Trish acknowledged the nanny with a slight smile, then set about talking to Magnus and his son, trying to ease the tension that was wound round them both like binding twine.
The judge, a man Trish had known for a long time, listened patiently and smiled impartially at the two barristers and the court welfare officer as they spoke. Trish tempered her passionate determination with the sort of cool rationality she knew he liked. But in the end he went against her.
She couldn’t believe it. She turned to her client. His face was white, stricken, but his eyes were blazing. Trish kept her own eyes still as he glared at her, the anger scorching her.
Outside he put his hand on his son’s head, stroking the soft pale-brown hair and murmuring quietly that he would be seeing more of Mummy now and wouldn’t that be nice?
‘No,’ he wailed, with a noise like a seagull. He didn’t fling his arms around his father, just pressed himself tightly back against Magnus’s legs. ‘No.’
Trish knew she should be used to this by now, but it hurt as much as it ever had. She moved slowly backwards, feeling a faint current of air from the flapping of her skirt. Magnus caught the movement and turned away from his desperate son for a second.
‘Goodbye, Ms Maguire,’ he said casually, not even trying to hide his feelings.
Alex had dug his toes in and was being literally dragged away from his father’s side.
‘Come on, Trish,’ the solicitor whispered in her ear. ‘You can’t do any more. And this time it’s only for tea. He’s not being wrenched away for ever. He’ll get used to it before the move’s made permanent. Children always do.’
They turned away and went downstairs.
‘It breaks your heart,’ said the solicitor, ‘I know. But you did your best, Trish. There’s no point tearing yourself apart over it.’
‘Hard not to in a case like this.’ Trish held out her hand. The solicitor shook it and they parted.
Phil Redstone, she thought, forcing her mind away from Alex and his father. Thank God there was always more work and no time to think about lost cases.
Phil’s chambers were quite close to hers, so she called in on her way back and asked the head clerk if she could write Mr Redstone a note. She was invited to use the table in the waiting room and sat down to the task.
Dear Phil,
Sorry I couldn’t stop. I had a residence hearing. Lost it. Happens to us all.
I don’t know if you’ve heard about my research into the Deborah Gibbert case, but it’s nothing do with any appeal. Just for a telly programme about the law. There’s no witch-hunt. In any case, I don’t suppose there are any witches to go after, if you see what I mean.
Let’s have a drink some time. El Vino’s? Give me a ring and let me know, if you’d like to.
Best, Trish
She hoped that would keep him reasonably happy. Her own clerk was waiting when she got back to chambers. When she told him what had happened to the Hirsons, he shrugged, saying: ‘Pity. But still, win some, lose some.’
Trish had to grip her hands together to stop herself hitting him. She sought refuge in her own room and an article she was writing about child protection for a new law journal she wanted to support. The fee for the article would hardly pay for e-mailing it to the editor, but it was all in a good cause.
The last paragraph caused her a lot of trouble and she was still fiddling with it when Dave rang through to say that Anna Grayling had arrived.
‘Could you ask her to wait for five minutes while I finish this?’ Trish said. ‘And then I’ll be out to collect her.’
But the interruption had destroyed her concentration. She couldn’t find the right words to make her conclusion startling enough. With a mental shrug, she eventually filed what she’d done, e-mailed the editor to say he’d get the piece tomorrow, and closed down her system.
‘Hi, Anna,’ she said, emerging into the waiting room two minutes later. ‘Thanks for coming. Shall we go out? I need air.’
‘Fine. Whatever.’
They walked out on to the Temple lawn. There were two separate drinks parties already in full swing, but there was still plenty of space near the river side of the gardens, where there were benches and it was cool under the trees. The traffic beat along the Embankment, only just the other side of the railings, but even so it was one of the most civilised spots within reach. The sky over the river was the thin pale blue of a watercolour with just enough wispy white cloud to make it interesting.
‘So, what did you think of Deb?’ Anna asked, when they were settled.
‘I liked her.’
‘Oh, fantastic.’ Anna shifted on the bench so that she could grab both Trish’s hands in a hot, damp clasp.
‘Is it that exciting?’ Hearing repressive disapproval in her voice, Trish thought she must have caught some of George’s dislike of vehemence.
