“And you had no knowledge that when you went to work for Abigail Hudson, who was then Abigail James, that she was involved with Taylor Hudson?” Emelia clarifies.
“That’s correct,” Hannah says as her eyes begin to dart around the room, finally settling on a person sitting behind the Defence’s table. I had been so focused on Hannah that I hadn’t even noticed Richard slip into the room.
“And, just to clarify…Once you faked your own death, you had no further communication with Taylor’s brother, Richard Hudson. Is that correct?” I watch Richard’s body language and while his posture makes him seem relaxed the fingers gripping the edge of his seat and his white knuckles tell another story.
“That’s correct,” Hannah responds as she sits up a little straighter in her chair.
“Your Honour, we have proof that every statement the defendant has just given is, in fact, a lie.” I can hear murmurs from the Defence, but Emelia continues on regardless. “We have a number of letters written by the defendant to Richard Hudson that were discovered last week that we would like to enter into evidence. We apologise for the lateness of this, your Honour, but we wanted to verify that these letters were, in fact, written by the defendant herself and had to wait for various tests to be carried out.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge responds and I see Hannah going pale. I notice a couple of the jurors shifting in their seats, leaning forward as their curiosity is piqued.
“Let’s begin with the first letter shall we, Miss Fisher, as that is always a good place to start.” A large screen has been brought in and put up with the first letter is currently being projected onto it. Meticulously Emelia goes through each and every letter, poking more and more holes in Hannah’s story until her answers are coming out barely above a whisper and the judge has to remind her to speak up. Richard is watching with barely-suppressed rage and when the final letter is shown I hear a collective gasp from the jury as they read the words highlighted on the screen:
That Abigail James thinks she is all that, but I know better. She is trying to trap Taylor into marrying her with that baby and I can’t let her do that. You know as well as I do that Taylor is ours. He belongs to us and I will not let her or that evil spawn live if it’s the last thing I ever do!
It’s at the moment that I see the realisation dawn on Hannah’s face that there is no denying anything. “So I put it to you, Miss Fisher, that on the night of the twenty-eighth of November last year you deliberately broke into Abigail Hudson’s flat with the intention of killing her and her baby as a result of your unhealthy fixation on Taylor Hudson.” Emilia’s words come out as a statement rather than a question as the evidence builds overwhelmingly in our favour.
I watch the internal struggle as Hannah looks back and forth between her Defence team, who are calling out their objections, and Richard. Then, without warning, she suddenly explodes. “That bitch!” she yells, pointing her finger at me. “That bitch stole Taylor from me and there was no way I was going to let him marry her. She had to die and if I had the chance again I would damn well make sure I did it properly this time!”
Taylor and I sit there, our frames rigid, as the courtroom explodes around us and the Defence try to suppress Hannah’s last statement before the judge has to call for order. Looking over at the jurors I can see that they are as surprised by Hannah’s outburst as anyone.
“She did it,” Taylor murmurs into my ear and I suddenly feel sorry for ever doubting Emelia as she returns to her seat with a smug smile on her face. Hannah’s barrister gets up looking very unsure of himself as he tries to rescue the situation. But nothing he says makes a difference and it is clear from the faces of the jury that she no longer has their support.
When it is apparent that nothing is going to rescue the situation, the judge finally suggests finishing for the day. As the court is adjourned, I watch as Richard quickly slips towards the door at the back of the room, his eyes darting around as he seeks his escape. Suddenly there is a commotion and, as Taylor and I peer around, we see Detective Stanton standing at the entrance to the courtroom with a group of burly policemen handcuffing Richard and reading him his rights. The press have converged on the group, questions being shouted at the detective from every direction and it takes a moment for quiet to descend.
“This is the only statement we will be issuing at this time,” the detective says. “Due to the evidence that has been presented today we have arrested Richard Hudson as an accessory to the attempted murder of Abigail Hudson. He will now be remanded into custody as we build the case against him. Any further questions will need to be directed to his legal representation. Thank you.” With that, it is clear that Detective Stanton is finished and she begins to walk off, but not before she looks back at Taylor and me standing there in shock and gives us a discreet wink.
“Holy crap,” I say. “Did that just happen?” I ask Taylor quietly.
“I think it did,” Taylor responds. “Either that or you and I are having the same dream. Let’s go home,” Taylor suggests.
I nod my head and then suddenly I have a thought, “Shit, what about the reporters? They are going to mob us when we walk out of here.”
“I think that’s covered,” Taylor says nodding at Henry and Ben, who have just turned up with several guys and I let out a sigh of relief.
“Come on, let’s go home,” I say, repeating Taylor’s words back at him as the guys form a protective circle around us before leading us out of the front doors through a haze of flashing lights and questions.
The Twenty-Fifth
“So the last time I saw you, Abby, I asked you to think about what makes you happy. I know you have had a lot going on but I wanted to see if you had had any thoughts on your task.”
