‘Susie,’ said Willow unhappily. ‘However much Terry may have convinced himself that no one would believe her, it’d be all too easy for him to change his mind. Don’t you think he might decide that it would be better if she weren’t around to answer any questions?’
‘Possibly.’
‘And it would be horribly easy for him to dispose of her. He’s only got to ring and say he’s got a job and a flat and she’s to take the first train or bus. She’d go like a flash, probably without leaving any word for her apparently terrifying mother. He could do whatever he wanted to her with no one any the wiser.’
‘Would she go? After he frightened her so much and hit her and nearly raped her?’
‘Yes,’ said Willow sadly. ‘I think she might. After all, he didn’t quite rape her and he’s the only person who’s ever seemed to her to love her. She’s got no job, nothing to make her feel good about herself. She’s more scared of her mother than she ever was of Terry. Damn it! I can see I’m going to have to wheel in Tom.’
Jag looked at her enquiringly, but she said nothing and he was either too wise or too tactful to ask what she meant. They parted in London with much more respect for each other than Willow would have expected. She even invited Jag to go back to the Mews with her for some dinner, but he said he thought he would rather pick up the bike and get back to St Albans, and besides, he had added with a smile of great sweetness, he wanted to see Emma.
‘Give her my love,’ said Willow.
‘Sure. G’night.’
Willow waved goodbye and went out of the station to find a taxi.
Tom had not returned by the time she got back to the Mews, but Mrs Rusham and Lucinda were both there in endearingly high spirits. It turned out that they had been cooking together. The thought of Mrs Rusham’s putting up with anyone else in her kitchen, particularly a messy baby, was extraordinary.
‘What did you cook?’ Willow asked.
‘Bisdits,’ said Lucinda with great satisfaction. ‘Choc’late bisdits.’
‘And saffron fish stew for your dinner,’ added Mrs Rusham more calmly. ‘It will need gentle heating for about twenty minutes when you’re ready.’
‘Fine. It sounds delicious. I’d better take this creature up for her bath, hadn’t I? Coming, Lulu?’
They went upstairs and were still romping wetly when Tom eventually returned. He seemed to notice the difference in Willow instantly because his expression changed from guarded courtesy to his familiar warm humour, but he did not say anything. When they had finished washing and drying Lucinda, and read her story, they went downstairs. Willow took two chairs out into the minute courtyard garden, while Tom went to fetch some wine. He returned with a bottle of champagne.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Willow. ‘Are we celebrating?’
‘I think so,’ he said, grinning at her over the gold foil top. ‘After all you’ve got over your rage, haven’t you?’
‘Not so much got over,’ she said, ‘as understood more about both sides of it I—’
‘Don’t say it. There isn’t any need and it’s better left.’
Watching him, she realised that the only penance he was going to allow her to offer for her anger was the suppression of her wish for a good, long, interesting post-mortem. The fact that she would have preferred almost any other was just too bad.
‘I was just going to tell you what I’ve been doing today,’ she said, raising her glass to him, ‘and ask your advice.’
‘Will,’ he said, peering at her with an expression of ludicrously exaggerated horror in his eyes, ‘are you ill? You never want my advice.’
‘Monster,’ she said briefly. ‘Actually, this is pretty important.’
He sobered up immediately and she realised that she had never asked for his help without being given it—and given it without stint. It was quite extraordinary, she realised, how much she loved him. She put that thought on one side and told him everything about Emma’s case and Terry Lepe and her own anxieties for Susie Peatsea.
Chapter Sixteen
Emma meanwhile had been spending the afternoon in the infinitely more salubrious company of Jemima Lutterworth. Inspired by Jag’s example, or perhaps pricked by his amusement at her need for introductions to people she wanted to question, she had decided to try a direct approach. It worked. When she telephoned the Lutterworths’house to introduce herself as a researcher who had interviewed Andrew in prison, Jemima sounded positively glad to hear from her.
‘He’s told me a lot about how much he likes you,’ Jemima said. ‘You’ve done him a great deal of good, you know.’
‘You are kind,’ said Emma, relieved to realise that Andrew could not yet have reported on her last attempt to question him. ‘Did he tell you why I went to see him in the first place?’
‘He said something about some project you’re doing on people who are unjustly in prison. It’s wonderful to know that his case is being taken seriously at last. Although I gather you won’t have finished your work in time to affect his release date.’
‘I know. I’m sorry about that. But it’s coming up quite soon, isn’t it?’
‘Fairly: the automatic release date is in just under eight months from now. But if there’s anything you can do to prove that he’s innocent before he gets out it will be… oh, it’ll be such a help. I hate the thought of him emerging into a world that believes he’s capable of doing something like that.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ said Emma, wishing that she could be wholly on Jemima’s side. ‘But I may not be able to prove anything. You see, my work is about why people make false confessions, not really about the injustice of them being in prison for things they haven’t done.’
‘I hadn’t realised that.’ Jemima Lutterworth’s attractive voice held the first hint of doubt.
‘I thought not, which is why I wanted to warn you before I started asking questions.’
‘That was generous and very fair. No wonder he likes you so much. So what is it you want to ask me?’
