by Sue Nicholls
‘In the other room, in the cupboard.’ Gloria does not move so Maurice rises slowly, pads out and returns with a whisky bottle.
‘Glasses?’
Gloria points and Maurice fetches three tumblers, the kind the children would drink squash from. They each take a slug of neat liquor. The harsh liquid jolts Gloria to life. ‘How are we goin’ to tell them?’
Mick raises his eyes from the honey coloured fluid at the bottom of his glass. ‘We just have to say it. Probably best to tell the school that they won’t be in for a while. We’ll do it together.’
Gloria looks at him with a feeble smile. ‘I’m so glad you said that Son. I don’t think I could do it on my own.’
Maurice is shaking his head slowly from side to side. ‘I can’t believe they’ve arrested Paul. That’s almost the worst bit. Kitty’s got no mum or dad to lean on. And no grandparents either.’
‘What about Paul’s parents, anyone know about them? Maurice looks from one to the other.
‘Moved away I think he said, but alive as far as I know.’ Mick shrugs his shoulders. ‘Poor little kid. She ought to be able to stay here with you Ma.’
Gloria’s face grows grim. ‘I’ll do everythin’ in my power to make sure she does. That little kiddy’s had enough upset without havin’ to leave her home again.’
‘You can’t bring up all the children on your own, though,’ Mick says and covers Glowia’s hand with his own.
‘Well you’ll just have to help me.’ The two men look at one another in silence.
Mick rotates his head on his neck to relieve tension. He stops, his eyes on the ceiling and says, ‘I don’t trust that Will. Bit of a coincidence him being Paul’s neighbour and ending up with Fee. Paul was incredibly angry when I told him I’d seen him.’
‘Paul came here to look at Fee’s phone.’ Gloria stands up. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’ She trots from the room and returns with the mobile device in her hand. ‘The battery’s flat.’
They plug in the charger and find Will’s number.
‘Well, we’ve got his number. Let’s see if he’s home. Maurice dials the number and listens to the ringtone. The others wait, watching him sipping their drinks.
‘This is Will Owen. I’m not available so please leave a message.’
‘Will Owen.’ Maurice runs his finger down the page of the directory. Yes, here he is. There’s an address in Chelterton.’
‘Did Fee say anything to you about his job, Gloria?’
‘Yes. She said he worked on the oil rigs.’
‘It says here, see also Max Rutherford, counsellor.’
***
After a lot of paperwork, bloody bureaucracy according to DI Bailey, and weeks of finger drumming, Bailey is delighted to have Paul delivered to Chelterton Police Station. Thank God there is an extradition treaty between the UK and Mauritius. He regards Paul’s familiar face across the table. He is not quite so cocky now. Caught in the act, the policeman thinks. He is not even trying to deny his guilt. The look on the Paul’s face is one familiar to Bailey, he calls it the ‘fair-cop-guvnor’ look. Villains get it when they realise there is no way out. When meticulous police investigation has left no room for doubt. This man murdered his ex-wife and most likely her house mates as well.
Bailey has already interviewed the suspect’s daughter, little Kitty, accompanied by the black carer, of course. The child said that her father had hidden behind the bushes opposite her house. Several cigarette butts bearing the man’s DNA have been recovered from the soil. A woman in Baker Avenue identified Paul’s picture as that of the man she saw on several occasions, mounting his motor bike outside her house, and once, coming out of the park.
Thomas has denied the rape of Mrs Roman, but Mr Rutherford’s records state that he admitted to the offence in their counselling sessions. They are still awaiting DNA evidence from the house. If semen samples are found, then Thomas is well and truly stuffed.
‘You were told not to leave the country, Mr Thomas.’ The suggestion of a triumphant smile plays on his lips.
‘Yeah, well I disobeyed. No law against that is there?’
‘Being difficult will do you no favours, especially when this goes to court, which I can assure you it will.’
‘If you say so.’ Anger and frustration make Paul’s voice almost inaudible, but Bailey resists the temptation to ask him to repeat his words.
There is a brisk knock at the door and a uniformed constable shows in Paul’s solicitor, the very woman who had been so impressed by Paul’s attendance at Max’s clinic.