I look at David and truthfully I want to smack him. “To be perfectly honest, David, it hasn’t exactly been high on my priority list. Seriously at this point I would just settle for Richard and Hannah locked up very far away from me. But I know that isn’t the answer you are looking for.”
“I know things are tough for you at the moment, Abby. But in a couple of weeks all of this is going to be over, no matter what the verdict is. And you are going to be asking yourself these questions. You are always so focused on making everyone else happy that you need to start thinking about what you find fulfilling.” David sits there tapping his pen irritatingly on his notepad.
I let out a sigh. “I like making people happy. It makes me happy. There is nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Well, not if you are benefitting from it, that’s true.” David pauses for a moment, a look of intense contemplation on his face.
I take a moment to get my mind in order before trying to explain my thought process. “These mums came into the café because Stix, Taylor’s sister, had read to their kids the previous week and they enjoyed it so much that they came back. One of the mums asked about us doing it more so I have implemented a couple of sessions each week. They are happy and spending money in the café so that makes me happy. I had loads of ideas for craft workshops and pensioner afternoons and stuff like that when we first opened that I never got around to implementing so I am now working on that.”
“And will you be involved in any of those sessions yourself?” David asks, but I am not sure what he is getting at.
“Well no, I don’t really have the skills for that so I have some people coming in to run them for me,” I respond.
“Which is an excellent business move, Abby. But not exactly fulfilling for you once it is up and running.”
“What are getting at, David?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intended, but my brain is just so tired of trying to work things out. “I know you want me to get to this grand realisation all by myself but please just tell me what you think I need to hear because, frankly, I am just so damn sick of it all.” I instantly regret losing my temper and even David looks at me slightly alarmed. I have never lost my temper in all the time I have been attending these sessions and I suddenly feel ashame
d that I have taken my frustration out on him.
“Abby, you love helping people. I’ve watched you when you’ve been teaching your workshops here and by the end you are literally beaming from ear to ear. I know you love the café and the bakery, and I can see how passionate you are about its success. But I can also see that being a manager is not enough for you. You want to get stuck in but since you have such a great team who are perfectly competent you are forced to the sidelines and stuck instead with all the boring administrative stuff.” Bloody hell. It is like David just looked inside my brain and pulled out all the feelings I would never have the guts to admit to.
“Abby, I am not trying to make your life harder. I want you to be happy, but the only way I can see that happening is if you are actively involved in something, more than just signing paperwork and making phone calls.” I let out a sigh. I know David is right. But the million dollar question is be involved in what? “I am not trying to pressurize you, Abby, but you need to start thinking about this, even if it is just something for the future. Okay?” I look into David’s eyes and can see he just wants to help me.
“Okay,” I say softly, looking up at the clock, grateful that I only have five more minutes until the end of the session. It also doesn’t help that I desperately need to pee, which is making me especially crabby; nothing like a baby sitting on your bladder to put things into perspective.
“Look why don’t we finish up here for today and we can catch up next week with any thoughts you might have.”
I spend the rest of the day mulling things over. I totally get what David was saying, but I haven’t got a clue where to start. I mean, yeah, I love doing the baking workshops, but it was like he was implying that I should carry on doing it. I am not a qualified teacher and I while I know that I have been doing a great job with the workshops, I have been doing them more as a favour, a way of paying the clinic back for the care they took with me. Doing it professionally, well that would be a whole different ballgame. I would need some training and surely I would need somewhere to do it?
On and on the thoughts swirl around my head until I have a headache of mammoth proportions. Eventually, I leave Stix immersed an epic mini-series marathon of Tess and make my way to my bedroom where, despite the early hour, I fall fast asleep.
The Twenty-Sixth
“You look like crap, darling,” my mum says, not mincing her words as she surveys my appearance.
“Thanks. I love you too,” I mumble back as I let my mum in the front door. She follows me up the stairs and I am conscious that, despite the fact that it is gone ten in the morning, I am still in my pyjamas.
“Seriously, darling,” she says as I lead her towards the kitchen, “You have great big bags under your eyes and you look like you have barely slept in days.”
“I was asleep by seven yesterday but then after midnight Bean decided to start doing her acrobatics. I was up every hour to pee so I am knackered, Mum.” I let out a sigh as I pop the kettle on, pulling down some china mugs and getting out the teapot.
“Have you been taking your vitamins?” Mum asks looking concerned.
“Like clockwork,” I respond. “I just can’t seem to get my mind to wind down either so even when I am asleep I just keep having the weirdest of dreams.”
“Oh sweetheart, isn’t it any wonder? With the trial and being pregnant and running a business, no wonder your subconscious is bugging you. You need a break and I have the perfect thing up my sleeve.” Mum says as she begins tapping something into her phone.
“I seem to be permanently ‘on a break’, Mum. All I seem to handle these days is doing the paperwork for the café and bakery; Bea and Andreas take care of all the day-to-day stuff. I don’t even do any baking now that Kirri and Billy have proved that they can handle themselves.” I let out a sigh, knowing that I sound bitter.
