by Simon Hall
‘Tell us about your childhood,’ Wishart began, gently.
‘Which part?’
‘From your earliest recollections. How you compared to other children.’
And so the moment changed. It was there in Martha’s face, the paleness of those green eyes. A different door had opened. It led inside, to a part of the person previously unreached.
Where before she had been calm and relaxed under questioning, a strain began to show. Martha’s voice was no longer soothing and easy, but muted and faltering. Her fingers, once still on the shining wood of the ledge of the witness box, now twitched and played. Her feet shifted on the boards.
Wishart had broken through. The defences that stood for so long, which repelled battering ram and boulder, had fallen under an assault of roses. Kindness had succeeded where cannonballs failed.
‘You were different, weren’t you?’ the barrister prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘Tell us what you remember.’
‘I must have only been three or four. I’m not sure. I remember being…’
‘Yes?’
‘Lonely. I wasn’t allowed to play with the other children. I had to stay in my room. I wasn’t allowed to do anything like climbing or running around. I just sat, watched TV and drew pictures.’
‘And all this because you weren’t well, were you?’
‘No. I wasn’t.’
Martha said no more and Wishart didn’t try to push her. Instead, he turned to the jury.
‘My client finds this understandably difficult, so perhaps it’s best if I outline the facts.’
He looked up to Templar and received a judicial nod of approval.
‘Martha Edwards suffers from Von Willebrand disease. It is similar to haemophilia. It means the person bruises easily and the blood does not clot properly when they suffer an injury. In the most serious cases it can be life threatening. And Ms Edwards’ case is severe.’
The faces of the jury studied the woman, standing in the witness box. She said nothing, just closed her eyes and slowly nodded.
‘A sad case,’ Wishart continued. ‘But there was hope – or at least, a hope of hope.’ He turned back to Martha. ‘Was there not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us what happened?’
‘It’s difficult…’
Wishart glanced to the judge sitting impassive above him, the red and purple blazes of his robes bright in the sunlight.
‘You can take all the time you need,’ Templar decreed.
‘Well – my memories from that time are blurred. But they’re all about men and women in white coats. It was as if they used to float around me. Sometimes, they’d hurt me, with needles and tests. But they were kind. Always told me how brave I was, and that it was all to help me get well again. And then one day…’
‘Yes?’
‘One day they said they’d found a way to make me better. So that I’d be like the other children. So I could go outside and run around and play with them. And be…’
‘Yes?’ Wishart prompted again.
‘Just – normal. That was all I wanted. To be like the others.’
‘You must have been excited?’
‘I was so happy. It was all I’d ever wanted. Every Christmas and birthday I’d ask to be like the other children. To join in with them, instead of watching through a window. That’s how I felt: I was a window child.’
Even through the microphone and speakers, Martha’s words were growing close to imperceptible. Wishart waited for her to find some composure before asking, ‘So – what happened?’
She took a long breath ‘They told me I had to go into hospital. I didn’t mind, because these clever people told me I was going to be better. So I went in and they did all these things to me. And they told me I just had to be patient and in a few weeks I’d be like all the other children.’
It is an underrated art to nod sadly, but the barrister managed it.
‘But it didn’t turn out that way?’
‘No.’
Again the words were thin and faint. Martha rubbed at her eyes with a careful hand.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’
‘A week passed. Then another. I kept asking when I’d be better. But there was no answer. These people with their white coats, the ones I’d trusted. The ones who promised they’d make me better, they didn’t answer. Then they just seemed to fade away. And I started to understand I wasn’t going to get better.’
‘That must have been bad enough. But, in fact, it was even worse. Was it not?’
Martha may have tried to speak, but her lips hardly moved.
‘Have a moment, Ms Edwards,’ Templar intervened. ‘Perhaps Mr Wishart can take us through what happened next.’
The barrister took a drink of water, turned to the jury and picked up the story.
It was the late 1970s and early ’80s. Blood products to treat those who suffered from haemophilia, Von Willebrand disease and others like them, were being imported from America. But controls were lax and a scandal was in the making.
To attract donors a payment was offered, and many drug addicts and prisoners came forward. Some of the blood they gave was infected with HIV and hepatitis. Almost five thousand people in Britain contracted the illnesses.
In the traditional manner, government procrastination made it worse. Evidence started to emerge of the contamination, but it was ignored. The blood continued to be imported.
Martha was one of the last to be infected before the scandal was exposed. She had to live with the knowledge that, if action had been taken sooner, she would not have suffered.
She was, in a way, lucky. Unlike some, her death sentence would take years to be executed. Courtesy of the misguided, and perhaps even reckless efforts of the state and medical profession, Martha Edwards contracted hepatitis.
***
The judge called Wishart’s narrative to a halt. Martha had sat down on the seat in the witness box, her head bowed. Only a flow of coppery hair showed above the lines of wood.
All in the court saw it, but no one said. No one could.
It was the same stance that Annette had been reduced to after her testimony.
