by Simon Hall
‘Come on, Groves,’ he told himself. ‘You’re just going to meet a friend for a drink. That’s all.’
The time was five past nine. Perfect to be a little cool, but not rude or uninterested.
The bouncer began a scan program, from the peak of the highest follicle to the end of the longest toenail. The eventual answer proved acceptable and the door was pushed open.
***
Sometimes in life, you can feel a spotlight illuminating your doubts for all the world to see. So it was for Dan as he lingered in the doorway.
He checked along the polished wood of the bar. A pair of businessmen. A group of three women. A waiter. A barman, buffing knives. No Katrina.
Next, it was the stools by the window. A young couple, steepled together. A man eating.
Now the chairs and tables at the back of the bar. Dan squinted through the darkness. One day, he’d have to conquer the snowy mountain of his vanity and get some glasses. But he could just about make out at least two or three people at each table.
Finally, the leather sofas. A couple picking at some olives and sharing a bottle of wine. A man reading a paper, sipping at a bottle of beer. No Katrina.
Eyes were starting to stare at the newcomer, standing in the doorway. It could only be seconds before the dreaded whispers began.
It’s that man on the telly. He’s been stood up. He’s got no friends.
From behind came a gentle cough. ‘Would you like to join me, or would you prefer to just stay there?’
Dan was about to reach out to shake her hand, but managed to stop himself as she stood for a kiss.
Their mouths moved together, slow, slow, slow, until Katrina turned her face. And then they sat, as if a peck on the cheek was all that had ever been expected.
The leather sofa was large enough for two, but only just. Dan angled himself into one corner, Katrina the other. Their knees brushed as she reached for the menu.
‘Do you like wine?’
Dan tried to ignore the tempting range of bottled ales beckoning from the foot of the sheet. ‘Yes.’
‘Red or white?’
‘Both. But not in the same glass, please.’
She raised an eyebrow, but ordered a bottle of red. It was the second most expensive on the list.
‘Interesting,’ Dan mused, sitting back.
‘In what way?’
‘Most people choose the second cheapest wine. I’m wondering what picking the second most expensive means.’
‘It means it’s my favourite.’
They talked a little about the bar. It had only opened a few months ago. Smart, but trying to be relaxed and just about succeeding was the consensus.
The waiter arrived and poured Dan a measure of wine to taste. Katrina was going to take it, but he got there first. It was time to show off the legendary Groves’ wit. He held the glass to the light, made a play of sniffing hard, then sipping and rolling the liquid repeatedly around his mouth before pronouncing, ‘Yep, that’s definitely a red.’
The waiter didn’t smile. But that mattered not at all, not in the slightest, not an ounce nor an atom, because Katrina did.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said, softly. ‘There’s hardly been time to talk about anything apart from work.’
Dan described his college days as a disc jockey, then moving on to radio and television news. Katrina talked about her career with the Metropolitan Police and kidnapping cases she’d handled.
‘It’s 23 now. And each one is still like a flame burning in my mind. You never forget.’
‘Just like I never forget an interview with anyone who’s suffered horribly. Whether they’ve lost someone to a drunk driver or a murdering thug, it won’t leave me.’
‘It’s the intensity of the emotion. It carves the memory into your mind.’
The bar was growing busier. The wine had evaporated with remarkable speed, as bottles do when you reach a certain age. Katrina ordered another.
They discussed the trial, how it was going, and Annette.
‘You’ve grown close to her,’ Dan noted.
‘It’s difficult not to. She’s suffered terribly.’
‘It’s just that?’
‘Meaning?’
‘You don’t have any children, do you?’
Katrina rolled the wine around her glass. ‘You’re a perceptive man.’
‘I just notice things.’
‘It’s more than that. It’s partly why Adam always wants you around. He relies on you a great deal, you know. You see things that he can’t.’
Dan felt his cheeks reddening. It must be the drink. He was scarcely used to wine.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he managed, at last. ‘But I can tell you this… it feels like a hell of a burden some days. It’s like the whole world is waiting for me to sort out its problems.’
Katrina excused herself and made for the rest rooms, as they had been styled. Dan stared out at the view, lights shimmering on the smooth water, the outlines of people passing by. It was a surprise when a bell rang and the barman called last orders.
‘I’ll be heading back to London in a few days,’ Katrina said, as she returned. ‘When the case is finally over.’
‘That’s a shame.’
She leaned forwards. Now their legs were touching, and with a firm, persistent pressure.
‘Is it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Doesn’t it make your life easier?’
‘In what way?’
‘With Claire.’
Dan didn’t reply, instead sipped at his wine.
‘She loves you very much, you know.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘She told you that?’
‘She said you’d had a few problems, but you were working it out. That you were meant to be together. Those were her words.’
‘Err…’
‘I think she was warning me off.’
Dan found himself getting up from the sofa. ‘I think it’s time I was heading home.’
‘Sit down a minute.’
Back down he sat, without a thought to argue. The light was catching Katrina’s eyes, pooling in the contrasting colours. It was difficult not to stare.
