by Ros Carne
Digger changed tack. ‘Can you describe Miss Baker’s character? What sort of person is she?’
Isabel glanced quickly at Natasha, sitting behind the CPS representative.
‘A nice person. Organised. Helpful. She cleaned my house, took me out. She gave me a new interest. I was becoming fond of her.’
‘Yet you have told us that your daughter found Miss Baker difficult.’
This was safer ground. But the reply was a shock.
‘Melanie finds lots of people difficult. Lots of people find Melanie difficult.’
‘In what way do they find her difficult?’
Judge McDermid intervened again. ‘Mr Diggory-Brown, Mrs Goddard cannot give evidence as to what other people might think or feel.’
‘My apology, Your Honour. I’ll rephrase that. In your experience as a mother, Mrs Goddard, is there anything you have seen by way of behaviour in your daughter that you would call difficult.’
‘She can be touchy, hot-tempered, opinionated. I suppose we all can.’
‘Mrs Goddard, I will ask you for the second time, have you ever witnessed your daughter being physically violent?’
‘I prefer not to answer that.’
Judge McDermid spoke. ‘Mrs Goddard, you cannot be forced to answer a question. But you should be aware that the jury may draw an inference from your silence.’
‘I understand.’
‘Your Honour, I have no further questions.’
An usher walked to the witness box with a fresh carafe of water. The judge asked, ‘Mrs Goddard, would you like to sit down to give your evidence?’
‘That’s very kind, Your Honour, but no, I prefer to remain standing.’
When the Isabel’s examination was completed Alisha asked permission to speak to her client.
‘So Jacob’s in it now. How do you want me to deal with it?’
‘Don’t challenge her,’ said Mel. ‘I’ll sort it.’ Though she had no idea how.
Alisha went through Isabel’s first meeting with Natasha, the new friendship, the shared interest in fashion and jewellery.
‘In a short time you grew very fond of Miss Baker, didn’t you?’
‘That’s true.’
Then she turned to Isabel’s relationship with her daughter. Whatever she asked there would be risk.
‘Mrs Goddard, you have never witnessed your daughter being physically violent, have you?’
Isabel looked at Mel and then back to Alisha. ‘She was a rough little thing at school. Scrapping in the playground. Once she bit another child.’
‘And as an adult?’
Mel felt herself trembling. Could the jury see her hands gripping the ledge in front of her? Why hadn’t Alisha checked with her client first? The fundamental rule of advocacy. Alisha had asked a question to which she did not know the answer, going way beyond what they had agreed at the conference.
What Isabel said next was so unexpected Mel almost laughed.
‘I had a little cat. Peanuts. One day he tried to jump on Melanie’s lap. I’ll never forget it. She hurled him to the floor. If that wasn’t violence, I don’t know what was.’
Out of the corner of her eye Mel could see two of the jury members smiling. One woman looked upset.
‘Any other time?’
‘Yes. Melanie was at my house. Worrying about her work as usual. She found it very stressful. I remember darling Peanuts slinking up beside her. She kicked him away across the floor. Dreadful behaviour. I told her to leave the house. We didn’t speak for weeks after that.’
Now the jury really would hate her. Hurling herself at a pregnant woman was bad enough. But kicking a defenceless cat would be unforgiveable. Alisha moved on to the defence case.
‘Returning to the day in question, the prosecution say that your daughter pushed Miss Baker against the dressing table.’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘You saw Miss Baker fall.’
‘I did. She went flying.’
‘But you don’t know why she fell?’
‘No.’
‘You saw a scuffle.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you did not, at any time, see your daughter push Miss Baker?’
Isabel paused. The pause felt very long. Mel’s heart was banging in her chest. Her mother had presented her as heartless, cruel and violent. Would she lie for her now?
‘No. I didn’t.’
Isabel stepped from the witness box and walked slowly towards the public seats, exhausted by her efforts, avoiding the eyes of her daughter. Mel’s heart was still pounding. That bloody cat. The jury would hate her. But as Isabel turned towards the almost empty benches of the public gallery it occurred to her that Alisha had played a clever game. She had allowed Isabel to become a credible witness. Most mothers would support their daughter. But a mother who had issues with her daughter would be less likely to do so. Isabel had written her own script and acted her own part. It had been a brilliant performance.
Bail was refused over lunch. Mel was offered a sandwich on a tray in the cell behind the dock. The dock officer held onto her phone, bringing her yesterday’s Metro to read. She asked for a pencil and for half an hour she succeeded in blocking out the world with a Sudoku. Her heart had grown quieter though the weight was still there. In this second day she was beginning to feel more detached. Trial by jury was a form of theatre and she was still offstage. There was nothing she could do to change anyone else’s part and she had already learnt her own.
For months she had thought of little but of how she was to get off this charge. Now, as she set aside her Sudoku, a new awareness was surfacing. Beside the instinct for self-preservation was another instinct, equally solid, equally powerful. It was the desire that the jury, here to administer justice, should know what Natasha was really like.