‘I think my client has said enough for now Detective.’ The lawyer beams down at Paul. ‘He and I need to talk, while you decide whether you plan to charge him.’
***
In a bedroom in Crispin Road, Maurice curls his body round his children. He stares into the darkness and thinks about Twitch, and the way she died.
***
Gloria is hunched on the sofa. Kitty lies in her arms, sobbing, as she has done for most of the last 24 hours. Gloria does not know what the other children are doing but for now she does not care.
***
Mick walks along the hotel corridor to the night kitchen and sticks his head in. The young chef is engrossed in Playboy again.
‘What would your mother think?’ He jokes.
‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. She’s a pain, my Mum.’ The young chef glances up from his magazine.
‘Yeah. Mothers.’ Mick thinks of Gloria. Wouldn’t be without mine; she’s a star.’
‘Mm.’ The chef’s lanky legs stick out like clothes props from the chair and his eyes remain fixed on the images.
‘See ya.’ Mick calls as he leaves.
***
Max sits in his consulting room and stares into the flames. His receptionist went home hours ago, after weeping and wailing all over him for about half an hour. Alone at last he pulls some papers from his pocket and one by one, throws them into the fire. He watches as the edges glow and blacken until they are nothing but ash and soot.
COURT
Chapter 70
Posters offering legal advice, monetary support and counselling services move in and out of focus on the institutional grey of the wall in the room where Paul waits for his turn in the dock.
Elsewhere in the court building, witnesses for the defence and the prosecution lurk, awaiting their five minutes of fame: the bloke he hit in the chip shop, the druggie across the hall, the woman who witnessed him coming from the park, and of course Max.
For the defence, Maurice and Mick, people from work, Mr and Mrs Hun Po, Julie: Max’s receptionist, Penny, Max’s ex-girlfriend, Iris, the woman from work who gave him Max’s card, and Gloria. Not much of a show.
His solicitor has employed the services of a barrister, David Porterhouse. He is costing a fortune, but Paul has some hope that the man may be worth it. The bespectacled lawyer is tiny, possibly 4ft 3 or 4 at most, but what he lacks in stature is compensated for by the sharpness of his mind. As he questioned Paul and the solicitor before this case, Paul felt his confidence grow. Perhaps things would be all right. Now however, in this lonely room, his mind is playing negative tricks.
***
The public gallery is full. After the sensational press coverage, there is much curiosity.
‘All rise.’ The Clerk to the Court, a young woman in a dark grey suit and flat black pumps, stands to expose horizontal creases and shining mounds in the back of her snug skirt. The courtroom rises to its feet, and the Judge, Lord William Cannon, stalks onto a platform and moves to stand behind a chair at the centre of a dark-wood table. He faces the courtroom, his legs hidden from view, nods and sits. The room subsides and settles with a scraping of chairs, a low murmur of voices and rustling of papers.
The Clerk rises again and reads out the indictment that Paul pushed Fee to her death, then the lawyer for the prosecution, David Fitzsimons, steps forward. ‘My Lord, members of the jury.’
Seven women and five m
en sit upright in the jury box, their eyes following the gaunt, robed figure of the Prosecutor with avid attention.
‘We are here to show that Paul James Thomas of …’ He gives Paul’s new address, ‘Pushed his ex-wife, newly married to Mr Maximus James William Owen-Rutherford, from a clifftop in Mauritius, where she was enjoying her honeymoon.
‘I will show that Mr Thomas,’ he indicates Paul, sitting in his enclosure, ‘Has a violent temper, was obsessed with his ex-wife’s movements, and lied to his friends. Furthermore, I will demonstrate that he had the opportunity and the motive to murder her.
Paul pleads ‘Not Guilty’, and proceedings commence. After a few legal statements regarding facts that both parties agree, such as where the incident took place and who was present, the prosecutor calls his first witness.
‘State your name and address.’
‘Lee Duggan. Flat 26b, High Street, Longforth.’
‘And how do you know Mr Paul Thomas?’
‘He was my neighbour and he beat the shit out of me.’
David Porterhouse, the tiny but affable-looking Rottweiler for the defence, stands and leans towards the judge. ‘Objection my Lord.’