In the jury box, the foreman tugged at a tuft of beard. Wishart held a whispered conversation with a solicitor sitting behind him.
‘Ms Edwards, I have only a couple more questions, if you think you could manage?’
She stood back up. ‘Yes.’
‘It is another difficult matter, but…’ a hesitation, then softly, ‘How advanced is your illness now?’
She swallowed hard. ‘It’s reached the terminal stage.’
‘And it makes you physically weak?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘And would have done so six months ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘So – not exactly the ideal condition for a ruthless kidnapper, the like of which the prosecution have attempted to paint you?’
She cast a disdainful glance at Adam. ‘Not exactly.’
‘And as to your treatment? The doctors are doing all they can?’
‘Yes.’
‘You trust them – despite what happened to you as a child?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re being given the best of medication?’
‘I think so.’
‘I ask because the prosecution say that part of your motive for kidnapping Annette was to get money for a new drug treatment.’
‘No. I think I’m being treated as well as I can be.’
Wishart scribbled a note on a piece of paper. ‘There is one final matter I must put to you. The prosecution claim you kidnapped Annette, in part, for revenge. Because she and her father in some way represent the establishment, something you hate because of what it did to you all those years ago. They say another element of your motive is resentment and anger, to hit out at someone who has so much in life when you do not. What do you say to that?’
Martha stared up to a skylight
, a rectangle of perfect blue held within. Sunbeams danced down upon the court, riding in the circling breeze.
‘It’s not easy sometimes, but I try not to be bitter about what’s happened. I’ve often wondered why some of us are chosen to be healthy and happy and seem to have everything they could ever want in life. And yet others are picked on and just seem to suffer.’
Another hesitation, another careful sip of water. ‘For me it comes down to this. You can either shout and scream and let what you’ve gone through destroy you. Or you can come to terms with it and still do the best you can with the gift of life you’ve been given. And, however tainted it may be, I believe it’s still a great gift.’
Once more Wishart let the words linger in the silent courtroom, before he pronounced quietly, ‘An embittered woman, members of the jury? A ruthless kidnapper? Or a victim, every bit as much as Annette Newman?’
He produced a sombre smile. ‘Thank you, Ms Edwards. Please remain in the witness box. I know the prosecution will have some questions for you.’
***
Adam was the first out of court. He strode from his seat and beckoned to Dan, who picked his way through the crowd to follow.
Templar had called a fifteen minute recess. Then Munroe would have his chance to question Martha.
The detective was waiting by one of the small interview rooms. He closed the door firmly and drew the blind too.
‘I know you’re angry,’ Dan said, calmingly. ‘Ok, Martha came across as very decent and human. And yes, it probably did make an impact on the jury. But given what Munroe’s like, I bet she won’t be looking quite so angelic by the end of the day. And another thing—’
‘It’s not that. Well, not just that.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not to do with the case. I just don’t need any more complications.’
‘Err – what?’
Adam sat on the edge of the table. The shadow of his beard was already growing dark, despite the early hour.
‘You need to start thinking up a good excuse.’
‘An excuse?’ Dan floundered. ‘What are you talking about?’
The detective produced one of his lofty looks. ‘Last night.’
If Adam not wanting to talk about Martha’s testimony was a surprise, this was a shock. Ice in Dan’s stomach and a vice on his heart.
‘Um – what about last night?’ he dissembled, hopelessly.
‘You look tired out. Whereas Katrina—’
‘What about her?’
‘Looks like she’s had a double measure of the elixir of life.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I don’t think I need to be saying anything, do I?’
Dan shifted his weight busily from foot to foot. He studied the sole decoration in the small room, a faded print of some water lilies.
‘And another thing,’ Adam added. ‘If you’ve always exchanged a chatty hello with someone, and then one morning you mumble something and can’t look at her, it’s the kind of thing a detective might just spot.’
‘You mean when we were coming into court?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Which I’d say about sums it up.’
A feeling was building fast inside Dan’s body. Every nerve, bone and vein were like guitar strings being mercilessly tightened, tightened, tightened.
‘Do you think… did Claire… would she have…’ he stammered.
‘I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to check something when I realised. I think you’ve probably got away with it. But I can’t be certain.’
Adam got up from the table and reached for the door. ‘We need to get back. I reckon Munroe’s about our only chance of a conviction now. I just hope he can tarnish the holy glow of Saint bloody Martha.’
He hesitated, and then added, ‘One more thing. Just another bit of advice, if you’re up for listening?’
‘I think I’d better.’
‘I think you’re right. Look, beware of Katrina. I’ve seen what she can do.’
The wise man of a chief inspector mused briefly on the insight to be delivered, then his face warmed with one of those smug expressions in which he specialised.
‘I’d remember this. Beware of putting the lure of lust ahead of the endurance of love.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Edward Munroe QC was one of the stars of the South West’s legal circuit. He’d made a name defending career criminals, the kind Dan and his peers might refer to as Mr Big.
