But suddenly, as if attuned to her sister’s anxiety, Naomi interrupts herself, in the midst of a tortuous paraphrase of some semi-understood item of science. ‘OK,’ she says, stopping, making a clamping motion with both hands. ‘I’ve lost the plot a bit here. Sorry,’ she says. They are back on the steep path, overlooking the town. Naomi scans the buildings, as if in search of the visual cue that will bring her thoughts to order. This takes half a minute, then she nods and walks on.
Enthralled by his experience of the ‘chemical sublime’, Naomi resumes, Bernát had embarked on some research. After reading ‘dozens of books and hundreds of articles’, he had succeeded in concocting his own magical mixture, brewed from plants that he had gathered on his weekends in the wilds. ‘It was amazing,’ says Naomi. ‘The taste was pretty grim, to be honest. You drink it like tea,’ she explains. ‘But the outcome was amazing,’ she repeats, drawing the adjective out.
Kate does not provide the reaction that Naomi wants; she does not say anything.
‘Are you shocked?’ Naomi asks.
‘Not at all,’ Kate answers, which is true; the end of the story has come as no surprise. Her sister is reckless; it is disappointing, nonetheless, that she should have been so foolish.
‘It was perfectly safe,’ says Naomi. ‘He’d tried it himself, lots of times.’
‘Doesn’t mean it was safe.’
‘And I only tried it once. Or twice.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ says Kate, more primly than intended.
‘But it really was wonderful,’ says Naomi. Again the bait is not taken, yet she proceeds without encouragement. What she saw in Bernát’s garden, at first, was the foliage starting to slip off the trees and bushes sliding into the air, like green-black lava. The lawn became a shining plate of emerald, then flames stood up from it, huge pale green flames that extended skyward, following the flow of the lava-leaves. Though the flames were moving towards her she was not afraid, because the fire had no heat; it moved over her, and as soon as she was inside the flames she began to rise. She became aware of figures in the distance, far above her – human figures, barely visible, disappearing into the light. For hours, it seemed, she was carried on the heatless flames; the joy, the tranquillity, was like nothing she had ever experienced. The colours that she saw were of a preternatural vividness – supercharged hues that no painter could mix. ‘Blues that made the best summer sky seem insipid,’ she says.
‘Sounds like quite a ride,’ says Kate. There was a time, she recalls, when Naomi would recount her dreams, in exorbitant detail, simply to share the extravagance of them; and Kate, required to reciprocate, could never offer anything of the same magnitude of invention.
‘You would never have been tempted, would you?’ says Naomi; her smile has commiseration in it.
For an instant Kate has an urge to step out of character. But what she says is: ‘Need you ask?’
‘Gabriel thought it was stupid, too,’ says Naomi.
‘And illegal.’
‘It’s a grey area.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘No, it is. Bernát checked.’
‘We could ask Martin.’
‘The offer is appreciated. But no need,’ says Naomi, hooking a hand under her sister’s arm. ‘We’ll not be doing any funny stuff up at the farm. Worry not. Bees and routine vegetables – that’s the lot. No magic mushrooms,’ she promises; she smiles, and squeezes the arm as one might squeeze the arm of someone elderly and beloved.
They are now at the foot of the slope that rises to the High Street. Waiting for a gap in the traffic, Naomi is apparently struck by an idea. ‘Know what I’d like to do?’ she says eagerly, with another squeeze. ‘I’d like to see Martin.’
‘Martin’s in court.’
‘That’s what I mean. I’ve never seen him in action. There’s a public gallery, isn’t there?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Come on,’ she urges. ‘Carpe diem and all that. If not now, when? I’ll be going back to London on Monday.’
‘Oh. Really? I didn’t—’
‘Come on,’ Naomi chivvies, tugging her sister off the pavement.
15.
Kate and Naomi are admitted to the public gallery as counsel for the prosecution – Martin – is cross-examining a man by the name of Peter Addison. It is alleged that on the night of Friday, May 2nd, Mr Addison set fire to a property belonging to a Mr Colin Simonsen, an erstwhile business partner and friend of Mr Keith Tranter and his brother, Mr Kevin Tranter, who are alleged to have commissioned Mr Addison to commit this act of arson. The Tranters allege that Mr Simonsen defrauded them of their rightful share of the profit from a resort development in Malta; they deny, however, that they had any involvement in the fire, as does Mr Addison.
Peter Addison is 35 years old and of jockey-like dimensions. He wears a shiny petrol-blue suit and radiantly white shirt, with a scarlet tie. He has astronaut-length hair, thinning on top; his eyes, deep-set below black brows, are as dark and cold as an otter’s.
‘Mr Addison,’ the prosecutor resumes, ‘the emergency services in Horsham were notified of the fire at Mr Simonsen’s property shortly before 2.20am. As a witness will testify, at 1.30am a man bearing a close resemblance to yourself was observed removing an object from the boot of a Mazda sports car, less than a quarter of a mile from the scene of the fire. Yet you are adamant that this individual could not have been you. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You drive a Mazda sports car, do you not?’
‘Not any more.’
‘But at the time of the fire you were the owner of a Mazda sports car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Silver?’