‘Sustained. Mr Duggan, kindly moderate your language.’
‘Sorry.’ Lee Duggan’s pallid face darkens to a deep plum colour.
The jury listens as Duggan describes how Paul broke down the door of his flat and threw his music player down the stairs, causing damage to it and the stair-well. How he had feared for his life and has been suffering from insomnia since the event.
When Fitzsimons has finished, David Porterhouse launches onto his feet to cross examine. ‘What were you doing, Mr Duggan, when the defendant broke down your door?’
‘I was playing music with me mate.’
‘Just sitting there, minding your own business, listening to a bit of music? The defence lawyer smiles, friendly, warm.
‘Yeah. Then this bloke comes barging in, all threats, and thumps me.’
‘I wonder, Mr Duggan, if you can explain why the walls and floor of Mr Thomas’s flat were vibrating so much that his little girl was unable to hear the television?’
Duggan shrugs, ‘Dunno.’
‘You don’t know? Could it have been because your music was turned up so high and despite being asked to turn it down, you turned the music back to full volume when Mr Thomas had returned to his flat next door?’
‘Might’ve. I can’t remember now.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Duggan, that is because you were, at the same time as “listening”,’ the barrister wiggles double fingers above both ears, ‘to the music, you were also using illegal drugs?’
David Porterhouse looks up at the Judge. ‘May I draw your attention to exhibits 3P and 4P, my Lord, the Lymchester Police report on the arrest of Mr Lee Duggan and the subsequent decision to drop charges against Mr Thomas.
Mr Duggan is dismissed, his humiliation complete.
Max’s casual good looks are strained, and his knuckles on the edge of the witness box are like eight pearls, gleaming in the fluorescent light. He faces the jury, and they stare back at him with expectant eyes.
‘Mr Owen, would you please tell us your relationship to the defendant, Paul Thomas?’
Max nods. ‘Of course. He was my client. He came to me for anger management and counselling after his wife left him.’
‘Thank you, Mr Owen-Rutherford. Now, on the subject of Mr Thomas’s ex-wife, is it true that you and she were married recently?’
‘Yes. Fee and I met quite by accident in a supermarket and struck up a conversation. It was only when I was talking to her in the coffee shop that it dawned on me that she might have been married to Paul. Then she gave me her business card and I was almost sure.’
‘Did you say anything to her about that?’
Max shrugs his shoulders, holding out his palms. ‘How could I? I would have been breaking client confidentiality. Anyway, it was a brief meeting, and I wasn’t sure at that time that things would progress. What would have been the point?
The barrister smiles and crosses to his table to pick up a sheaf of papers. He peruses the top one then out loud, intones, ‘Today Paul described a violent incident in a take-away shop.’ He looks up at the stand. ‘Is this a quote from your notes, Mr Owen-Rutherford?’
‘Max nods. ‘Yes. Paul told me that he had broken a man’s foot and kneed him in the testicles.’
‘Would you say that Mr Thomas is a danger to society, Mr Owen-Rutherford?’
David Porterhouse bounces to his feet. ‘Objection. Speculation.’
‘The judge cocks his head a few degrees. ‘I’ll allow it as Mr Owen-Rutherford could be viewed as an expert witness.’
Porterhouse raises his eyebrows. ‘May I remind My Lord that Mr Owen-Rutherford is also the only witness to the actual crime under examination in this court?’
The judge’s head tilts a few more degrees and his jaw muscles clench as he glares at David Porterhouse. ‘Thank you, Mr Porterhouse.’ He swivels his eyes across the jury, then on to Counsel for the prosecution. ‘Objection sustained. Please choose another route of questioning, Mr Fitzsimons.’
‘Very well My Lord.
‘Mr Owen-Rutherford, is this also from your notes?’ He holds the sheets of paper high in front of his face like a script and declaims, ‘Paul told me that he has committed a rape.’ On the word rape, Fitzsimons slaps the back of his hand on the papers and fixes his eyes on Max.
There is a murmur from the public gallery and some press members hunch their bodies to write.
