The Second Wife

by Fleet, Rebecca

  She leaves the flat without looking back. The previous night she had wandered from room to room, trying to find something she would miss, but it was never really her home in any case. The windows are still darkly streaked with paint, shafts of light worming through in places where she has tried to scratch it away. As the car pulls out of the street, she searches for a word for what she is feeling, and nothing comes. There is only a sense of something breaking off, a string cut somewhere inside her, leaving her strangely weightless and free.

  March 7th. She wakes early, gets dressed and lies there waiting for the taxi to arrive, trying to keep her mind empty. She stares unseeingly through the window all the way across London, letting the city flow through her like water. It’s only when they pull up at the rear entrance to the court that she allows herself to focus. The building is boxy and stern, pale brickwork and brushed metal, like an industrial car park. Low trees are planted at the side walls, rising from compacted soil. She does not know what she was expecting, but it was not this modern monstrosity. Slowly, she gets out of the taxi, smoothing down her skirt.

  A rush of blood runs to her head. She blinks, looks up. Long rectangular windows flanked by white stone; the imprint of a coat of arms stamped into the brickwork above. She just has time to register all this, the brief snap of a camera lens freezing it into her brain, before she is inside.

  A man is coming towards her, extending his hand. ‘Mark Devlin. I’m a representative from the Crown Prosecution Service. We’ll get you through security and sign you in, and then I’ll take you to the private waiting room.’ She has been reassured about this countless times. We’ll keep you away from him and his associates, Rachel. You’ll be able to wait in a room on your own before the trial. The first time you see him again will be in court. As if this should make her feel better. She hands her letter to the woman behind the reception desk, who scans it briefly.

  ‘Name of the principal defendant, please,’ she says.

  ‘Kaspar Kashani.’ She says it automatically, closing off from the thought of him. The woman nods and glances at Mark, who is still standing behind her. ‘Room 5,’ she says.

  Deborah is waiting in the private room, dressed in a dark navy suit with her hair pulled back from her face, showing the wrinkles around her temples. She smiles with what looks like relief. ‘Got here all right?’ she asks, ushering Rachel into a seat. On the table in front of her she registers a pile of magazines – bright, gossipy covers, candid celebrity snaps. Deborah follows her gaze, and smiles again. ‘Hopefully we won’t have to wait too long,’ she says, ‘but it could be an hour or two. This is the CPS’s idea of entertainment, isn’t that right, Mark?’ She raises her eyebrows at the man, and he makes some good-natured sound of agreement.

  Rachel looks at the magazines. She can feel the shaking starting deep down inside her, ricocheting through her bones. Her head is swirling. ‘Thanks,’ she says automatically. The lurid coloured headlines are starting to jar against her brain. She looks up at the bare wall opposite. Flat pale yellow, the colour of faded buttercups.

  ‘Try not to worry too much,’ she hears Deborah say next to her. ‘You’re still feeling all right about giving evidence publicly? Just remember …’ She launches into a familiar spiel, one Rachel has heard several times before. They offered her the possibility, at first, of giving evidence behind a screen, or by video link-up, but it was soon clear that this was not the desired approach. Remember, Rachel, they already know who you are. These measures are often used by witnesses who have come forward secretly, or who don’t want to directly confront the defendant. But Kashani is well aware that you will be giving evidence, so you have little to gain by not being present in the witness box. And then the clincher, delivered in an intense monotone. You’re more likely to convince the jury if you’re there in person. They’re more likely to believe you, because it’s harder to tell a lie to someone’s face.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, forcing the word out from the back of her throat, and finding it dry. She reaches for the jug of water and pours herself a glass, draining it in three gulps. ‘I’m fine.’

  When the call comes, she can see from the clock that almost an hour and a half has passed, but it seems as if the time has been dramatically compressed, folded into a few hot minutes of fear. She stands up. The door swings open ahead, and she steps out into the cool grey corridor, hearing the sharp knock of her heels against the gleaming floor. She walks slowly up towards the courtroom, counting each step. It reminds her of the corridors in an airport terminal; the same antiseptic bareness. She is becoming someone else, someone stronger and calmer, playing the part that will get her through this. The voice inside the court is saying her name. She puts the flat of her hand on to the door and pushes it open.