‘Lots of things. You and I both know that he did not kill that mother and her child, and that he was not even in the car when the crash happened,’ Emma began.
‘Thank you,’ Jemima said simply, making her feel even worse.
‘And yet he told the police he had done it. I still can’t understand that, and I mainly wanted to ask you whether you have any idea what was going on in his head when he confessed.’
‘Have you talked to him about it?’ she asked, not answering Emma’s question.
‘Well, I did try. But something I said upset him so much that he won’t talk to me any more, and I haven’t been able to make sense of some of the answers he gave me when we first met. He let me do a polygraph test then, but I can’t work out what the results mean and now he won’t explain them. So, you see, I was wondering whether you might be prepared to let me show you the charts to see if you could understand why he said the things he did.’
There was a pause and then Jemima Lutterworth said, ‘I don’t know anything about polygraph testing or charts.’
‘But you do know your husband.’
‘Well, that’s certainly true.’ There was a pause, during which Emma thought she had probably blown it completely. ‘Oh, well, why not? Have you got transport to get here?’
‘No. I was hoping that there might be a station within reasonable distance of you so that I could get a taxi from there.’ Emma had been worrying for some time that she was going to crash her meagre budget with all the minicabs and taxis she was having to use. She was frighteningly close to her overdraft limit as it was and hated the thought of asking any of her friends or relations for help, but she was not going to lose the chance of finding out what she needed to know simply out of fear of debt. ‘Is there a station?’
‘Reading’s not far. But I could easily fetch you. Why don’t you let me know which train you’ll be on and I’ll pick you up?’
‘Oh, you needn’t do that,’ said Emma automatically, but after s
ome polite argument she accepted Jemima’s offer.
There were not many people waiting on the platform when Emma left the train at Reading, and she had no difficulty in picking out Jemima Lutterworth. Willow’s description of her pleasant face and greying-blonde hair made her easy to recognise. That afternoon she was wearing a pleated skirt in a soft pink tweed with a loose cream silk sweater over it. Her hair was pushed off her face with large tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses, and she was impeccably made up. She looked attractive, controlled, and not at all the kind of woman Annie Frome had described.
Emma introduced herself and they shook hands as though they were meeting at a party. Jemima led the way to a large grey Volvo, which she drove rather too fast for the narrow country roads, asking polite questions about Emma’s work. She answered as fully as she could, but when she tried to talk about Andrew’s case, Jemima asked with simple dignity whether they could leave the discussion until they were back at the house. Moving the conversation on as seamlessly as she could, Emma complimented her on the car.
‘It is good, isn’t it?’ Jemima said, sounding pleased. ‘And so safe, you know.’
‘Have you had it for long?’
‘Ages. I’ve always had Volvos ever since I was pregnant, although my husband doesn’t like them. This is fairly old, but I’m not about to replace it. Andrew will just have to put up with it when he gets out. His has gone, you see.’
‘Oh?’ said Emma, interested but trying to sound merely as though she were keeping the conversation going. ‘I hadn’t realised it had been written off in the crash.’
Jemima shivered, saying, ‘It wasn’t. But neither of us could have borne to drive it again. And anyway, once he’d resigned from Hill, Snow, he had to turn it in—or buy it from the partnership. It was going to be very expensive and anyway, what would have been the point when he was on his way to that hellish place?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought. D’you know what happened to it?’
‘I imagine it got sold on,’ Jemima said, clamping her lips shut as though to signal that she was not prepared to talk about the car any longer.
Unable to think of any other suitable subject, Emma sat in silence until they reached the house. Even though she had been prepared for it by Willow’s letter, she was amazed by the sight and managed to show convincing surprise all through the tour Jemima gave her.
Eventually they reached the kitchen, which was a disorientating mixture of the ultra-modern and the cosily traditional. Jemima invited Emma to sit down at the large zinc-topped table in the middle of the room and went to make a pot of tea.
Emma watched her moving smoothly about the big silver-and-blue room, fetching a tin of home-made flapjacks, which turned out to be almost as good as any of Mrs Rusham’s biscuits, boiling water and measuring shotlike pellets of green tea into a white porcelain pot. Emma herself did not much like green tea, but she pretended enthusiasm and sipped politely.
‘Andrew always loved it,’ said Jemima, blinking, ‘and so I nearly always have it now. I find I need to do the things he liked. I’m not sure why.’
‘It must be so difficult for you, waiting for him to come home.’
‘Yes, it is. But it’s much worse for him. At least I’m still here in comfort with all my things, and …’ She broke off and produced an unconvincing smile.
‘It’s none of my business,’ Emma began and was not surprised to see the withdrawal in Jemima’s big grey eyes, ‘but I was just wondering whether … I mean with your husband unable to work. Oh, dear, this sounds horribly rude. I’m sorry.’
‘You want to know how I’m getting on for money, do you?’ There was an edge to Jemima’s pleasant voice. Emma nodded, embarrassed, but determined to find out whether Jemima had so much money of her own that Andrew could have been lying in order to avoid giving her reason to divorce him and cut him off from full access to her riches. To Emma’s surprise, the question was answered.
