by Nick Stone
She paused there. I heard a conversation in the background.
‘What’ve you found out?’ I asked.
No answer. A tap was running. I heard her filling a receptacle, maybe a kettle.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘The number she was calling was pay as you go. Vodafone. Next to impossible to trace if they’re one-off or casual users, because they rarely register on the website. But they tend to if they’re regular customers. So I gave it to Dean.’
‘Dean?’
‘Our computer guy. He has this system that matches mobile numbers to handsets. Took him under an hour to find the person in question.’
‘Oh…’ I said.
‘The handset belongs to Richard Ellis,’ she said.
I played the ignorant-savant card.
‘Hazel Ellis’s husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘We met him on Friday. He sat in on the interview.’
‘I bet he did,’ she chuckled. ‘He’s a worried man.’
So was I. I was just glad we weren’t having this conversation face to face, because Janet would’ve picked up on my edginess.
‘I’m guessing what happened is, he had a thing with Evelyn and broke it off as the wedding got closer. Evelyn didn’t accept it and went berserk,’ she continued.
‘That figures,’ I said. I realised I was coming across as clueless: I’d sat right there in front of the victim’s lover, and Janet would think I hadn’t picked up on anything. I had to salvage a little dignity here.
‘Have you seen her Facebook page?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I was going to put this in the report – strictly as a supposition. No one we interviewed from the hen party knew Evelyn very well. They all thought she was someone else’s friend,’ I said. Then I told her how she’d used Facebook to invite herself to the hen party.
‘Do you think she was going to tell the bride to be all about her husband to be?’ Janet asked.
‘Possibly. But she didn’t do that. She walked out of the party at around 10.30.’
‘Either lost her nerve or came to her senses.’
‘Could be. Not sure we’ll ever know.’
A longer silence at the other end of the phone.
‘So what do you want me to do now?’ I asked.
More silence. Then the rustle of paper. I’d never been inside her house, but I imagined she had her own office there, away from the road, overlooking the back garden, few distractions.
‘Forget Evelyn,’ she said.
‘But —’
‘I know Christine loves to bring this kind of thing into the defence, but Evelyn’s behaviour is irrelevant. It doesn’t prove our client didn’t kill her. It’s not even enough to raise a reasonable doubt,’ she said. ‘But I can still put what we’ve got in the bank, as potential leverage with Carnavale.’
‘How so?’
‘You know what a filibuster is?’
‘Yeah. Talking until the clock runs out.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘We employ similar tactics in court. When you want to make a jury forget some damning testimony, you introduce a semi-relevant piece of evidence to cushion the impact. You spend a day or two on it, bring in your experts. Bore the jury to sleep.
‘In this particular case, we could wheel on a rent-a-shrink to explain that Evelyn displayed obsessive behaviour – stalking an ex-lover – which means she was suffering from some kind of dissociative mental disorder. And, at a push, we can say she was possibly suicidal.’
‘Asking for it, in other words?’
‘To coin a phrase.’
Normally I would’ve been appalled, but at that moment I was relieved to be off the hook. My conscience was turning into a delayed luxury.
‘You ready for tomorrow?’ she asked.
The lot of us were seeing VJ in the morning. He didn’t know about the forensics report yet. I wondered what the hell he was going to say, confronted with the evidence. Was he going to confess and change his plea?
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘Good. Send me and Christine your report,’ Janet said. ‘Add in a theory by way of a conclusion. Reference Evelyn’s SIM card information, and say it all suggests she’d had an affair with Richard Ellis. Say you noticed the number – obviously – and called it up. In fact, do exactly that for the record. Speak to him, get him to confirm his name. That way we’ll have this ready to submit, if necessary.’
I wanted to laugh at the irony. I really did.
‘How’s Andy Swayne working out?’ she asked.
‘Fine.’
‘He’s not drinking?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘Has he talked to you at all?’
‘About…?’
‘Himself. His past.’
‘No. It’s strictly professional between us,’ I said. ‘Why, what’s his story?’
‘Alcohol, a divorce, more alcohol, a daughter who doesn’t talk to him, even more alcohol, prison…’ she said.
‘Prison?’
I knew she hadn’t meant to say that. It had just slipped out. I remembered her mentioning a burglary in the meeting we’d had with Kopf, when we were choosing the defence team.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Enjoy the rest of your weekend.’
After I’d emailed the report I went to the lounge. Ray was out with his friend Billy, but Amy and Karen were in there, on opposite ends of the couch, reading.
I stood and watched them. My wife and our daughter held their heads over their books exactly the same way, leaning into them like they were listening to whispers, their eyes following the lines back and forth down the page with the same transfixed gaze.
My phone rang again and broke the spell. Karen and Amy looked up at me, accusingly, ordering me out of their zone.
‘Hello.’
‘Terry? It’s Mel.’
I looked at Karen a moment, her finger saving her place in the book, her expression impatient to borderline irate.
I stepped out into the corridor.
‘Melissa?’ I asked, lowering my voice.