‘Max looks at the jury and raises his voice a little. ‘Yes. Those are my notes. Paul came to me in some distress after he had forced himself onto one of my wife’s housemates. This was before Fee, my wife, and I were married.’ Max drops his eyes and digs into his pocket for a handkerchief.
‘Would you like a glass of water, Mr Owen-Rutherford?’
Max nods and wipes his eyes.
David Porterhouse, Paul’s Barrister, adjusts his glasses and advances on the witness stand to cross examine Max, who stands with his eyes drifting in blank dispassion over the courtroom.
‘Mr Rutherford, or should I call you Mr Owen?’
Max’s mouth forms a smile. ‘Either will do. My name is Owen-Rutherford.’
‘But you made a point of using a different name with your late wife, from the one you assumed with Mr Thomas when he came to you for help. Is that not so?’
‘My business cards say Max Rutherford. My whole name is a bit of a mouthful, so I tend to use Max. When I found that Fee was married to Paul, I’m afraid I was a bit disingenuous. It wasn’t ethical to have a relationship with her, given that her husband at the time was a client, so I used the name Will.’
The lawyer stares hard at the witness, and Max looks straight back.
‘But you told her eventually?’ Porterhouse puts his hands behind his back and raises his eyebrows.
‘No. I didn’t tell her. She never knew about Paul’s visits to me. I’m not that unscrupulous.’
‘Well, you were unscrupulous enough to get her to sign forms without her knowledge and obtain a consent to marriage without her permission.’
Max gives another small smile. ‘Yes, I admit I did that. I was trying to surprise her. I was desperate to marry her.’
‘Desperate, why? If she wasn’t ready, surely it would have been kinder to wait until she didn’t feel pushed into a corner.’
‘I knew she wanted to marry me. She was just afraid of the commitment.’ Max nods, an expression of absolute certainty on his face.
The lawyer dips his head and consults his notes. ‘Going back to your meeting with Fee. You say you knew she was Mr Thomas’s wife on the day that you met her.’
‘We bumped into each other in the supermarket. I asked her for a coffee. I didn’t realise at first, then she handed me her business card and the penny dropped.
‘And is it true that you told her you worked on the oil rigs, on shift work?’
Max’s features stiffen and he swallows. ‘Yes. That is true. The fact is, I had another girlfriend at the time, and I wanted to spend time with her too. No point in complicating things until I was sure of my feelings.’
‘It seems extremely complicated to lie so completely about your profession. Why not simply tell the truth about your circumstances.’
Max’s upper lip pushes out almost imperceptibly and the inner ends of his eyebrows draw up. ‘I wish I had. If I’d been more honest with them both then she might be alive today.’
‘By “them both”, I assume you mean Mr Thomas and your wife.’
‘Yes.’ Max drops his head and squeezes his eyes closed. ‘I wove a very tangled web.’
‘In fact, Mr Owen-Rutherford, it would be true to say that you are a complete liar.’
The barrister for the defence picks up the exhibit envelope containing Max’s notes about Paul. He directs a chill stare at Max. ‘There is no proof that you wrote these notes at the time you say you did. Isn’t it perfectly possible that you wrote them recently to destroy my client’s reputation?’
‘I certainly did write them at the time.’
‘And then you murdered your wife.’ The barrister glares up at Max, in the witness box. ‘You pushed her off that cliff and tried to blame Mr Thomas.’
Philip Fitzsimons’ voice rings through the court room. ‘Ob-jection!’
Judge William Cannon leans over his table and regards the lawyer for the defence. ‘May we know where this line of questioning is heading, Mr Porterhouse?’
‘Sorry, My Lord. It goes to throwing doubt on the balance of the police investigation.
‘I’ll allow it then but please get to the point.’
Max leans over the barrier in front of the witness box. ‘Why would I do that? I loved her.’ Max points his finger at Paul. ‘He’s the one with anger issues. He’s the one who pushed her over the cliff after thumping people on two separate occ…’
The Judge snaps, ‘That’s enough Mr Owen-Rutherford. Kindly answer only the questions you are asked.’
Porterhouse turns his back on Max and strolls towards the jury. They stare back at him, transfixed. When he reaches the barrier, he swings round and calls across the court, ‘Tell me what you know about Mrs Sabrina Roman.’