Mum looks at me with a knowing smile. “The only reason Billy and Kirri are so good is because you spent all those hours training them. Yes, they had the basics but you took that talent and shaped it into what they are today. And look at the girls in the café…you have a knack for finding talented people and getting the best out of them.”
I consider Mum’s words as I pour the boiled water into the teapot. “I know Mum. I guess I am just starting to feel a little…redundant. David, well, he’s been trying to get me to think about what makes me happy. At first I thought he was getting at me because when other people are happy it makes me happy and he was all like ‘you can’t let what other people think of you define your self-worth blah blah blah’. But what he was actually getting at was making me realise that as much as I love the café and bakery, since I am no longer involved day-to-day it is not making me as happy as it should. And he says I need to be doing something that makes me happy…” I trail off looking at my mum wondering whether she might provide some answers.
As the tea draws, I load up a tray with the pot, cups, milk and some dark chocolate and ginger biscuits that I made this morning. “I love it in here,” Mum sighs as we settle into the wicker chairs in the little garden room.
“Me too. It always smells so good in here and I love just staring up at the sky,” I say softly as I begin to pour out the tea. We nibble on the cookies as we sit in silence for a while, appreciating the beauty of the setting. I have several of the windows open so there is a warm breeze blowing through the room along with the squaw of the gulls over our heads.
“I get where David is coming from, Abby. But I think you also need to remember you have a lot on your plate right now. You have had all this stress with the trial. You are seven months pregnant. And no matter how little or how much you are involved in the day-to-day operations, you are still running your own business and dealing with everything that entails. You are busier than most people are on a regular day; you are up with the lark and I doubt you are ever in bed much before midnight. And now you are not sleeping properly. You can’t carry on at this pace, something has to give.” Mum looks at me and I can’t help but wonder from the hesitant expression on her face whether she thinks that maybe I am going to yell at her.
“I had this idea,” I say cautiously, hoping to get my mum on board with my plan. “David kept going back to how happy I seem when I teach and I thought maybe that is something I should consider.”
“What do you mean, sweetie?” asks my mum as she looks at me curiously.
“Well, I have been setting up these reading sessions and craft workshops, but what if I expanded it and ran some baking classes? Maybe some classes for kids. They could do the prep in the café and then their stuff could be baked in the kitchen, that way we don’t have to stress about health and safety. I need to look into it more, but that could be fun, right?” I ask with trepidation in my voice.
“Oh darling, if that is something you want to do then go for it. It sounds great and I think you would be brilliant with kids. I was suddenly worried you were going to announce that you wanted to open your own culinary school.”
I let out a laugh; my mother knows me too well. “Hmm, well, that did cross my mind for about a minute but I figured with Bean on the way a whole new venture would be a step too far. I think this is what I need to find some more balance. And the beauty is that we focus on holiday times, or after school, so it wouldn’t be like it is something we would do every day. That means it would be more flexible for when Bean arrives. I even thought I could do some baking masterclasses for adults in the evenings, like maybe once a month or something.”
“I can see your mind whirring, Abby. One step at a time,” Mum warns affectionately though I can see she is not scolding me from the smile on her face.
“Yes, Mum.,” I say mock-saluting her. But I understand where she is coming from; I do tend to throw myself into things wholeheartedly and as much as I want to run with this full-pelt I know that there is only so much that I can do. At the end of the day, my priority is Bean and her wellbeing and there is no way I am going to risk that just so that I can teach people to bake.
“Hi, I’m Victoria,” a gorgeous brunette with kind eyes says when I open the door. “You must be Abby.”
“Um, yes,” I say, wondering what on earth is going on as I eye the great big bag she is carrying and the fact that she seems to be wearing some kind of therapist’s uniform.
“Your mum messaged me,” she says and suddenly everything becomes clear.
“Come on in,” I say in a friendly voice before yelling up the stairs. “Mum, why are you dragging poor girls out to my doorstep?”
My mum appears at the top of the stairs and looks down at me, “Oh for heaven’s sakes, Abby. Stop yelling. This is your surprise,” she says sweeping her hand across to the girl standing quietly in the doorframe. “This is Victoria. She always comes away with us when we do our shoots abroad; she is the only one I trust with my skin and you know how I am about that,” Mum says giving me a look. “Plus she gives the most incredible massages so I told her about you and thought that she could give you a bit of a pampering session today.”
I love my mother to bits and her gesture is so incredibly kind, but I rather wish she would have given me a little bit of warning so I could have actually washed my hair or shaved my legs or something so that I don’t feel like the sloth I am currently am. “That sounds lovely, Mum,” I say through slightly gritted teeth before turning to Victoria. “Come on up but please excuse the chaos,” I say thinking about the fact that I didn’t get around to tidying up this morning.
Book Three: Thirty Days, Book 3 Page 14