by Vicary, Tim
‘I can’t say when she failed to take them, or why. I can only describe the likely effects.’
‘Quite. But she was cheerful and positive when you last saw her. Is that right?’
‘Relatively so, yes. That’s how she seemed to me.’
‘And presumably it would have been more sensible for Shelley to stop taking the medication when she was happy, and then resume later when things started to go wrong for her, rather than the other way round?’
‘The medication is supposed to be taken regularly, but yes, if you are going to pause at all, it’s safer when things are going well for you.’
‘And Shelley was a sensible girl, wasn’t she? Not a masochist? She didn’t enjoy these terrible low moods that she suffered from?’
‘Certainly not. No one could enjoy experiences like those.’
‘And she knew that the best way to avoid these was to take the medicine.’
‘Oh yes. She knew that, certainly.’
‘So if she felt low after breaking up with her boyfriend, the most likely thing is that she did take her medicine then, isn’t it? When she needed it?’
‘It’s quite possible, yes.’
‘Very well.’ A rasp of scorn entered Sarah’s voice. ‘So, to sum up, you have no evidence at all that she committed suicide, you don’t know when she stopped taking her medicine, and the last time you saw her she was in relatively good spirits. Is that right?’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, in her coldest, most dismissive voice. She folded her gown about her and sat down, leaving the psychiatrist staring at her, flummoxed. There was nothing on which Savendra seemed to want to redirect. She only hoped the damage he had done was small.
24. Confessions
AS COURT rose for the day, Savendra went down to the cells to meet his client. He was feeling pleased; the psychiatrist, despite Sarah’s efforts, had weakened the prosecution case further. If Shelley had been mentally unstable, his client’s story might easily be true.
The warder left them together in the ‘stable block’ area of little wooden stalls. David sat on the bench, tie roughly loosened, boot resting on his knee, and grinned up at Savendra. ‘You did well today, mate,’ he said. ‘That shrink told them what a nutter she was.’
‘He made an impression, certainly.’ Savendra remained standing, one hand on the wooden partition between the stalls. The warder had left them alone, and the other stalls were empty. ‘And tomorrow it’s you. Are you ready for that?’
‘Ready to give evidence? Sure, why not?’
‘Well, just remember what I said. Look calm, and respectable. The jury will be judging your character, as well as what you say.’ And if they see what you’re really like, a voice whispered in his mind, they’ll put you under a stone and stamp on it.
‘Yeah, sure.’ David flicked his tie with a finger. ‘Proper posh git, I’ll be.’
‘Nonetheless,’ said Savendra cautiously. ‘They won’t like everything you say. You have to be prepared for that. It may even help, to a certain extent.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, look. You admit you were unfaithful and had a noisy argument with the girl in your flat. You persuaded her to stay when she didn’t intend to, and to have sex with you. None of that looks good. But it does fit with the psychiatrist’s suggestion that she killed herself because she was depressed and ashamed of what she’d just done. Or what you persuaded her to do,’ he ended rather lamely.
‘So what’re you suggesting? That I should play this up a bit, is that it?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Savendra answered coldly. ‘That’s not my job. I’m warning you to be prepared, that’s all. It’s obvious enough what Mrs Newby’s going to ask. How did those bruises get there, for a start? If you weren’t holding the girl’s head under water, what were you doing? Holding her down while you raped her?’
‘Who says I raped her?’ A cunning smile crossed David Kidd’s face. ‘There were no bruises on her cunt, were there? The pathologist said that. No, her head got bruised when I was trying to save her - give her the kiss of life like they said on the phone. I was trying to hold her still in the bath, she was sliding around all over the place.’
Savendra studied him coolly. ‘So you didn’t hold her down while you had sex?’
‘No need, sunshine.’ The cunning smile spread wider. ‘She was doped. Out of it. Gone.’
‘What?’ Cold fingers gripped Savendra’s spine. This can’t be happening, he told himself. He didn’t say that, did he? Not now when we’re winning, please. ‘She was drugged?’