  The room is smaller than she expected. She has imagined the melodrama of American court shows, sweeping ceilings and huge banked benches, stone columns. This room is compact and hot, packed with props like a film set. She steps into the witness box – a wooden cube, empty but for a chair that she knows she should not use unless she has to. To the right of her she sees the judge, bewigged and gowned, his face set and serious. He must be almost seventy, with bushy white eyebrows furrowing his face, lines and wrinkles mapped out across his cheeks. For an insane moment, she wants to laugh. The lights are bright as she stands and looks ahead, out at the jury seated in the opposite bank. Men and women, some of them as young as she is, dressed in suits and jackets, hands folded and expectant. Above, the public gallery, scattered with faces, her vision blurring them into one messy splurge of colour.

  She is asked to take the oath, and slowly, as if in a dream, she looks down at the printed card. She reads the words out loud, hearing her voice echo around the courtroom. The truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth.

  She finishes and raises her head, looking straight ahead. She knows where Kas will be. Seated to the left, directly behind the lawyers for the prosecution and defence. She does not yet turn her head and look. She can feel him, feel his presence crackling on her skin like lethal electricity.

  Instead she looks at the prosecution lawyer as he stands and moves towards her. Leo Fenton – short and unassuming, with a fine pointed nose and small delicate hands with which he adjusts his white collar as he approaches. She has expected him to treat her kindly. After all, they are on the same side. But this man’s eyes are sharp and his mouth is set in an unsmiling line, and she’s reminded that in a way she’s on trial too. There are expectations on her that she needs to meet.

  ‘Miss Castelle,’ he begins, ‘I’d like you to tell me about how you first became aware of Kaspar Kashani.’

  She has been told that this is how it will begin: setting the scene, easing her in. She clears her throat and begins to speak. She tells him about that first meeting with her and Sadie on the street, the invitation to the club and their subsequent visit. ‘After that, she went almost every weekend,’ she finishes. ‘I sometimes went with her, but mostly I just came to pick her up.’

  ‘How did you feel about going to the club?’ Leo Fenton asks.

  ‘I didn’t enjoy it,’ Rachel says. ‘I only ever went because Sadie asked me to.’

  The lawyer nods. ‘Can you explain why it was that you disliked visiting the club?’

  She pauses for a moment, thinking about this. In truth, there are many reasons; she has never really enjoyed clubbing, and in recent years she has not much enjoyed spending time with Sadie either. But she has sense enough to know that there is one reason that needs to dominate, and, after all, it isn’t a lie. ‘Because I disliked Kaspar Kashani,’ she says. ‘I found him unpleasant and frightening, and I didn’t like the fact that my sister seemed so interested in him. I couldn’t really understand why.’

  She does look at Kas then; can’t help her eyes sliding in his direction for a brief instant. He’s staring straight at her, regal-looking and exotic in his dark suit, his face unmoving. He looks intensely contemptuous, as if all his energy is being poured i
nto the force of his scorn.

  ‘I’d like to understand what you observed on your visits to the club,’ Leo Fenton says. ‘What impression you gained of Mr Kashani and his – business,’ he ends with faint distaste.

  She has been over this many times and she isn’t sure, even now, how much is real and how much is imagined. When she thinks back, she thinks she remembers certain things: swift transactions in dark corners, conversations between Kas and other men that seemed to have intimidation as their currency. One thing she is sure of is that people are frightened of him. So it’s this on which she concentrates, describes the changes in their atmosphere and expressions whenever he appeared in the room.

  The lawyer is nodding encouragingly, and no sooner has she finished than he’s speaking again. ‘I think I understand,’ he says. ‘Would it be fair to say that you always felt that this man had the capacity for serious wrongdoing? Perhaps even for murder?’

  ‘Objection,’ the defence lawyer cuts in, rising to his feet. ‘The prosecution is leading the witness, Your Honour.’