Luke Gearing was next on the stand. After sitting transfixed through Isabel’s account, the members of the jury now gave their full attention to the young man with the film-star looks. What he said concurred closely with what they had already heard from Natasha. He had been at home when Miss Goddard brought Natasha back from the hospital. Natasha had been woozy at first and slept. But the following day she was more alert and had told him everything. His speech was hesitant, and though the words were well chosen and articulate, the voice seemed to come from elsewhere. At times it shook and wavered in pitch, there was even an occasional stammer. He repeated Natasha’s story almost word for word.
Alisha got nowhere in cross-examination.
It was 3:45 p.m. Mel was preparing to give evidence herself when Digger addressed the judge.
‘Your Honour, allegations concerning the defendant’s son, Jacob Villiers, have been made in court this afternoon by our witness, Mrs Isabel Goddard.’
‘I think I know what’s coming next, Mr Diggory-Brown.’ The judge who had been tapping notes on his laptop looked down over his spectacles.
‘The allegations were not included in Mrs Goddard’s statement and were therefore unexpected. With Your Honour’s permission I should like to recall our principal witness Miss Natasha Baker.’
‘And how long will that take?’ McDermid sounded weary.
‘No more than fifteen minutes, Your Honour.’
‘Very well.’
Natasha, who had been sitting behind the prosecution team, was recalled and sworn in again. As she placed her hand on the New Testament she gazed towards the high window of the courtroom. More theatre, thought Mel. When it came to her own evidence she would affirm.
‘Miss Baker, immediately prior to the assault in Mrs Goddard’s spare room, did you mention the defendant’s son, Jacob?’
‘Briefly, yes.’
‘In what context?’
‘I was telling the defendant I enjoyed meeting him. He was with Mel at the Dulwich Picture Gallery when we met for a coffee a couple of weeks previously.’
‘Why did you mention him?’
‘I wanted to find out if he was OK. He and I went off to buy the c
offees and he just ran off. It was a bit odd.’
‘Did you tell her he was a good-looking boy?’
‘Not on that occasion.’
‘So did you say he was good-looking on some other occasion?’
‘It’s possible. Weeks before. When she showed me a photo of her son.’
‘Mrs Goddard suggested you had an interest in him, that you found him attractive.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I was just being friendly.’
‘So, if I can take you back to the moment in the bedroom. How did Miss Goddard react to your query about her son?’
‘She went berserk. Like I’d been trying to seduce him. Totally over the top. But I told you. She’s like that. Prickly. Paranoid I’d say.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this in your evidence before, Miss Baker?’
‘To be honest I didn’t want to upset his grandmother. Anyway, it didn’t seem important. I’m used to Mel overreacting. She does it all the time. What really tipped her over the edge was me mentioning Paul Freedman. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. But when she called me a cheat and a liar I was furious. It was so unjust.’
‘Thank you, Miss Baker. If you would stay there, Miss Mehta may have some questions for you.’
Alisha obtained permission to take instructions.
‘I’ll have to challenge her,’ she told Mel once the door of the dock was shut behind her.
‘I’ve already told you I don’t want Jacob brought into this.’
‘I’ll need to contest what she said about your reaction. As for the allegations in detail…’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘OK. We’ll keep it low key.’
Natasha was waiting in the witness box, looking bored.
‘Miss Baker, I have two points to put to you. My first is this. You have stated that Miss Goddard was upset by the mention of her son and later by the mention of Mr Freedman.’
‘More than upset. She was out of control.’
‘That’s not correct, is it, Miss Baker?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Throughout your confrontation in the bedroom, Miss Goddard remained calm.’
Natasha started to laugh.
‘Answer the question, Miss Baker,’ insisted McDermid.
‘With respect, Your Honour, it’s not a question. She’s just said something which is wrong. It’s so wrong it’s laughable.’
McDermid simply raised his eyebrows, indicating Alisha should continue.
‘In fact Miss Goddard accused you of deception and that is what sparked you to rush towards her and fall.’
‘Bullshit. Apologies, Your Honour.’
Alisha sat down. There was no re-examination.
When the jury was dismissed Mel was granted bail. She stepped out of the dock to where Alisha was waiting.
‘Don’t worry, Alisha. I understand your difficulty.’
‘It could go either way. There’s a lot under the carpet here. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Without waiting for an answer, Alisha pulled off her wig and left the court room.
The room was emptying but as the backs of spectators moved towards the door Mel spotted Georgie heading towards her. When close he opened his arms and for a few seconds she rested her head against his shoulder.
‘Want to talk about it?’ he murmured.
‘I prefer not to, Georgie,’ she said, pulling back. They set off together for the exit.
‘I get that.’
‘But thanks for being here.’
They walked in silence to the front of the court building. One of the assistants from the Witness Service was helping Isabel into a taxi. A relief. If she wasn’t prepared to speak to Alisha or Georgie, she certainly wasn’t ready to face her mother.