‘Yeah,’ David looked vastly pleased with himself. ‘There she was screaming at me, so I slipped some roofies into her wine.’
‘You’re saying ... you drugged her for sex?’ Savendra’s voice cracked as he struggled to adjust to this new, horrible reality.
‘That’s it; got it in one.’ David smiled engagingly, as if he was sharing a wonderful secret. ‘Worked a treat - calmed her down after all the shouting. Couple of sips and - ping! She’s gone. You want to try it, mate. It’s brilliant. Do anything after that. Putty in your hands.’
‘Oh my God!’ Savendra glanced towards the corridor, hoping the warder was out of earshot. ‘You shouldn’t have told me this, I don’t want to hear. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can defend you after this.’
‘What?’ David sat bolt upright, all arrogance gone. ‘What you talking about now?’
‘You drugged her in order to rape her. You just admitted that to me.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not charged with rape, am I? I’m charged with murder, for Christ’s sake!’
That’s true, Savendra thought desperately. Thank God for small mercies. ‘And you’re still telling me you didn’t murder her?’
‘Absolutely. No way. I didn’t.’
Savendra confronted the man, thoughts running like rats round his mind. ‘Let’s get this straight. You drugged her, so she was unable to resist your demands for sex, right?’
‘Unable? She was gagging for it, mate. Knees round her ears. What that priest heard, her calling out, she loved it.’
Crawl back under your stone, Savendra thought. That’s where you belong. ‘All right. How did she get in the bath, then?’
‘Well, she wasn’t completely gone. Just a bit daft and giggly.’
‘Could she walk?’
‘Yeah, course. I ran the bath for her, and she got in it.’
‘You left a drugged girl in the bath?’
‘Yeah.’ David grinned, uncertainly, as if affronted that his attempt to share a confidence was going so wrong. ‘I thought she was happy then, honest. I didn’t know she was going to cut her wrists.’
Savendra glared at his client, thinking hard. ‘You didn’t do that?’
‘No. On my honour, I didn’t. I came back and found her like that. She did it herself.’
‘Your honour,’ Savendra mocked bitterly, wishing he’d never met the repulsive little toad. ‘So you’re telling me categorically you didn’t kill her?’
‘Yeah.’ The conversation was finally beginning to worry David too. ‘You won’t say this in court, about me doping her, will you? It’s our little secret. I’ll let you have some if you get me off. Try it on your girlfriend.’
‘Jesus Christ! You don’t get it, do you? I don’t keep secrets for criminals. If this is true then my advice - my professional advice - is that you tell this truth to the court. And let the jury decide what to make of it.’
‘Oh, yeah, right. I’m not telling the jury that. They’ll think I killed her for sure.’
Savendra turned away in disgust. He wanted to pick up the wretched man and shake him, but he couldn’t do that, of course not. Anyway, it would probably result in a fight, and that wouldn’t help his career, would it - to have his nose broken by a client? A client who has just admitted rape. The whole thing was a disaster.
David watched him, beginning at last to appreciate the seriousness
of what he had done. ‘You think that too, now, don’t you? You think I killed her?’
Savendra drew a deep breath, and tried to explain. ‘Look, what I think’s not important. I’m not a detective or a juror. I’m just here to present your case in the best way I can.’
‘Well then, how about some help? What should I say tomorrow?’
‘Oh no.’ Savendra waved a finger, as though to keep the devil away. ‘No way, I can’t coach you. You must tell the truth, that’s all. That’s all the advice I can give. I ask the questions, you decide what to answer. Hello? We’re finished here!’ He raised his voice, to alert the warder that he wanted to leave - to escape, to run as far away from here as possible.
‘Well, that’s great advice, that is. I thought you were on my side.’
‘There are limits, you know.’ The warder came round the corner with his handcuffs, to lead David Kidd back to his cell. Where he belongs, Savendra thought, as he watched the man being led away. You should lock the door and throw away the key.
