trembled and he imagined what she would want to do after she had shaken his. She would want to wipe away all traces, stroke her damp palm on the cloth of her skirt to get rid of the slime of him and maybe she would not even wait until he was out of sight. He seized the proffered hand in both of his own and bent back the first finger until he could hear the crick of bone.
‘Beautiful hands,’ he murmured. ‘I got the dear Angel to display hers on the kitchen table. I do so love a woman’s hand. She’d varnished her fingernails for me. She was admiring herself, hands splayed on the wood, when I took off the first digit. The blood went in the soup and salt went in the wound. She slept very well, I assure you. I’m sure she doesn’t miss it. Anyway, I really did want to thank you for springing me. Magnificently done. Every single trick in the book.’
He struggled with pride, straightened his shoulders.
‘I suppose we killed her, really,’ he murmured. ‘But I didn’t mean it. I’ll find that other bitch. Anyway, thanks.’
The hand he relinquished fell to her side. She flexed nerveless fingers, took a deep breath, hoisted her bags of robes and papers and clicked her way across the floor. From a safe distance, she half turned, checked the mobile phone in her breast pocket, spoke over her shoulder, ‘I’ll put it all in my memoirs, Mr Boyd,’ and then she went out. The guard followed her, leaving the Defendant alone.
He did a little dance on the central design of the tiled floor.
Free.
C
onscience was something which belonged to other people. The hot summer sunshine outside on the street was as sweet as she had promised, not that he noticed the seasons. Truth never hurt anyone except his victims, and victims lied, did they not? Lied, while only one of them had died. Who cared? They were cut from the same cloth, Ms Shearer and he. They didn’t do suffering.
Rejoice.
Only, out in the daylight, he knew she had not done it right. She had not proved he was INNOCENT. What memoirs? What book of revelation of all those long hours? She never loved him and she still had his life.
Scene 2
It was early in the morning of a cold January day when Paul Bain was crossing through from one busy road towards another, admiring the contrast between this street and the one he had left and wishing he was at home in bed. The tree-lined street was quiet, containing ambassadorial-style residences and a discreetly expensive hotel with six floors and a façade of Edwardian splendour. He was wondering what it would be like to be a rich London tourist and stay in a place like that, reflecting that an overnight stay would cost him a month’s wages and this was not the career he had in mind for himself. Artist reduced to dogsbody. It was a day for feeling bitter. He had his camera ready for the morning’s unglamorous task, which was photographing road works in an evidence-gathering exercise for Westminster City Council. He hoped he did not look the part and he did not want to reach his destination, so he stopped and looked up for a spot of dreaming, and that was when he saw her.
The woman was sitting on the balustrade of the sixth-floor balcony of the hotel, framed by a couple of box trees behind her with her booted feet dangling in front, supporting herself on her hands. She was fully dressed with a flash of colour and looked small and odd, perched up there. A window opened in the room next to hers; someone stepped out on to their balcony and spoke to her. It all seemed very relaxed, if eccentric, as if it was a normal, early morning chat between chambermaids, all under control. The camera was in his hands. He trained it on her, the better to see. She had shiny hair, which caught the light as she shook her head. He thought he saw the suggestion of a reassuring smile through the lens, as if she had seen him or someone she knew and liked, and then she jumped.
She leapt. In one split second she was safe, if precarious, on the broad stone balustrade, a person teasing danger rather than in it, and then she pushed herself off with her hands, spread her arms wide and floated down like a bird shot from the skies. He recorded her agonisingly slow progress through the lens: he knew the meaning of time standing still as her disfigured shape fell and became a blur as it hit the road with a deafening sound. The noise was like a distant car crash causing vibrations through his feet and skull, a muted explosion sending the birds in the trees flying away in screaming protest. He simply stood there with his camera frozen to his hand until his knees began to tremble and the buildings around him seem to shake, shrug and become still. He had forgotten his own name.
Then he let the camera drop and looked back up to the balcony with his naked eye. The person who had been speaking to the woman had moved back from the edge and covered her face. The silence was unspeakable. He did not move; nothing moved. He stood there for some time, like a child waiting for someone to collect him. He had the perverse feeling that someone ought to ask him how he was, because he was cold on the shady side of the street and he felt weak and sick and lonely. In the midst of all of this, after an ambulance arrived and people fussed over the dead thing in the road and no one came near him, he found himself obscurely angry with her for subjecting him to this, and at the same time it occurred to him that all disasters created opportunities and if he wanted to be a member of the paparazzi, he should learn to think like one. With those colours, she looked as if she might have been a celebrity. It might have been a film stunt gone wrong. As soon as he had seen her, he had remembered a startlingly similar happening only a week before, when another woman had leapt from a building in the cold light of day. It made all this seem like an unreal sham, simply a harmless death rehearsal and a perfect photo opportunity.
So he sold her. Her, pictures of her. Ms Marianne Shearer hit the news with more force than she had ever done even in the most infamous of her trials as a champion of justice.
