by Jane Isaac
“Do you have a verdict upon which you are all agreed?” the judge had asked.
He looked slightly sheepish as he answered. “No, Your Honour.”
The judge had sent them away again for further deliberation, giving them the option of a majority verdict of 11:1 or 10:2. Anxiety clawed at Grace. Her solicitor told her that if the jury couldn’t agree on a majority verdict, the case would be adjourned and scheduled for re-trial. The thought of going through another trial, the same evidence unfolding again, was incomprehensible. She couldn’t even contemplate returning to prison, back to another cell, her fate left hanging in the balance.
After almost another’s day’s deliberation the jury was back in court. Would she return home to her family? Sleep beside Phil under their soft duvet tonight? Or would she be sent to a cold cell, in yet another strange prison, with a lumpy mattress, a foam pillow and graffiti scratched into the walls?
The judge folded his hands together and sat forward. “Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict on which the majority of you are agreed?”
The lead juror stood. “Yes, we have.”
“And is your verdict, 10:2 or 11:1?”
“10:2”
“On the matter of the murder of Faye Campbell, do you find the defendant, Grace Daniels, guilty or not guilty?”
A brief hesitation. A pin drop could be heard throughout the courtroom. He looked at Grace. “Not guilty.”
The room began to sway, slowly at first, then with growing momentum. Grace was aware of the rumble of voices but they sounded far away. A sea of faces swam across her view, superimposing themselves on top of each other. The voices merged together. Heat rose and her head spiralled. Then it all went black.
***
“How’s Alice doing?” Wilson said to Jackman.
After the drama of Grace fainting at the verdict, they’d stayed in the courtroom while one of the jury members, a self-confessed first aider, had attended her. When she came around, surrounded by her family, they left and were now in the foyer, along with the press who’d been ushered out earlier.
“Not bad,” Jackman said. Although there was still no concrete evidence of any improvement, his wife had slowly gained weight these past few months and seemed brighter somehow. “The doctors are pleased, talking of scheduling her in for more tests to monitor her progress.”
“That’s great news.”
“Thanks.”
Wilson nodded and cast a glance towards the entrance.
“Somebody’s stalking you,” she said, her words accompanied by a gurgle of a laugh.
Jackman could see Carmela beside the entrance, talking to Sheldon. His robes flapped in the breeze that seeped in through the open doors as he waved his arms about animatedly. It seemed his gestures were just as affected outside the courtroom.
Jackman had noticed Carmela arrive that morning. She’d snuck in on the last day of the trial to sit at the back, just before the jury’s verdict. Hoping to capture some last minute PR at a positive verdict, no doubt. But any political capital she’d hoped to gain had been dashed and now she would face the inevitable awkward questions from the press that followed an unfavourable result.
Warwickshire had demanded his presence after he’d given evidence during the first week of the trial and he’d had to rely on Wilson for daily updates. But he’d insisted on making the journey these last few days.
“How are things at Leicester?” Jackman said, keen to change the subject.
“Busy. She certainly knows how to play the game,” she replied, gesturing to Carmela. “Isn’t winning any popularity contests with the team though.”
Jackman sighed. “I fear this result won’t help you there.” They watched as more people streamed out of the room, gathering in the foyer. Grace joined them, surrounded by the bubble of her family. A few members of the press flew to her side, accompanied by camera flashes. Jackman bade his farewell to Wilson and approached Grace, sidestepping her family, excusing himself through to Grace.
She looked up to meet his gaze, clearly unsure of how to react. “This has been a terrible ordeal for you,” he said. Voices hushed around him. “I hope you and your family can put this behind you and find some happiness going forward.” He extended his hand. She looked at it, hesitated a split second before she grabbed it and thanked him.
More cameras flashed and clicked as he made his way towards the exit. Grace’s family had formed a wall around a bewildered Grace who stood beside her solicitor while she prepared to make a speech on behalf of her client.