‘Do you like my eyes?’ She asked.
‘Err, well – yes, of course I do. I thought…’
‘What?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Please tell me. I’d like to hear.’
‘I was being silly. It must be the wine.’
Slowly, her lips formed the words. ‘Tell me.’
Dan hesitated, but said, ‘From the first moment we met, I thought they were like two different shades of autumn. The turning leaf next to the evergreen.’
She sat back and finished the remains of the wine. A kiss of lipstick lingered on the rim of the glass.
And amidst the quiet and half-light of the bar, the supernova exploded.
‘Would you like to spend the night at my hotel?’ Katrina asked.
‘What?’
‘Would you?’
‘Um, well…’
‘I’d surmise that as a yes.’
‘Oh, err…’
‘But there’s a little game you have to play first. I’ve got a question.’
‘A question? What question?’
‘This question – what is heterochromia iridis?’
‘What?! What’s what?’
She repeated the words, spelt them out, then sat back and crossed her legs. And now Katrina waited, simple elegance and poise, beauty and mastery. It was all Dan could do to mumble an apology and make for the rest room.
With the door closed and surrounded by the safety of the stark, white tiles, Dan stared at himself in the mirror. He splashed some water onto his face. It made no difference to the nonplussed expression gawping back.
Time passed, although how much he could never say. A man walked in, went about his business and cast a quizzical look, but Dan didn’t come close
to noticing.
He straightened his shirt, ruffled his hair, wiped any traces of wine from his lips and reached a decision. After just a few seconds he knew the answer to Katrina’s question and returned to the bar.
Chapter Nineteen
One of the great advantages of being reasonably well off is that it can ease the dreaded walk of shame.
Dan’s suffering was just a couple of hundred yards, from the hotel to taxi rank. But, as if to penalise him anyway, fate sent a dagger of conscience in the form of a demonic driver.
The time was half past six and the crimson spectacle of a young autumn dawn already colouring the eastern sky. Dan had hardly slept. In part, that was due to Katrina, but more to do with the traditional wondering whether this was really such a good idea. There was also a tingling of guilt, but, in truth, it was by far the junior partner.
‘Thanks for an interesting night,’ she murmured sleepily, as he vanished from the room. Dan couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t the finest send-off.
On opening the heavy, black door the cab driver didn’t bother to drop his tabloid. Instead, he immediately chirped up with exactly the kind of comment you really don’t want to hear in such a situation.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ the man asked, with the faux cockney accent that some younger people see as an important fashion accessory.
‘I don’t think so,’ Dan replied, climbing hurriedly in.
‘I’ve driven you before. You’re that man on the telly.’
The star of the small screen attempted to shrink into the seat. ‘Hartley Avenue, please.’
‘You do all them crime stories. I always watch Wessex Tonight. You got some nice birds.’
‘Good. Thanks.’
‘You go out with that detective woman, don’t you?’
Already taken well aback, Dan now retreated further. ‘What?’
‘The really pretty one. Gorgeous, in fact. Ever so nice she is. Great figure, beautiful hair. A lovely woman, really kind. Clever too. I’ve driven you two to her place on the Hoe. You’re well lucky having a bird like that.’
‘Would you mind if we got going? I’ve got a busy day ahead.’
‘What you been up to then? Get lucky, did you?’
‘Hartley Avenue, please,’ Dan repeated, weakly.
So browbeaten was he that Dan even gave the cabbie a tip. ‘You should be in the diplomatic service,’ he muttered, as he unlocked the door.
Rutherford leapt up and went through his usual fusillade of barks. Dan grabbed the dog’s muzzle.
‘Shh, old friend! I’ve been a bad boy and we don’t need anyone else knowing. I conned my way into a woman’s bed when she asked me some ridiculous question I had no hope of answering. But with a bit of the old Groves’ craftiness, I got it anyway.’
Dan made for the bathroom and the long process of trying to wake up. Today could be a very important one in the trial, perhaps even providing the moment which would decide its outcome.
The word was that Martha Edwards would be called to give evidence.
***
The case had reached its closing stages. They were into some routine character evidence about the Edwards and the proceedings were plodding along at the rate of a sullen mule.
It was far from exciting, and on the press benches the hacks stirred restlessly. It was just that lingering possibility which kept them waiting.
There had been a constant rumour that at least one of the Edwards would be called to testify. A couple of the braver journalists had asked Wishart what he intended. ‘I’m considering the defence’s position,’ was all he would say.
It was a game that had been played out many times before. A fine judgement of trial tactics that could nudge the verdict either way.
If Wishart didn’t call the Edwards, the jury would be told they could infer that damaged the siblings’ claims of innocence. The simple argument – what did they have to hide? But if he did, the prosecution had an opportunity to cross-examine them. And for some defendants that could be like giving them the keys to lock up their own cell.
Wishart finished reading the evidence of a Dr Andy Lovejoy, tutor in Forensics at London University. He had submitted a statement about Martha’s skills and character.