‘I’d call it grey.’
‘The same colour as the car that was seen in Horsham.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘You were nowhere near Horsham?’
‘No.’
‘So would you be so kind as to tell us where you were?’
‘Fishing.’
‘In the small hours of the morning of May 2nd you were fishing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where?’
‘Tide Mills.’
‘And where would we find Tide Mills?’
‘Newhaven. By the harbour.’
‘On May 2nd you decided to go fishing by Newhaven harbour in the middle of the night?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Is this a frequent activity of yours, Mr Addison? Fishing at an hour when most people are asleep in their beds?’
‘Fish don’t sleep.’
The prosecuting counsel smiles. ‘A nice point, Mr Addison,’ he concedes. ‘Nonetheless,’ he continues, ‘it might strike the members of the jury as a somewhat strange pastime, angling in the dark, on your own.’
‘I like it. Clears your head. Gives you time to think.’
‘I’m sure it does, Mr Addison, I’m sure it does. And if your head was clear, you’ll remember the night in question.’
‘Yes,’ states the defendant.
‘At what time did you arrive at Tide Mills?’
‘About half-twelve, I suppose.’
‘You “suppose”?’
‘I didn’t check my watch when I got there. I set off at twelve. You can ask my girlfriend. She’ll tell you.’
‘Yes, we are aware of Ms Kelly’s statement, Mr Addison, thank you. It is not disputed that you left your home at midnight. And I am fully prepared to accept that prior to your departure you loaded your fishing tackle into your car.’
‘Well then.’
‘Well then what, Mr Addison?’
‘That’s what I’ve been telling you.’
‘No, Mr Addison. I do not dispute the circumstances of your departure. It’s your destination that’s at issue.’
‘I went to Tide Mills,’ Peter Addison repeats, raising a hand to his tie, as if the maintenance of his good temper, against the provocations of this patronising toff, was determined by t
he adjustment of the knot.
‘How often do you go fishing at such an hour of the night, would you say? Once a week, once a month? Every two months?’
‘Maybe every month. Depends.’
‘Not more frequently than that?’
‘Depends, like I say. More in summer, less in winter.’
‘So on average, once a month, more or less?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And on the night of May 2nd you arrived at the beach at half-past twelve, approximately.’
‘That’s what I said. High tide was at half-one. So I’d have got there for half-twelve.’
The prosecutor consults a piece of paper. He nods, as if impressed. ‘High tide was indeed at 1.40am,’ he confirms.
‘That’s what I told you.’
‘A remarkably convenient hour.’
‘Is that a question?’ says Peter Addison.
‘An observation, Mr Addison. I am making the observation that you practise this nocturnal pursuit once a month, on average, and it just so happens that in the month of May you decided to go fishing at precisely the hour that Mr Simonsen’s property went up in flames. Some might think this a remarkable coincidence.’
‘Well, that’s coincidences for you,’ Peter Addison banters, smirking.
At this Naomi wipes her palms down her face and whispers to her sister, ‘Oh no.’
As if examining a wall on which an illiterate graffito has been sprayed, counsel for the prosecution applies his gaze to the defendant’s face. ‘Tell me, Mr Addison, were any other anglers on the beach that night?’
‘Two or three.’
‘Did you speak to any of them?’
‘No. We were spread out. There was no one near me.’
‘I see. The other people were at some distance, but you could see them, even in the dark?’
‘They had lanterns. You always take a lamp with you.’
‘It’s quite a long beach at Tide Mills, isn’t it?’
‘Fairly.’
‘But you have an unobstructed view, I believe. It’s flat shingle, all the way to Seaford Head.’
‘Correct.’
‘How long did you stay on the beach at Tide Mills, Mr Addison?’
‘Three hours, give or take a bit. An hour before high tide, two hours after.’
‘Catch anything?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Not a remarkable night, then?’
‘Par for the course.’
At this point a pause is taken and papers are consulted, papers in which, the barrister’s expression implies, an incriminating detail is recorded. ‘And it was definitely the night of May 2nd?’ he asks quietly, turning a page.
‘It was.’
‘The Friday night? There is no possibility that your fishing expedition in fact took place on the Saturday?’ His manner is that of a man of infinite patience, who is requesting assistance in the resolution of a minor difficulty.
‘No.’
At a gesture of agitation from the defence counsel, the judge intervenes: ‘I do hope that the conclusion of this line of questioning is within sight.’
‘It is, your honour.’
‘We’d be grateful if you could take us there without undue delay.’
‘I shall, your honour,’ replies the prosecutor, with an unctuous bow. The papers are put aside. ‘Would you say that you have a good memory, Mr Addison?’ he asks.
The defendant narrows his eyes, hesitates. ‘Same as most people,’ he replies.
‘A very good memory, I should say. Exceptionally good.’
Peter Addison shrugs; he says nothing.
‘I say this because you managed to give the police a verbatim account of a conversation that took place more than a year ago, in a crowded and noisy pub. I’m not at all sure that I would be capable of such a feat. I am impressed.’ A single sheet of paper is picked up and read, so that something may be verified. ‘I shall not detain you for much longer, Mr Addison,’ says the prosecutor.