I’m going to have to think about this, he told himself miserably as the warder returned to unlock the gates for him at the end of the underground corridor. If this is true the best construction I can put on it is that Shelley killed herself in shame after this little bastard doped and raped her. And it would have to happen tonight of all nights, when Belinda’s dad is taking us out to supper. Where he is undoubtedly going to quiz me about the ethics of defending criminals. Great. That’s all I need right now. Bloody marvellous.
When Savendra got back to chambers Sarah was busy working. Her office was opposite his, and she had left the door and window open as she often did for air. Her gown, wig and shoes were strewn on the floor, and she sat on the sofa with her feet curled beside her, studying David Kidd’s statements to the police. She was still smarting from the damage the shopkeeper’s evidence had done, both to her case and to her confidence in Terry Bateson, but her natural combative optimism was starting to return. She beamed at Savendra brightly.
‘Still putting your man on the stand tomorrow, Savvy? Lamb to the slaughter!’
Savendra leaned miserably on the doorframe of her office. ‘Yep. Well, you chew him into little pieces if you can. See if I care. I may just sit back and watch.’
‘Goodness!’ Sarah studied him in astonishment. His body drooped, his face looked grey. ‘Not giving up, are you?’
Savendra sucked his teeth, and thought about it. It was a relief to be talking to someone human, someone normal. In other circumstances he would have loved to confide in her, discuss the filthy dilemma he had fallen into. But not now, obviously.
‘My client,’ he informed her in a voice that was clear, measured, and transparently insincere, ‘is a man of the utmost moral integrity. He continues to maintain his complete innocence. Of the crime of murder, that is. And therefore ... ah, sod it, Sarah.’
It was no good. Their usual jokey, ironic relationship was unable to handle a crisis like this. He opened the door of his office, then turned back. ‘Just give him hell, Sarah, that’s all. And don’t even think of dropping the case.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sarah murmured in surprise, as the door closed behind him. ‘I won’t.’
25. Harsh Words
THAT NIGHT, Savendra phoned a man he greatly respected, a QC who had been his pupil master three years ago in Leeds. He explained the details of the case, and asked the man’s advice.
‘It’s a simple question, really. Knowing what I do now, can I still represent him?’
‘He’s charged with murder, you say? Not rape?’ Just listening to the fruity, whisky roughened old voice comforted Savendra greatly. It was true what they’d told him when he had been called to the Bar: there was always someone willing to help you out, someone who had met this problem before. This man, in his mid-fifties, had probably seen more criminals, encountered more variations of human mendacity, than an entire rural police force.
‘That’s the charge, yes,’ Savendra agreed. ‘And in my view, he probably did it.’
‘The court’s not interested in your view, old boy, you know that. The questions you have to ask yourself are, one, have you coached him to tell a lie?’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘Fine. Good lad. Then, two: has he ever admitted to you that he killed the girl?’
‘No, again.’
‘All right, and finally, three: now that you know he drugged her, does that make the story he intends to tell the court impossible, or just unlikely?’
Savendra hesitated. ‘Well, unlikely, I suppose. I mean, given what I’ve seen of how he behaves, I think he’s still lying ...’
‘That’s not my question.’
‘Yes, I know. But if you say, is it possible that she woke up in the bath in a dazed stupor, was overcome by shame at what had been done to her, got out of the bath, ran into the kitchen for a knife, came back and cut her wrists, then I don’t know ... I suppose it’s remotely possible. But that still makes him morally guilty, doesn’t it?’
‘Not your problem. If it’s possible his story is true, then you can still defend him.’
‘But if the police knew what I know ...’
‘It’s their job to find things out, my boy, not yours to tell them. However unpleasant it may sometimes be, our duty is to defend the client, not help the police.’
‘So this isn’t improper conduct, if I continue to defend him?’
‘Not if it’s the way you’ve described it to me, no. You’re not lying, he is. So long as he maintains his innocence of the main charge, and you haven’t coached him in a lie, you’re in the clear. It’s the prosecution’s job to expose him, not yours. Who’s against you, anyway?’
‘Sarah Newby.’