‘Yes. You can’t think how much I respect your judgement,’ Anna said more calmly, letting her go. ‘If you hadn’t agreed with me about Deb, I’d have dumped the whole idea of the film.’
‘I thought you were so keen on her you were determined to do anything you could to get her out of prison.’
‘Well, yes. But my confidence has been a bit shot lately, so I needed someone I trust to agree with me. Tell me why you liked her, Trish?’
‘Partly because of the way she talked about her cell-mate,’ she said, catching the uncharacteristic need for reassurance in Anna’s voice and working it out as she spoke. ‘And partly because of Deb’s determination to protect her daughter, and …’
‘And?’
‘Oh, and because her mother loved her so much that she was prepared to confess to murder to protect her.’
Now it was Anna’s turn to look surprised. Trish didn’t explain that she couldn’t bear the thought of Deb’s mother dying in the belief that her so-loved daughter was a killer and might go to prison for the rest of her life. It was for that woman, rather than any of the others, including Anna, that Trish was tempted to work on the film.
‘And you,’ she asked, knowing that Anna didn’t put the same value on mothers as she did, ‘what’s your particular interest in Deb?’
‘Actually,’ she said, in a confiding whisper that didn’t sound remotely real, ‘it’s not so much Deb qua person as qua symbol. If I’m to be truthful, I want to exploit the poor cow.’
‘Ah.’ A bit of sincerity – even unattractive sincerity – usually made Trish feel more comfortable.
‘How?’
‘I have to make a popular programme soon. And there’s not much that gets people going as quickly as a juicy miscarriage of justice. They love a good let’s-kill-all-the-lawyers story. Who wouldn’t?’
Trish felt her face hardening. It was unlike Anna to be quite so self-absorbed that she would casually insult a friend she professed to need.
‘So, I asked about a bit and came up with Deb. Her story’s got everything – ghastly crime, innocent mother of four, faithful wife, dutiful daughter, in prison for a murder she didn’t commit because of the shenanigans of the male establishment and the incompetence of her – male – lawyers. What more could a girl want?’
Trish considered the question. She could think of quite a lot, but she didn’t know much about television and would have to take Anna’s word for it; not something she had ever enjoyed.
‘There is just one problem,’ she said. ‘Or two, rather.’
Anna’s face twisted. ‘What?’
‘I’ve seen no evidence to prove Deb’s innocent, even though her story about the bag sounded credible to me. And you’ve got no witnesses to speak for her. The only useful one – her mother – is dead.’
‘We’ll use actors to play out the characters in our version of what happened,’ Anna began, ‘and—’
‘You can’t do a film like this entirely with actors. You’ll need the real emotion of a suffering family if it’s to carry any weight.’
‘I know, but we’ll have Deb’s husband and eldest daughter – a
nd, boy, are they suffering! Then there’ll be all the people you’ll turn up as you interview the main players.’ Anna sounded both more confident and further ahead with the project than she’d suggested. ‘You’re the best interviewer I know. And, of course, some experts, legal and medical.’
‘Who?
Anna put her head on one side, apparently trying to look like a hopeful little wren, but in fact, as Trish was tempted to tell her, impersonating a pug that’s eaten its owner’s dinner and is about to sick it up.
‘Well, you, for a start, Trish, explaining the legal background, Mal—’
‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ she said at once. ‘I only agreed to look into the background for you, not expound it on screen. I don’t want to be seen in public rubbishing Phil Redstone’s work. Particularly not with an appeal in the offing, which is apparently going to be based on his incompetence.’
‘Trish, you—’
‘No, Anna, listen. This is important. Quite apart from professional loyalty, it could be counter-productive for Deb. Phil persuaded the judge to admit Deb’s mother’s confession under Section 23 of the Criminal Justice Act 1988. He didn’t have to and that was the only thing that might have helped her. You’ve got to be very careful about this, if you have any real interest in getting Deb out as opposed to making a noteworthy programme.’
‘Well, if you won’t, you won’t. One person who will is Malcolm Chaze, the MP. He’s certain Deb’s innocent.’
‘OK. He would be good. He comes over well. Who else?’
Anna looked blank.
‘That’s really all?’