  The judge glances at them both, then nods. ‘Please stick to the facts, Mr Fenton,’ he says mildly.

  Leo Fenton unfurls his hands elegantly in acceptance, but leaves a short pause, turning to look at the jury with raised eyebrows, as if asking them to consider what Rachel might have replied. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Let’s talk about the events of the twelfth of January of this year. You were with your sister Sadie, I believe, when Kaspar Kashani’s wife fell to her death at Camden Road Station?’

  Rachel swallows. ‘Yes.’ It feels like so long ago now, this night, and it has been so long since she has let it cross her mind except in her dreams.

  ‘I’d like you to tell me what happened in the immediate aftermath of that event,’ Fenton says, and now his voice hardens, letting her know that this is crunch time. This is when she needs to step up to the mark.

  She holds her head up, keeps her voice steady. ‘My sister was very distressed, and she told me some things about Kaspar Kashani,’ she says. ‘She told me that he had killed two people that she knew of. She called him a murderer.’ The word falls harshly, and she sees the impact it has on the jury, the power of it, the way it makes them shift in their seats and glance at one another.

  ‘Did you believe her?’ the lawyer asks.

  Rachel nods. ‘I was absolutely sure that she was telling the truth.’

  ‘And why is that?’ he presses.

  She hesitates, making sure that the words are perfectly formed in her head before she speaks. ‘Because there was nothing calculated about the way she spoke,’ she says. ‘I think she only told me because she was so shaken by what had just happened. She was terrified, I could see that. She was terrified that Kaspar would think her responsible somehow, and she knew what he was capable of.’

  ‘So you are sure that your sister believed what she was saying,’ Fenton says. ‘How sure are you that she was, in fact, correct? And why?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Rachel says slowly, ‘because she told me that she witnessed it herself. There didn’t seem to be any room for doubt.’ As she speaks, she feels a tremor of anxiety pass through her. It feels as if the conversation is starting to swerve in a different direction.

  Fenton is silent for a moment, rubbing the tip of one finger contemplatively across his lip, back and forth. ‘Did your sister explain the nature of her involvement in these crimes to you?’ he asks. ‘Did she explain why she was there, or what she did?’

  ‘No,’ Rachel says quickly. ‘She didn’t.’

  Another pause, this time thickly charged and potent. ‘Do you really believe that Mrs Kashani fell to her death that night?’ Fenton asks at last.

  The defence lawyer leaps to his feet again, extending his hands in supplication. ‘Your Honour,’ he says hotly, ‘this is irrelevant. My client has not been charged in connection with Mrs Kashani’s death, and it has nothing to do with the current proceedings.’

  As he speaks, he glances over and across to his left, and instinctively Rachel follows his movement, and then she sees her. Sitting at the back of the defence box, dressed in a slim-fitting black jacket with her hair pulled back from her face and her lips painted dark pink. She has been so reluctant to look in Kaspar’s direction, so conscious of his presence that it had not even crossed her mind that he might not be alone. But of course, he is not the only one on trial.

  When their eyes meet, Rachel thinks she sees Sadie’s bearing relax a little, as if she’s been waiting for this moment, her body drawn tight with anticipation. It’s the first time she has seen her sister in almost two months, and the oddest thing is that as soon as she sets eyes on her again it’s as if she has never been away. She could have been waiting in the next room, her back turned only for minutes. She’s imagined fireworks, drama. But Sadie doesn’t look as if she is about to leap out of her seat and start screaming obscenities. She’s watching Rachel with her eyebrows slightly lowered, frowning at her in the way that a scientist might gaze at some curious new specimen.

  Rachel wrenches her gaze away, back to the lawyers. She feels the palms of her hands slippery with sweat.

  ‘I’d argue that this line of questioning is very relevant, Your Honour,’ Fenton is saying, ‘considering the need to understand the nature of the relationship between the defendants, not to mention their characters.’