Carmela was still beside the door. Jackman weaved through the bodies. He was almost at the exit when someone moved in front, blocking his passage. He saw Carmela excuse herself, step towards him. He braced himself for contact. At the last minute, somebody caught her elbow, forcing her to turn back. She rounded to see Artie Black, the journalist. She switched her gaze between Artie and Jackman, barely hiding the irritation in her face. A flood of other reporters surrounded her, blocking her in. She gave Jackman an imploring glance before she turned to the crowd and gave them her attention.
The air was balmy as Jackman stepped out of the court. He slipped off his jacket, loosened his collar as he descended the steps, pausing at the bottom to answer his ringing mobile.
“Hi, Dad!” The buzz of excitement in his daughter’s voice caught his attention.
“Hey, Celia. What’s up?”
“That job. The research assistant at Swansea University. I got it!”
“That’s brilliant!”
“I know. The letter arrived today. I can’t believe it!”
It had been lovely to have Celia move back home after she’d graduated earlier this year, but he’d always known it was only temporary. As soon as she’d passed over the threshold she was filling out job applications. But her field of marine biology was niche and, as the months passed and nothing was forthcoming, he could see an air of despondency beginning to settle. The news warmed his insides.
“This calls for a celebration,” Jackman said. “Book a table, wherever you want to go. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
“No need, I’m cooking. I’ve started already. Better make it an hour and a half.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Jackman quickened his step as he ended the call and made his way back to the car. For once, he was really looking forward to the drive back to Stratford.
Epilogue
There was a sense of peace as Grace walked back through her front door later that afternoon. Chloe had shot off straight from the court to pick up Meggy, accompanied by Ged and Lydia. They’d all arranged to meet back at the house later. But, for now, it was just Phil and her. Lucky rushed out to meet them and Grace scooped her up, smothering her with kisses and cuddles. “I’ve missed you so much!” The dog wriggled as she nuzzled into her fur.
She placed Lucky down and shrugged off her coat, inhaling deeply. There it was, a mixture of fabric softener, air freshener and scented candles. The smell of home. She smiled as she moved into the front room, and jumped. The cheer that greeted her was deafening. Smiling faces popped up from every corner, balloons hung from the ceiling in a myriad of colours, their strings trailing across shoulders, much to Meggy’s delight who jumped up and down, clapping her hands. In truth, Grace was craving a quiet cup of tea on the sofa with Phil, Lucky curled around her feet, something she’d dreamed about during those long evenings locked up in her cell. But there were friends here she hadn’t seen since Jo’s memorial service, old colleagues from the library. They’d gone to so much trouble that she forced on her best smile and circulated, politely thanking everyone for their support. There’d be plenty of time to reacquaint herself with the old place later.
Chloe disappeared and returned to the room offering visitors cake. Meggy traipsed behind her, lifting the edge of her Cinderella dress with her podgy hand. Phil, Ged and Lydia bustled in and out of the kitchen serving drinks and making tea. An hour passed easily, and another. Grace could feel h
er energy starting to wane, the life trickling out of her smile as fatigue set in, and was relieved when people started to say their goodbyes and the room began to thin.
Grace was just closing the front door to her old work colleagues when she caught a familiar smell. She followed it into the kitchen. Ged looked up from where she was wiping a cloth across the kitchen work surface. “Dropped a glass of red wine,” she said. “Can’t get rid of the smell.” Her face creased into a grimace.
The potent aroma of bleach whisked Grace back to prison where the smell of cheap watery bleach pervaded the floors and landings. She swallowed, forcing herself back to the present, wondering how often over the forthcoming days and weeks certain sounds and smells would transport her back to the regime she was so relieved to leave behind.
“There, I think that’s better.” Ged moved to the sink and rinsed her cloth. “How are you doing?” she asked. The material squeaked between her fingers as she squeezed it out.