A quiet student who tended to keep herself to herself, but nonetheless a dedicated one. She was clever and talented and showed herself to be extremely capable. As to her character, she always behaved impeccably in college and I saw no signs whatsoever of any criminality or anti-social tendencies.
Judge Templar scribbled a note and looked up at Wishart. ‘That, I think, concludes the list of witnesses for the defence,’ the judge said. ‘So, we proceed to the closing speeches. Unless…’
Wishart shuffled some papers and turned to the glass dock. ‘Indeed, Your Honour. Unless…’
Like all the best barristers, Wishart was a master of drama. He studied Martha as she sat, hands in her lap, looking calmly back. In her eyes wasn’t anger, not even defiance and certainly not fear or concern. It was a look of neutral and detached curiosity, the expression of a scientist.
‘I call Martha Edwards!’ intoned Wishart.
Fast breaths ran around the courtroom. All leaned forward to take a better look at this fabled creature, freed for the first time from the glass confines of her cage.
The woman portrayed over these days of the trial as cold, bitter and ruthless. The one who would kidnap a 17-year-old girl and leave her to an agonising death in the inferno of a burning cottage.
But also the one who had herself suffered so much. Who knew all too well the cruel failing of medical history which the prosecution claimed as her motive.
A security guard unlocked the dock. Martha drew herself up and, with exaggerated care, walked step by precise step, to the witness box.
***
How a day can make a difference. Yesterday, during the hours of her testimony, the old wooden box had edged inwards until it crushed Annette. With Martha, the shining panels kept a respectful distance.
She stood, her hands resting calmly on the grooved ledge, facing Wishart and the twelve watchful faces of the jury. The flow of her hair had been loosely tied and held in a copper tail. The light found the blanched and freckled landscape of her face.
‘Let us first deal with the basics,’ the barrister began. ‘The prosecution have outlined the crime they believe you committed. What do you say to that?’
‘It’s not true.’
‘Did you kidnap Annette?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hold her in a cottage in the South Hams?’
‘No.’
‘Did your brother, Brian?’
‘No.’
‘Did either of you have anything whatsoever to do with the kidnapping?’
‘No.’
‘So you are both totally innocent of the charges against you?’
‘Yes.’
Martha’s voice was clear but husky, the words curiously soothing. There were no nerves, no hesitation and no pauses. No scent or sound of evasion or deception.
‘Let us now deal with the so-called evidence against you,’ Wishart continued. ‘The prosecution say you left no forensic traces because your expert knowledge meant you knew how to avoid doing so. What do you say to that?’
For the first time, Martha’s face formed an expression. It wasn’t quite a smile, more an edge of amusement.
‘It’s nonsense. If there’s one thing you learn when studying forensics, it’s that the techniques are so powerful you can nearly always find some evidence. A basic principle I was taught was – if you can’t find it, it’s generally not there.’
Around Dan, the hacks underlined the phrase in their notebooks. Such a quote would feature heavily in their reports.
‘Moving on,’ Wishart boomed, ‘What explanation can there be for the fact that you disappeared at the time Ms Newman was kidnapped? And that your mobile – along with your brother’s – were both turned off?’
‘I can explai
n that. But this part I… find difficult.’
‘Please, take your time.’
She sipped a little water and closed her eyes, as if summoning the memory.
‘It was a beautiful couple of days so we went to Dartmoor. I love it there. There are lots of places where you’re alone in perfect peace. I like to watch the sunsets over the tors. They give me strength. And at night, the silence. It’s like a medicine to me.’
Wishart let her words float over the rapt court. In the jury box at least a couple of heads were nodding.
‘And Brian took you?’ the barrister prompted.
‘Yes. He has to be there in case…’
‘We’ll come to that in a moment. But – you stayed up there on Dartmoor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Camping?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your mobiles were off because?’
‘They intrude. They spoil the peace and beauty.’
Wishart turned again to the jury. ‘‘Peace and beauty’. Something all of us seek at some point in our lives. Hardly the way of a ruthless and embittered kidnapper, I think you’ll agree.’
He turned back and found a page in his file. ‘One further matter, Ms Edwards. It’s about Brian. He won’t be giving evidence?’
‘No.’
‘I know the jury will be asking themselves – can you tell the court why?’
‘He’s found all this very difficult. He’s not as good at coping as I am, or expressing what he feels. He thinks we’ve already suffered enough. He can’t understand how, after all that we’ve been through, we can find ourselves…’
Her voice faltered and she drew in a long breath of the warm air. ‘How we can find ourselves… here. On trial. Accused of a crime we didn’t commit. Having to go through yet another ordeal in our lives. It just doesn’t – well, it doesn’t seem fair.’
Wishart nodded his agreement. ‘And fairness is something which has sadly eluded you in life, has it not?’
Chapter Twenty
The sunlit day shifted in time, pulled back 30 years in a few seconds of Wishart’s words. He lowered his voice, in the best traditions of a storyteller, and reminded the court of one of the greatest scandals in the history of British medicine.