‘Ah.’ A fruity laugh gurgled down the phone. ‘The vixen who saved her cub, eh? Well, there you are then! If you really want to help your client, I’d buy him a pair of metal underpants. Otherwise he might lose something important.’
Had Savendra known it, it was not David Kidd but Bob Newby who was being savaged by Sarah just then. The argument had begun with her attempt to re-open the discussion about moving house, an attempt which had been rebuffed by Bob on the grounds that he had an important application form to fill in. It annoyed her. She had already been let down by one man she trusted today; she didn’t want it to happen again. But when she came down from the shower she found Bob chatting amiably on his mobile phone, the application form pushed to one side. As she entered the room he clicked the phone shut.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, crossing the room to pour herself a drink.
‘Stephanie, again,’ he answered gruffly, as though the call, or her question - which? - had annoyed him somehow. Stephanie was his new school secretary, a childless divorcee in her late twenties. ‘She works hard, that woman.’
‘You seemed to be getting on all right.’
‘What? Yes, she’s easy to talk to.’ Bob pulled the application form towards him.
‘Not just talking, Bob. You were having a good laugh.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps we were.’ Bob picked up his pen, sighed, and put it down. ‘It’s good to laugh, once in a while.’
‘Depends who you’re laughing with,’ said Sarah dangerously, perching on the edge of an armchair. She sipped her whisky, a drink she indulged in occasionally when her emotions were raw. ‘This woman seems to ring you at all hours of the day and night.’
‘She’s efficient, that’s all. We’ve got a lot of things on this term. She takes work home just like I do.’
‘Mrs Daggett didn’t do that.’
‘No, well, people are different.’
‘Mm.’ Sarah stared at her husband coolly. Mrs Daggett, a comfortable grandmother in her sixties, had recently retired after twenty years service at Bob’s school. She’d been quiet, efficient, and friendly. Sarah, no great shakes as a cook, had baked an embarrassingly amateurish cake for her retirement party, which had been attended by a surprisingly large number of parents, some of whom
had been pupils at the school when Mrs Daggett was young. Sarah had never felt the slightest qualms about entrusting her husband to that woman’s care, and so far as she knew the school had run smoothly with only a couple of phone calls to this house each term.
Now, it seemed, there were two or three each day - some, like this, in the evening, others in the morning while they were having breakfast or even at weekends. Bob, having recently discovered how to text on his mobile, did that frequently too, though seldom to Sarah. She had met this Stephanie once at a dinner party in this very same room, to welcome her to her new job, and had not particularly warmed to her. She was young - no more than 28, Sarah guessed - blonde, taller than Sarah, with a slender, bony figure like a model, and liking for striking, ethnic jewellery. It was true that she laughed, loudly enough, and had a fund of amusing stories, many of them quite risqué, but she gave most of her attention to men rather than women.
Certainly not to me, anyway, Sarah thought, recalling the occasion with distaste. I welcomed her into my home but her eyes kept sliding away from me as though I wasn’t really there. At the time she’d put it down to shyness or nerves; after all, she was the headmaster’s wife and a criminal barrister too, and people could be intimidated by that; but curiously, this shyness didn’t seem to extend to her husband. Not if she could gaily ring his mobile at - what time was it now? - nine thirty in the evening for a jolly chat.
‘What did she actually ring about?’ Sarah asked coolly.
‘What?’ Bob shook his head distractedly. ‘Oh, just some assessment forms we have to fill in. You know, we get so much paperwork nowadays from the government.’
‘Couldn’t it wait till tomorrow?’
‘I told you, she takes work home. What is this, Sarah, are you jealous or something?’
‘Should I be?’
The slight, infinitesimal pause before his denial set alarm bells screaming in Sarah’s brain. She knew her husband well enough, after eighteen years, to recognise most of his moods, his thoughts, his responses. This one, a tiny hesitation before the correct words were chosen, was one she had never seen before. Not at home, anyway; she had seen it a dozen times on the witness stand and knew exactly how to deal with it there. But here - in her own home?