Grace walked around the edge of the kitchen, dragging her fingers across the top of the work surface, the hob, the fridge, soaking it all up. At first glance, nothing had been changed. Nothing moved. The kettle still sat in the corner beside the hob, the microwave on the far wall, flanked by the coffee machine and the food mixer. This was her haven and suddenly she felt a shot of adrenaline pump through her veins, crushing the weariness in its wake. She looked across at Ged and smiled. “It’s so good to be home.”
“I bet.”
She looked at the back door and frowned. The old wooden door with the cat flap had been replaced with a white plastic one, half-glazed. “What happened there?” she asked.
“Phil arranged it, not long after you left,” Ged said. “I think he thought it would make you feel more at ease, knowing that Lucky was safe. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it?”
Grace thought back to their long discussions during prison visits. Time was precious. Long after he’d left and she’d been escorted back to her cell, she’d lay on her bed and replay their conversation in her mind, holding onto every word, every little reminder of home. She wracked her brains. Maybe he did and she’d pushed it to the corner of her mind with everything else going on. “Where is Lucky?” she asked, her eyes darting around the room. “I had such a lovely welcome from her when I came home. Haven’t seen her since.”
“No idea. She’s probably hiding upstairs, away from the crowds.”
Grace peered briefly into the dining room and took to the stairs, relishing the feel of the soft carpet under her feet, taking time to absorb every photo, every memory as she climbed. She hovered beside a photo of Lydia cradling a lemur in a zoo in Spain. This is what she’d missed. Home. Her family. Those little reminders of her memories that clung to the walls. The feeble attempt with the notice board in her cell at Holloway didn’t even come close.
Clothes tumbled out of the washing basket as she reached the landing, a pair of trainers were scattered to the side. There was a time when this idle mess would have bothered her. Not anymore. No longer would she moan at Lydia for not changing her bed sheets every Saturday, Phil for leaving his used coffee mugs on the floor beside the sofa. Now these little habits seemed so trivial.
She called out for the dog. When there was no answer she absently wandered into her bedroom and looked around. Her perfumes still lined the dressing table, her hairdryer and brushes beside. The full length mirror dominated the corner of the room. The figures on the digital alarm winked at her as time rolled forward. Sometimes in the cell, she’d close her eyes, do a tour of home in her mind, reminding herself of what it was like, what she would hopefully be returning to one day. She’d followed every photo, every ornament in the downstairs rooms, the landing, the bathroom door with the loose lock that had to be lifted to work properly, her bedroom with the watermark on the ceiling. Her little piece of reality. She sat on the edge of the bed and laid back, her legs dangling over the side, sinking into the duvet, inhaling the smell of the freshly washed linen.
Grace wasn’t sure how long she laid there, enjoying the moment, until a faint whimper caught her attention. She hauled herself up, followed it to Jo’s old room, pushed open the door and was just about to enter when it came again. It was coming from Lydia’s room. She walked back on herself and opened the door.
Lucky gave another whimper as she entered, wagging her tail. “There you are,” Grace said. The dog was curled in a tight ball, in no hurry to move. She’d scrunched up the duvet to form a little bed and was nestled inside. Grace sat beside her and stroked her head, absently looking around the room. It hadn’t changed much.
A photo on the top of Lydia’s dressing table caught her eye. She stood, peered in closer. It was of Jo and Lydia, taken the Christmas before Jo died, sitting at the kitchen table. Grace reached for the frame to take a closer look when she felt something, a small figurine, slip behind the dressing table. Lydia didn’t welcome uninvited visitors into her room. Everyone, apart from Lucky, it seemed, respected that. Even on a day like today, she could imagine the scowl on Lydia’s face if she found her mother there.
Grace stuck her hand down the back, scrabbling behind the dresser. She reached down, as far as she could. Her fingertips brushed the edge of something, but couldn’t quite grasp it. She lifted the pile of clothes off Lydia’s chair and pulled it over, climbed up and reached further, pulling out a plastic carrier bag. As she did so, the ornament slipped down further. She couldn’t even see it now. She was just wondering whether to push the bag back down and hope that Lydia didn’t notice her ornament was missing when she noticed the weight of the bag in her other hand. Inside was a grey jersey top with white lace around the cuffs. She lifted it out. It seemed stuck together. She pulled at the material and gasped. It was encrusted with smears of blood. A leather glove slipped out of the bag and fell onto the carpet, followed by another. Grace’s chest tightened. She’d seen that grey top before.