‘You used to call me Mel, remember? Sorry, is this a bad time?’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m in the neighbourhood. I was wondering if you were free to meet up.’
‘Now?’
‘I’m in a French place on Battersea High Street.’
There was only one. Chez Manny’s, practically over the road.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I can be there.’
I stuck my head into the lounge.
‘I’ve got to pop out for a second,’ I said to Karen. ‘Work thing. Won’t be long.’
‘Who’s Melissa?’ Amy asked.
I left before I lied.
It could have been the bright light, but Melissa was already starting to take on the appearance of a con’s wife. Tired and harassed, shadows under her eyes and that frayed restlessness where too little sleep meets too many worries.
She was dressed, possibly deliberately, definitely appropriately, in black – jeans, polo shirt, shoes. She was sitting close to the back, a cup of coffee and her phone on the table.
‘Does this count as work?’ she asked.
‘Depends what you want to talk about,’ I said. I’d ordered a single espresso. I didn’t intend to stay long.
‘I saw Vern yesterday,’ she said.
‘How is he?’
‘He thinks this’ll all be sorted soon.’
Still in denial. Or still holding out hope. Or both.
‘Have you talked to Janet?’ I asked.
‘Did that yesterday too,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t share his optimism.’
Lawyers are like doctors. You get the bad news as soon as the results are in. And then they tell you how long you’ll get.
‘Do you think he did it?’ she asked me.
‘My job is to believe he didn’t,’ I said.
‘You used to be so direct, Terry. Always spoke your mind.’
> ‘Not a good quality in an aspiring lawyer,’ I said.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘Why?’
‘We should be honest with each other.’
I knew what she was after now, why she’d called. She wanted a friend. She had plenty of those, sure, but none who bridged the gap between her life and her husband’s present situation; someone to explain things, someone who cared.
There was a lot I could’ve said to that, aired some archived resentment and recrimination. But this wasn’t the time or place. For all intents and purposes, I was on duty.
‘It’s above my paygrade,’ I said. ‘You should ask Janet.’
‘Please. As a… a friend.’
Whose friend, I felt like asking. The question rolled to the tip of my tongue, poised for launch.
But no…
‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’
I could’ve told her about the lab report, but that would’ve been unethical, because we hadn’t discussed it with VJ yet. I could’ve told her about the personal laptop and the separate phone and three SIM cards.
But no. I couldn’t go there either.
She’d soon find out. Like tomorrow.
I could have told her it wasn’t looking good.
But she knew that.
She looked at her cup of coffee. The sugar and little biscuit were still in the saucer, both wrapped. She was beautiful, even at this, her lowest ebb. I wished I wasn’t thinking like this. She was vulnerable.
The café was lively with laughter. Early evening drinkers, all of them well-heeled but catalogue-styled. That was the thing that hurt most about London; everyone around you seemed to have a better life than yours, and by extension a better time.
‘I knew he cheated on me,’ she said, looking up. I noticed how long her lashes were. I don’t think I had when we were together. Too busy being swept away to remark the small things.
‘I never asked him, and we never talked about it. But I knew,’ she said.
No surprise, obviously. Just bewilderment.
‘How…’ I started, then clammed up because I couldn’t finish. I’d meant to ask, ‘How could he cheat on you?’
‘Female intuition,’ she said, saving me from a potentially awkward moment. ‘It wasn’t anyone steady, like a mistress or something. That’s not his style. He said he never understood the point of mistresses. Why swap one wife for another?’
I smiled, but I didn’t find it funny or clever. He’d married my first love, and then gone and cheated on her… over and over. How much more could I hate him?
‘And you were all right with it?’
‘Realistic, not all right. He was away a lot. Always abroad. He likes women. And they like him.’
There was bitterness in her resignation. Why had she accepted it? Out of love, for the sake of the kids, because she was too used to the lifestyle? I wanted to know more, much more.
But no… that was yet another place I couldn’t go.
I had to keep a professional distance, stay uninvolved.
Act.
Fake it.
‘Vern used to say that everyone wants a piece of you when you’re successful, and no one wants any of you when you fail.’
‘Have people started staying away?’
‘Some. Torrents always start as trickles.’
‘Well, at least, when it’s over, you’ll know who your real friends are. And there’s an upside too.’
‘What?
‘Fewer Christmas cards to write.’
She laughed. Our eyes met again, properly. Then she scanned my face, as if she were trying to read me, figure me out; or maybe compare her memories to the present, as I was doing.
‘Do they know… at work?’
‘Know what?’
‘About you and me, you and Vern…’
‘No,’ I said. ‘And I’d like to keep it that way.’
‘We will,’ she said.
We will… They’d talked about me yesterday. That was obvious. She was here to sound me out.
‘How’s your mum doing?’ she asked.
‘Fine. Why?’
‘Just asking. I liked her.’
And she liked you, I thought. She liked you a lot. Said we made a lovely couple. Even saw us having a few cute kids. Mum was a lousy soothsayer.