‘Not all that well. I do some typing for a couple of local authors, which brings in a little, and of course I charge the parties of people who come round the house and garden, but that’s not producing as much as it once did. In fact’—she looked across the table at Emma’s attentive face and flushed—‘it’s one—but only one—of the many reasons why I was so anxious for Andrew to get parole. I know he won’t be able to get the sort of job he had before, but I’m sure he’ll get something. He’s far too clever and determined not to. And it’ll be such a relief. That probably sounds awful—and I know it’s selfish—but I’m nearly desperate. I’ve spent all my own running-away money, borrowed up to the hilt at the bank, increased the mortgage as far as I can, and I simply don’t know where to turn next.’ Her voice wavered and she picked up the delicate, handleless teacup and sipped.
‘That’s better. I’m so sorry. You didn’t come to hear all about my financial woes. Visitor numbers will probably rise again when the weather improves, or I may pluck up the courage to get rid of Andrew’s memorial garden, which I’m sure is what’s making the place unpopular.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Emma, remembering just in time that she was not supposed to know anything about the garden. Jemima looked a little surprised.
‘My husband made a garden as a memorial to our son, who died some years ago. It meant a great deal to him, but I hate it, and so do most of the other people who come here. I’m afraid they may have been complaining, which could be why the organisers of these garden tours have decided to avoid us. The income they provided was never very much, of course, but it covered most of my housekeeping bills. I miss it.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ Emma remembered Jane Cleverholme’s surprise that Jemima had not asked for money when she complained about the Daily Mercury’s reporting of her husband’s case. If she was as badly off as she claimed, that seemed even odder than Jane had thought it, but it was not a subject Emma felt able to raise. ‘But perhaps if you do change the garden they’ll come back.’
‘I hope so. If only I could be sure. You see, Andrew’ll be so very upset if I do flatten it, but I feel it has got to be done. The whole garden will look much more attractive without that bite out of the middle, and the memorial itself is so … And it doesn’t seem quite right to have it here. Inappropriate somehow. Do you see what I mean?’
Emma smiled and gently pointed out that it was not she who had to be persuaded.
‘No, of course not,’ said Jemima, blushing faintly. ‘How silly of me! I talk too much. Where were we? Oh, yes, for some reason you wanted to know about my income.’
‘I was just feeling sympathetic,’ said Emma. ‘And thinking how very difficult life must be for you. That’s all.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s nice of you. Things will get better as soon as he’s back and I’m sure I can last out till then. Somehow. Whatever happens about his job, at least when he’s home we can put the house on the market. Then everything will be relatively simple. I’ve always thought we ought to have sold it straight away, but he said we couldn’t make important decisions like that while he was in prison. And so I’ve hung on, selling bits and pieces of furniture and pictures whenever I had to.’ Jemima sighed and stared at an out-of-date calendar on the wall behind Emma’s head.
‘If only I had some qualifications of my own, everything would have been so much easier. But I wasn’t brought up even to consider a career. All I can do is type, and there aren’t any secretarial jobs around here.’
‘I do feel for you,’ said Emma, meaning it. ‘I was always told that someone else would be around to pay my bills, too. I haven’t believed it for years, but I did once. Although, you know, I’m not sure it’s what I’d want, even if I still thought I could rely on it. That’s one reason why I set about trying to get this degree.’
‘Good for you! If I had my time again, I’d … Well, I certainly wouldn’t assume that being able to type was enough.’
‘No. Although it’s a useful skill to fall back on.’ Emma laughed without much amusement ‘I may have
to do that myself if I don’t find out what really happened the night your husband was arrested.’ Hearing that tactless statement echoing in her brain, Emma added in some confusion, ‘I’m so sorry. That came out a bit wrong. I didn’t mean to sound so selfish.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s what we both want after all.’ Jemima looked friendlier. ‘Let’s get on with it. You said something about graphs or something you wanted me to look at.’
Emma took the polygraph charts out of her haversack and spread them on the table. Jemima listened intelligently to the explanation of the technique Emma had used to produce them, and herself pointed to the surprisingly jagged fluctuations in the lines that ought to have been smooth and regular if Andrew had been telling the truth.
‘And the questions you asked here and here were what?’ she asked, frowning down at the long sheet of paper.
Emma consulted her list, although she knew it by heart, and read out the questions about the car and whether Andrew had ever had passengers, adding, ‘As I said, I know as well as you do that he wasn’t in the car when it crashed and yet he’s showing what in any other case I would have interpreted as a guilty reaction to my questions about it. In fact it’s an even more guilty reaction than the ones he showed when I asked my control questions about the times when he actually was stopped by the police. D’you see these ones? Here and here. That’s why I’m so puzzled.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Jemima traced the jagged lines with a pink varnished fingernail. ‘I don’t understand it myself. Like you, I know he was not driving that night. The car was stolen, just as he always said.’
‘Isn’t it tricky?’ Emma pulled the sheet along so that she could point to the part of the graph that represented Andrew’s reactions to questions about what he had been doing that evening. ‘This bit seems fine. He’s talking here about how he was in his office, working on the client’s tax problems. He’s calm as anything, not in the least alarmed by any of my questions.’
Sour Grapes Page 23