‘Good news,’ mutters his prey.
‘Oh God,’ Naomi whispers. ‘You really should not have said that.’ Her sister has had the same thought.
Counsel gives his document one last glance. To the witness he offers a smile, thinly compassionate – it could be the smile of a boss about to impose redundancy on an employee of whom he’s wanted to rid himself for years. ‘Tell us about the weather, Mr Addison,’ he says.
‘What weather?’
‘The weather at Tide Mills, on Friday, May 2nd, between twelve-thirty and three-thirty in the morning.’
‘How do you mean?’ asks Peter Addison, apprehensive of a snare.
‘Was there anything at all notable about the weather?’
‘No.’
‘A pleasant spring night,’ the barrister muses. ‘Mild, I assume?’
‘Fairly. What you’d expect.’
‘And the moon?’
‘You what?’
‘Do you remember how the moon looked that night?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Isn’t the moon important to anglers? Doesn’t it have some influence on the proceedings?’
‘I just felt like going out. I wasn’t bothered about what the moon was doing.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘There was a waxing crescent moon on the night of the second of May, and it set at 11.42pm. So there would have been no moonlight. Moonlight would be an inconvenience, I should imagine, were one up to no good in the small hours, in the open air, in an area of housing. But let’s move on. A clear night, was it?’
‘Clearish.’
‘Meaning what? Partial cloud?’
‘If you like.’
‘No, Mr Addison, it is not a question of what I like. It’s a question of what you observed. I was not there. You were, or so you would have us believe. So: are you telling us that there was some cloud but not much?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Are you saying that you can’t remember?’
‘There were some clouds.’
‘Good. There were some clouds. Now: did you get wet?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Did it rain?’
Peter Addison looks to his co-accused; Keith Tranter stares back with some force, as if to transmit information by telepathy; Kevin Tranter seems to be inspecting the floor. ‘Might have been a spot or two,’ he decides.
‘You don’t seem altogether sure, Mr Addison.’ Martin gives his victim one second to respond, then goes on: ‘Your memory for conversation is extraordinary, but now your recollection of the weather on this particular evening – this rather significant evening – seems a trifle insecure. This is strange, some may think.’
‘I said there was a spot or two.’
‘Yes, you did,’ says the toff, firing a glance in the direction of the co-accused.
‘And you were there until approximately three-thirty. That’s what you said, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Windy, was it?
‘Not as I recall.’
‘So the sea would not have been rough, in that case.’
‘No.’
‘All was quiet at Tide Mills.’
‘Yes.’
‘A calm night in early May. Three or four fishermen on the beach, minding their own business.’
‘I’m not hearing a question.’
‘Just setting the scene, Mr Addison. But I do have a question, and my question is this. Let us suppose that there was a disurbance on the beach that night, you would have heard it, wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘If there had been, let’s say, a party on the beach at Tide Mills that night, with a bonfire and drinking and music, you would have heard it, would you not? You would have heard it and you would have seen the bonfire. You saw the fishermen’s lanterns, after all.’
A momentary consternation opens Peter Addison’s mouth by a millimetre; he glances at the T
ranters.
‘It’s all right, Mr Addison,’ says Martin. ‘There is no need to say anything. Your reaction has been noted, thank you. For your information, there was no party on the beach that night, as far as I am aware. I was talking hypothetically. But I find it interesting – as I’m sure we all do – that you did not instantly put me right. Why, if you were where you claim to have been, did you not tell me immediately that there was no such party? But let’s move on. We have other fish to fry.’
16.
‘It was gruesome,’ says Naomi, beaming at Martin as if she were an ardent admirer. ‘Like watching a bullfight.’
‘Except that nobody was dead at the end of it,’ Martin points out.
‘Well, he didn’t seem to have much life left in him by the time you’d finished,’ says Naomi.
‘I don’t think he deserves much sympathy,’ says Kate.
‘Not a great deal,’ Naomi agrees. ‘But a bit.’
‘He’s not a nice man,’ says Martin.
‘No doubt.’
‘Nastier than he looks.’
‘It must be exciting,’ Naomi suggests. The cross-examination was a bullfight, she says again: the questions were the flourishes of the matador’s cape, making the victim stumble, sapping his strength before the final blow. ‘And there’s the public to please as well,’ she says.
‘He has to convince them, not please them,’ Kate points out.
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Of course there is.’
‘And it’s the public who will strike him down, not me,’ says Martin.
‘But it must be a thrill,’ Naomi goes on, without a pause. ‘Watching them going round and round in ever decreasing circles, getting weaker and weaker with every lie. That moment when they come to a standstill, the moment of truth – it must feel great. I know it does. I could see it,’ she says, gently, encouraging him to admit that she’s right. She smiles; she could be mimicking the smile of a therapist.
‘It’s satisfying,’ says Martin.
Naomi mentions a film that she saw, many years ago, in which a character – an arsonist, as it happens – quotes his lawyer’s own words back to him: ‘Any time you try a decent crime you’ve got fifty ways you can fuck up. If you can think of twenty-five of them you’re a genius.’
The river is the river Page 11