‘How’s Stevenage?’
‘Still there,’ I said.
I hadn’t been back in twelve years, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. Because if I did, I’d have to explain why. Which would mean talking about the past. And I knew I’d get angry and spoil what we were having here.
So it was time to go. I made a show of looking at my watch. I hadn’t touched my espresso any more than she had her coffee.
We walked out together. Her car was parked on the road. A four-door Merc, so clean its tyres looked like all they’d ever rolled on was spotless shag carpet.
‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘I wasn’t in the neighbourhood.’
‘I guessed that,’ I said.
‘I really wanted to see you,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been thinking about you, Terry.’
Likewise, I thought. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her from the moment I’d met her.
‘Call me, if you need anything.’
Now why did I have to go and say that?
Because I wanted her to. That’s why.
We stood there in the road, very close. She was swaying ever so slightly, her eyes locked on mine. And then it just happened. We walked into each other, both of us taking the first step. She slipped her arms around me and held me like she used to when we slowdanced around in her college room. I held her too, trying to keep it casual and platonic, but I couldn’t help myself and pulled her in closer. It felt good, and unbelievably wrong in a million and one ways. I smelled her perfume and felt the valley of her spine. Yeah, you could say, I was just holding a friend, offering comfort. But it wasn’t just that, was it? Melissa rested her head on my chest. I wondered if she had her eyes closed like she used to when she’d held me. That was exactly how it had started between us, in October 1991, on Garret Hostel Bridge in Cambridge. With a hug. Like this.
She kissed me on the cheek and got in her car. A few moments later she’d pulled out and driven away with a wave.
I stood there the whole time, exactly where I’d held her. I couldn’t move.
32
At Belmarsh, Christine and Redpath sat in front of me at the bolted-down table, going through their notes, unfazed by the racket going on beyond the interview room. I couldn’t take my eyes off the panic button on the wall behind them. It appeared to have been well used. I wondered what the response time was, the distance between alarm and salvation.
Redpath had laid out his yellow pad and poncey Montblanc pen. Two hundred quid’s worth of sodding biro. Was it a gift or had he bought it to round off his spiv look? And what was he thinking, coming on a prison visit in a navy-blue pinstripe suit, dressed up in bars? Was he trying to send VJ some kind of subliminal message? Hard to tell, because the only time we ever spoke was when he remembered to say hello or goodbye.
Each time I saw her, Christine seemed to be inching a little closer to death. Today her skin had the hue of day-old boiled eggs, and her breathing was slow and arhythmic, with long pauses between the in and out, as if she were having to prompt herself every time.
I didn’t know how she was still doing this, let alone managing to function the way she was. And why was she spending her precious time defending someone she knew to be guilty? Did she believe in the law that much, or merely love what she did more than whatever life she had left?
Janet hadn’t made it. Only room for three here. I was her eyes and ears.
VJ came in and greeted us with a smile and a handshake. He was wearing the clothes I’d brought him – an unbranded blue sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, white Asics trainers with the laces removed, and his gla
sses.
He and Christine made smalltalk for a minute or two. How was he? Fine, keeping his head down, minding his own business, working on his case. How were things, generally? OK, again. Not that bad, once you got used to it. He’d had himself moved to a single cell recently, because prison rules stated that a non-smoker could not be made to share a cell with a smoker, as all his initial cohabitants had been. So now he was in comparative luxury. God bless the EU and the Court of Human Rights.
I could tell prison was getting to him, though. He’d lost weight, his haircut was growing out, and the lower half of his face was coated in a few days’ grey-white stubble. He was letting himself go. First sign of depression, that, when you start neglecting your personal appearance. I’d been there, knew exactly what he was going through.
And all the while, the evidence against him just kept piling up. It was a lot like being slowly buried alive; accusation after accusation dumped on you, until that’s all you can see, all that’s around you. I’d been there too. Knew exactly what he was going through. It was how I’d felt when he accused me of stealing his diary.
‘The glasses are a good look. They soften your face,’ Christine said to him. ‘Wear them in court.’
‘Those kind of things work?’
‘Juries aren’t sophisticated, Vernon. They’re blunt instruments,’ she said. ‘Glasses, on the right kind of face, project intelligence and physical weakness. You have the right kind of face.’
‘Thanks,’ he smiled. ‘What about the wrong face?’
‘That says you’re a nonce.’
‘Right.’
She opened her file and he opened his.
‘We’ve had some new disclosure. But, prior to discussing that, I need to ask you something I should’ve asked sooner,’ she said. ‘Do you have any enemies?’
‘Enemies?’
‘Business rivals, competitors, colleagues. People with something to gain with you being out of the way. Or maybe people you’ve crossed or upset in the past – ex-friends?’
It was a routine question, but it still made my heart skip a beat.
‘Not that I know of,’ he said. ‘All my business deals have been legal, above the board. I’ve never cut corners. And I’ve always made a point of giving back – to charities and stuff. But I’m sure plenty of people hate me anyway.’