  The judge waits, the curve of an amused smile upon his lips as he observes the lawyer for the prosecution, and she remembers that this is at least in part a game for them, or at least a professional power-play. It isn’t their own lives they’re holding in their hands. ‘Just be careful how you frame your questions, Mr Fenton,’ he says.

  ‘Of course.’ That elaborate hand gesture again. ‘Let me approach this from another angle,’ Fenton says. ‘What is your opinion on your sister’s feelings towards Mr Kashani? Was this a crush, a passing fancy? Or was it something more?’

  Rachel does not answer at first. Instead she looks over at Sadie again, who is now sitting bolt upright. Her eyes are anxious and engaged, her lips slightly parted. She’s sending a message, certainly, but Rachel has no idea what it might be. How would Sadie want her to answer this question? She doesn’t know, and this not knowing fills her with panic. There is a sudden lump in her throat that she can’t get past, and her heart is beating faster, the pulse ricocheting through her unevenly and making her dizzy. For a moment she genuinely thinks she might faint.

  And then it’s as if something inside her clicks and switches these feelings off. She draws a long breath, and she realizes that it doesn’t matter what Sadie wants her to say. Her sister is not her master now, and she never will be again. What matters here is the truth.

  ‘She was utterly obsessed with him,’ she says. ‘I don’t know if I would call it love, but she was clearly completely infatuated. She would have done anything for him.’

  Leo Fenton lets these words settle between them before he reaches slowly in and plucks out the one he wants. ‘Anything?’ he repeats.

  She realizes the implication, knows that it isn’t only Melanie that they are talking about here. The spectres of those two dead men are hanging over them, men about whom she knows nothing, to whom she owes nothing.

  She looks at the defence box again. Kaspar has twisted around in his seat and seems to be looking hard at Sadie, sending some kind of signal that is making her clench her hands together and shake her head. In this instant, it’s clear that everyone else might as well be dust. ‘Yes,’ she says.

  Fenton nods and gathers his papers together with a snap. ‘No further questions.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the judge says, and turns to his side, eyebrows raised. ‘Mr Nelson, do you have any questions for the witness?’

  Rachel looks at the defence lawyer properly for the first time. He’s bigger and broader than Fenton, with a florid face that shines under the courtroom lights. He regards her steadily, and she looks back at him, fighting not to let her composure slip.

  Th
e silence endures for what seems like hours before he looks away dismissively, giving a theatrical shrug. ‘No. No questions, Your Honour.’

  She lets out a breath, confusion racing through her. Nelson is busying himself with his papers, frowning intently down at them. She glances across at the jury, and thinks she can see some of the same puzzlement she feels reflected on a couple of their faces. It can only be a psychological game, she thinks. He’s trying to imply that her statement is irrelevant, contemptible. She has no doubt that he could attack her with all the savagery of a wolf tearing its prey if he chose, but he’s decided to save himself for something more worthwhile. In any case that’s what he wants the jury to think; she’s sure of it, and she feels defiance rise wilfully in her. She would like to defend herself.

  The judge looks at her blandly. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Miss Castelle, you are free to leave the courtroom.’

  Rachel thinks about protesting, but almost as soon as she considers it, a wave of exhaustion hits her. She needs to get out of this place. Stiffly, she turns and steps down from the witness box, begins to move towards the exit. It’s only now she is forcing herself to walk that she realizes how close she is to fainting, her head light and reeling with adrenaline.

  In the brief moment before she reaches that door, she glances back, and her eyes meet Sadie’s for the last time. There is no pretence now; Sadie is glaring at her with unadulterated hatred, her jaw set with fury, and as she sees her Rachel is gripped with guilt and sadness so great that she thinks she can hardly bear it. She wants to run over to her sister, throw her arms around her and bury her face in her cascade of dark blonde hair and say sorry. But she can’t, and she knows she shouldn’t want to.

  She turns away and pushes the door open. As she walks out of the courtroom, she cannot help but notice the total silence that she leaves behind. It reminds her, she thinks, of the moment’s tense anticipation in a crowded theatre at the end of a performance, when it is not yet clear whether the audience will erupt into jeering catcalls or rapturous applause.