The barrister had once been universally unpopular with the police, until the day of an unlikely transformation. It was long discussed and eventually summarised by a detective wit, who christened it a ‘Road to the Supreme Court’ conversion.
Munroe was an ambitious man whose CV was filled with his talents at defence work. The thought was that he needed some high profile prosecution successes to set him fair on a journey to becoming a judge. To the surprise of the police he offered to switch sides, and was welcomed with little hesitation. Whatever the detectives may have thought, Munroe was a charmer of juries, a ruthless dissector of evidence, and on the big cases he tended to get the brief.
He was a little stocky, but fit; a middle distance runner of a decent standard and he was always impeccably shaved. Munroe carried a razor to court and would set aside ten minutes at lunchtime to use it. The theory, he once explained to Adam with a meaningful nod at the detective’s beard line, was that juries put more trust in a clean complexion.
With a case as finely balanced as this, Munroe’s opinion had been sought on the chances of success. He considered and then pronounced a similar view to the solicitors and detectives. Fifty-fifty, no more and no less.
But Munroe added something else that Adam said was telling. He asked whether either of the Edwards would give evidence. Knowing of her eloquence, and the story she could tell a jury about her suffering, it was thought likely Martha would.
In that case, Munroe said, he would like to take the case. And so, many weeks ago, the scene was set for today.
The barrister was silent with concentration in preparation for the approaching duel. The twelve jurors watched, several with notepads poised.
Dan tried to force himself to focus. This may well be the pivotal moment in the trial. But he couldn’t help looking three rows ahead and to the women either side of Adam.
He’d made a point of standing by the doors as the court reconvened, mobile clamped to ear; a little curious, as there was no one on the line, except maybe his conscience.
Katrina walked past and Dan smiled, open and easy. Claire approached and he put down the phone and breathed out hard.
‘Are you ok?’ she asked, with concern.
‘Rutherford was sick most of the night. That was the vet calling. He’s ok, thankfully. It was probably just some bug he picked up in the park.’
A caring hand found Dan’s shoulder. ‘I thought you looked tired. You poor thing. I’d love to see that daft dog again – and his master, of course. Maybe a walk at the weekend?’
‘Yeah, that’d be – err, good,’ the great deceiver managed, awkwardly.
***
The court was still, with only the slightest of seeping breezes relieving the denseness of the heat. All knew what was coming next.
One more whispered conversation with a solicitor and Munroe finally got to his feet. Martha eyed him coolly. They were just a few metres apart.
‘You’ve told us about your condition, but I’d like to know a little more, Ms Edwards. How did you feel when you came to realise you were infected with hepatitis?’
Her face twitched with scorn, and it overflowed into her voice. ‘Mmmm… let me think. Oh, that’s it – overjoyed. Absolutely delighted. Really! How do you think I felt?’
Like any professional player, Munroe’s expression didn’t change. ‘I don’t know, Ms Edwards. I’ve never had the experience. Nor have the jury. So perhaps you could tell us… and a little less sarcastically?’
Martha looked to the judge. ‘He’s entitled to ask,’ ruled Templar, ‘Whatever you may think of the question, it’s part of the prosecution’s case regarding your alleged motive.’
‘Well, initially I suppose I didn’t really understand. I was very young. But then I started to realise. When I still couldn’t go and play with the other children. And I think I knew then I never would. I think…’
‘Yes?’
‘I felt like I’d never be a proper person. It’s like I was semidetached from life.’
Munroe nodded and found a sympathetic tone. ‘A difficult time.’
‘Oh, well put. Brilliant in fact.’ Contempt filled Martha’s voice. ‘Yes it was, as you so very rightly say. A… difficult… time.’
From the barrister came no reaction, only a brief, sideways look to the jury. It felt as though he was telling them – trust me. Follow me. I might have something interesting to show you.
‘Let me take you on a few years. You decided to study forensics. May I ask why?’
‘Because it interests me. Because I hoped it might lead to a career, something worthwhile.’
‘And did it?’
‘No. No way. No one wants to employ someone like me. There’s no room for a freak in any company I ever managed to find. It was never said, of course. It was always, ‘you gave an excellent interview, but we regret to inform you there is someone better qualified’, or ‘many thanks, and we will keep your application on file’. All that sort of…’
‘Sort of?’
Her expression tightened, the pale skin whitening further. Martha knew where she was being led, but couldn’t resist.
‘That bullshit!’
More understanding soothed from the barrister. He had seen into Martha and realised that he, himself, was one of the greatest provocations she could face. Successful, privileged, healthy, a part of the establishment; they were his goads and spurs.
‘I see. Well, I was going on to ask how it felt, but…’
‘Have a guess!’ she interrupted. ‘I bet you never could. Someone with your job and life. This is how it felt. We’ll give you this incurable illness. Then, instead of helping, we’ll dump you. Instead of having the decency to say sorry, we’ll gloss over our little mistake, secure in the knowledge it won’t be around long to embarrass us. Soon the problem’ll be solved… ‘coz it’ll be dead.’