‘Celebrity’ and ‘well known in certain circles’ amounted to the same thing. It was a dull week too soon after New Year. Throwing oneself from a window was enough to secure temporary celebrity status, especially when the suicide was rich, well qualified, successful and without any apparent problems, thus providing more of a sensation than the last self-inflicted demise. Bain’s excellent-quality mementos were published the next day following an auction for the rights. There was intense interest and considerable outrage since the selected newspapers were the first to bear the bad tidings to most of her friends, family, colleagues, etc. They all learned of her ending by watching her in free fall, captured in newsprint on a morning when there was no other news. The insensitivity of sensationalised death on camera and the cold voyeurism of the opportunistic photographer gave the deceased an added dimension of tragedy. She floated to earth in a brown blur of glory, famous at last, as she might have wanted, or not. A woman at the top of her professional tree/a fearless practitioner of the law/protector of human rights/the innocent/owner of three-bedroomed Kensington apmt worth one mill, loved by friends and surviving brother. British citizen, born in NZ.
Strangers who never knew her at all shed tears. Poor, wretched woman, for whom money bought nothing but the price of a lofty hotel room hired for the express purpose of throwing herself out of it. A failed love affair? Seasonal blues? Whatever. Poor, lonely rich woman, a lesson to us all. Tributes from friends.
One person looked at the first edition of the Daily Mail, having been drawn to buy it like thousands of others purely by the front page photograph of a blurred silhouette plunging down the side of a building, with promises of more on page three. She looked closely and was also moved to tears until she found the details and name. Then she threw it across the room. Why didn’t she kill herself sooner, before she did so much damage? And then she cried herself angrily into sleep, because this wasn’t justice, it never was.
The photographer came to consider it the worst thing he had ever done, to be in that street, at that time and to sell what he had seen. It paid his debts and more, but she owned him after that. He could no longer hold his camera to his eye without his hand shaking; he could not believe what he saw on the screen and the images blurred along with the observations which haunted him, such as how careful she had been about the choice of a place to jump, so that she avoided the hotel portico where she might have fallen against the flagpole, or the room to the right, where she might have become entangled with the tree which reached the fourth floor, from whose bare branches the birds had flown with their anxious screams. He was trying to find something which indicated she had not meant it; that it was accident or homicide rather than self-destruct. He was also looking all the time for the third figure beyond the box-tree ornaments on the balcony and into the room beyond, searching for the shadow he wished he had seen, someone who would explain. There were no pictures of anything before the moment when she had jumped, nothing until she pushed herself away and that full skirt had slightly checked her fall, but there were the pictures he wished into his mind of the same figure, flying back.
A third person saw the photographs and simply laughed. Serve you right. You wouldn’t walk out of there with me. I knew I scared you rigid, I saw it in your face. I passed on the baton of conscience, all right? You fell with your hands outstretched and it looked as if you had no thumbs at all. You thought you were immune. Who’ll write the memoirs now?
He remembered how the last time he had seen her, she had fingered the mobile phone in her pocket as if checking. She recorded everything. He also remembered how it was with her, how nothing she did in public, not even the smallest gesture, was without a purpose.
She might have lost her grasp, but she still had his life, his soul.
On record, on paper, she still possessed all that knowledge of him.
An old man sat with the evening paper, which he examined closely. He smoothed the fine mohair fabric of his jacket and picked off a small lump of fluff. It was the only time she had ever intruded into his home. From the far end of the house, he could hear his grandchildren.
Then his plump wife came in with his tea.
CHAPTER TWO
Shearer—Marianne Jane, on 4th January, aged 51, at Kensington, London. Private cremation to be arranged. No flowers, please. Inquiries to [email protected].
It was a beautiful flat, if you liked that kind of thing, which Thomas did. It was an estate agent’s dream for the client worth a million, requiring nothing more than space without a single piece of evidence indicating a previous occupant of any kind. Cream walls, cream carpet, a kitchen full of stainless steel, a single, neutral sofa, marooned in the centre of a large living room, alongside a small perspex table so transparent it melded with the rest. A blank canvas, to be written upon, with no writing as yet.
The newspaper, left open on the floor, provided the only contrast. Black, against the white, looked almost shocking. One longed for the odd wine stain, even for blood. Any sign of life would do.
The taller of the two men, Thomas Noble, picked up the newspaper, which was offensive to him for several reasons. His shorter companion stood a good way off, leaning against the window with his arms crossed and admiring the view outside with a proprietorial air. The irritation which percolated between them was in control. Thomas had rarely disliked anyone with such intensity, and marvelled at the fact he could so loathe on sight a person who was the brother of someone he had counted as a close friend, but then, that same great friend had obviously been a bit of a mystery in her own right. Her failure to confide despair rankled like an itch. After all, she seemed to have confided so much. Marianne could be shockingly frank. Not so her brother. Thomas shuddered, imperceptibly, and in order to say something, picked up and read from the newspaper article she had ringed with the red felt pen. It provided the only colour in the room.
Blood From Stone Page 1