Grace didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs. Didn’t notice the face that appeared around the doorframe. She lifted her gaze to face her youngest daughter.
Lydia’s eyes ran over the bag, the top, the gloves. She froze. Neither of them spoke.
“It’s not what you think,” Lydia said eventually.
Grace didn’t answer straight away. She stumbled as she climbed off the chair, her mind reeling. “This was Faye’s top. She wore it once when she came over. I remember commenting on it, the unusual lace around the cuff.”
Lydia looked as though she was deflating in front of her. The anger that she had stored over the months, trickled away. “I didn’t think they’d send you away. I thought you’d be allowed to come home until the trial. If I’d known-”
“What? Lydia what are you talking about?”
“I kept it, brought it back and hid it here after the police had finished the house search. If they convicted you, I knew I’d hand it in. It’s bound to have my DNA on it, show that it’s me that’s responsible. Not you.” A strangled sob caught in Lydia’s voice. “I’d never have let you go to prison, Mum. You have to believe me. I never meant for any of this…”
Grace’s mind raced. Murder. This was murder they were talking about. A cold, calculated act. Surely her own daughter couldn’t be capable of that? It couldn’t be true.
“I was so angry after what happened with Lucky. And when you came home that day after you’d been to Faye’s, I overheard you telling Phil about the signet ring. She didn’t even live in Fairfax Road. There were so many lies. I always knew there was something odd about her. I wanted to know why.”
Grace frowned. “But you were at Sally’s that night.” She recalled an argument they’d had about the sleepover. Sally’s parents were away; Grace wasn’t sure they should be left alone at fifteen. Phil had stepped in and said she should go, it would do her good.
“Sally went to sleep early,” Lydia continued. “I slipped out. She only lives a few streets from Western Avenue. I just wanted to see her, to try to understand. I entered from the back, behind the
pub.” She cleared her throat. “She sneered at me when she answered the door. As if it was all some kind of joke. I followed her into the kitchen, tried to reason with her, asked her why she kept lying. I told her she couldn’t do this to our family, especially after everything we’d been through. To stay away from you, from us. Suddenly her face changed. Her eyes were weird. And then… and then she said, ‘She barely made a sound when she died. Just a little squeak as the last breath of air squeezed out.’ I watched her as she threw her head back and cackled. Don’t you see? She was talking about Jo, Mum. I could barely believe it. I was so angry. She killed Jo. She was evil. I just grabbed the knife out of the block on the side, lunged at her. She didn’t move, didn’t even attempt to fight back. The last thing I remember is her eyes. Those horrible dark eyes, glaring at me as she fell to the floor.” Lydia stopped. She drew short, ragged breaths. “I panicked. Grabbed something to wipe my hands. The blood was all over me. I couldn’t get it off. Please, Mum, you have to believe me.” She was crying now, tear drops spotting the carpet as they dropped off her chin. “I didn’t mean for her to die.”
Grace was struggling to comprehend her daughter’s story. To take it all in. She thought of the witness, saying she had seen someone matching Grace’s description visiting the house that evening. It was one of the pieces of evidence in the prosecution case, not significant on its own, but grouped together with others it built to make a convincing case. Another image floated into her mind. Lydia’s surprise haircut the day after Faye died. Grace grappled with her thoughts. Before the haircut, Lydia and she had looked alike, with their long fair hair. People had commented on it many a time. She placed her hands over her face.
“Mum. Say something. Please?”
Grace tried. But her mouth was dry.
Shuffles on the landing outside were swiftly followed by a voice. “Granny! I was looking for you.” Lydia turned away, wiping the tears from her cheeks as Meggy ran into the room.