Chapter Forty-five
Mel
Back home, Mel threw off her clothes and fell into a hot bath with a glass of Merlot for company. Never had wine tasted so good. The day’s evidence swirled in her head. She imagined the scene tomorrow, spiralling into the horror of a guilty verdict. McDermid would delay sentence. Alisha would ask for reports. More waiting. Swigging back the wine, she wondered whether prison might be better than a suspended sentence. She could continue to protest her innocence, write a bestselling book on conditions inside. It would change her life but that might be no bad thing. Someone, somewhere, would employ her when she came out. She might become a cleaner, long quiet days, dusting and vacuuming the houses of the rich, free to think, dream, perhaps even feel remorse.
Jacob would move in with Claude’s gang. He would survive, might even thrive away from the claustrophobia of the mother-son connection, though she would have to lie to him for the rest of her life. Whatever happened she would have to lie.
She took another swig, luxuriating in the deep, scented warmth of the water. No baths, no wine in prison. But as she turned on the tap for more blistering heat against her skin, she dreamt of a different touch, one she had not known since that painful afternoon in Barnes last summer. She and Paul had once seemed perfect, wrapped in their cocoon of private delight, untainted by the fevers of the world. Finally, the world had clattered down upon them, as it had always threatened to do.
She stepped out, reached for her towel, conscious of the sway of her buttocks, the spread of her hips which she had always thought too wide, the breasts which she had thought too large, but which had shrunk in the sixteen years since she had fed Jacob. Now that they were no longer of use to anyone, they were beginning to feel about right. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, examining her reflection. The gloss of youth was long gone. How cruel that in all those years of obsessive male attention, only Claude had touched her heart. Claude who had never truly wanted her. And now, as male attention faltered, the longing for connection had grown, the need for physical contact at times unbearable.
She rubbed herself dry. The longing became an ache. Would she ever love or be loved again?
Jacob was preparing her dinner. It was his friend Don’s birthday, but he had chosen to stay in to cook for his mother on what might be her last night at home. Neither had mentioned the possibility that she could be locked away.
As the wine swam down her gullet, she saw again Paul’s angular features. His grey blue eyes looked sad, and his skin had the pallor of a man who had spent too much time hunched over his books and computer. She pictured his long hands with the heavily jointed fingers. As she yanked up her trousers, smelling the garlic, onions and tomato wafting through from the kitchen, she could feel those hands running across her waist, over her hips and buttocks. No, she wouldn’t see him again.
Jacob’s voice rang out down the corridor.
‘Mum!’
‘Five minutes,’ she replied.
They had barely spoken since she got back from court and she longed to hug him for his kindness in staying home for her, cooking for her. But hugs with Jacob were still awkward, still self-conscious. He was struggling. He needed space and time. If only she had the time.
She was finishing dressing when, in her mind, she heard again Paul’s name, sounded out in court for all to hear. As she tugged a comb through her wet, tangled hair she felt the familiar hot surge of anger: at Natasha, at Paul, even, it now seemed, at herself. And there was something else, another less familiar emotion. For years she had seen herself as an innocent party. It was Paul who had betrayed his wife. Mel had betrayed no one. But as she waved the dryer around her damp hair a persistent inner voice was telling her otherwise. Mel had been complicit in the deception. Natasha might be a bitch and a troublemaker, but she had told the truth about Paul. There was a sour edge to Mel’s anger. It felt more like shame. The jury would know Mel as a woman who was prepared to lie. She ran a comb through her hair, looked in the mirror then quickly looked away.
‘Are you coming?’ called Jacob.
‘Coming,’ she said.
She picked up her empty glass and walked through to the kitchen, praying this would not be t
heir last night together.
Chapter Forty-six
Mel
Light flickered around her curtains. She showered and put on the short-sleeved brown dress and jacket she had worn for the last three days, the only smart outfit she had that was not barrister gear. Foundation, lipstick, eye-liner, mascara. Make-up would help her face her accuser.
At breakfast Jacob was taut and taciturn. He was off to college, but they had agreed that he would try to get to court in the afternoon. Mel forced down two slices of toast and they both had large strong coffees. Everything would be fine, she told him. She would see him later.
* * *
In the witness box, Alisha let her take wing and she told the story she had rehearsed so often in her head. When Digger pounced, she was ready with that surge of energy that arises on the brink of disaster.
‘There was a degree of professional jealousy in your attitude to Miss Baker?’
‘Not at all. I was pleased she picked up work so quickly.’
‘Surprised too?’
‘A little. It’s unusual to get that much work in your second six.’
‘On one occasion she took one of your returns after you had been the victim of a mugging?’
‘That’s true too.’
‘You were suffering from a degree of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.’
‘I was pretty shaken up. Anyone would be. I was never diagnosed.’
Judge McDermid intervened. ‘Mr Diggory-Brown, no expert evidence has been adduced attesting to Miss Goddard’s psychological state.’
‘Apologies, Your Honour. I’ll rephrase the question. After the assault you took a week off work.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And when you returned, you found, to your surprise, that Miss Baker already had the beginnings of an independent practice.’
‘You can do better than that, Digger,’ said Mel.
To her amazement, Digger looked flustered, two members of the jury tittered and there was no intervention from the judge.
When it came to the nub of the narrative, the afternoon in Isabel’s house, she was well rehearsed. ‘I don’t deny there was irritation, even antagonism between us. I was uneasy about this new friendship.’