‘So far. But once you’ve come up with a realistic alternative killer, we’ll—’ She broke off artistically.
‘Anna,’ Trish said, watching her in deep suspicion, ‘you are not planning to trick someone on to your programme and then accuse him of this murder on screen, are you?’
‘Why not? It would make terrific TV, and I’d be made for life if we got the right man.’
Trish said nothing as she ran through all the things Deb had told her, trying to remember exactly what it was that had sounded convincing in her account of the night her father died. Was it enough to let this probably slanderous project go much further? Trish was so used to being protected against defamation in court that she was bothered about how much the film might expose her.
‘Or facing vast damages.’
Anna shrugged. ‘You can advise on that when you see the rushes. Come on, Trish. Say you’ll help. Concentrate on the thought of getting Deb out. Listen, I need this film to work. And I can’t do it without you: I don’t know enough about the law. Say you’ll do it. Please.’
Trish was still holding out.
‘Hear what Malcolm Chaze has to say at least. Shall I fix a meeting for you? Any particular time?’
Anna was pushing much more than Trish liked to be pushed. A lot more. Still, they were old friends. It was an interesting case. And Deb Gibbert did need help.
‘Oh, all right.’ Trish opened the jacket of her black linen suit and flapped it to get some cooler air through to her skin, forgetting that she wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath until she saw Anna’s amusement. Luckily there were only trees in front of them.
Deb sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, staring straight ahead. The stainless-steel washbasin was directly in front of her. It made her think of the kitchen at home, with the children trailing in from the garden and Adam getting in the way. He’d driven her mad sometimes, wandering in and leaning against the sink for a chat or washing his hands in it when she was trying to get a meal ready. She used to shout at him for it. Now it seemed the most harmless of habits.
He was a good man. She couldn’t remember why she’d been so angry with him. Except that she’d been angry with everyone; everyone except Kate.
‘Oh, God, please let Kate be all right,’ she said under her breath, so that no one outside the cell could hear. ‘Please.’
She’d be able to talk to Kate on the phone again tomorrow morning, so it was silly to get in such a stew now. They always talked on Fridays before Kate left for school. Deb hoarded phonecards to make sure she had enough left by Friday.
Kate tried to be cheerful. Sometimes her stoicism was unbearable. She’d once said, ‘Dad’s being really kind to me, you know, and patient – even with my hopeless cooking.’
Deb had had to fight hard to keep her tears to herself that day. They were back again now, dripping down the side of her nose and making her choke. Her heart was racing and the hated words were booming around in her brain: you’ll never get out; you’re stuck here for ever; you’ll never get out; you’ll die in here. And you deserve it.
Chapter 5
At six o’clock on Friday evening, the House of Commons terrace was emptier than usual. The country MPs were mostly on the way to their constituencies, but there were enough Londoners glad of the faint breeze off the river to fill most of the tables.
Malcolm Chaze stood out among the rest, as he would have stood out anywhere. Tall and well dressed, he had the kind of smooth, old-fashioned good looks that appeal most to powerful post-menopausal women. They didn’t do much for Trish, she was glad to find.
‘Debbie was very sweet,’ he said, allowing a dreamy note into his voice. ‘And thoroughly efficient. I wish my current secretary were as good.’
Trish put down her spritzer, afraid the condensation on the outside of the glass would make it slip out of her hand. ‘Deborah was your secretary?’
‘No. No. The dean’s.’ His voice was sharp – irritated – quite different from the one he used in public performances. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you all this?’
Trish blinked at his impatience and shook her head. ‘But then I haven’t been on the case very long. Which dean?’
‘At Queen’s, London. I was a philosophy tutor there and Deb was typing for the dean, which is how we met. I liked her at once.’ He laughed, switching easily back into charm mode. The ease made Trish extremely wary.
‘Debbie was older than most of the other secretaries there, but she was what at the time we used to call a bon oeuf.’
Trish smiled, keeping her teeth together. Childish franglais didn’t often make her laugh; and smoothly good-looking, successful men who thought of women in subordinate positions as good eggs made her flesh creep. In her experience it meant the women in question never answered back or thought their own talents or needs as important as those of the men who handed down the tasks and the compliments.
If so, it sounded as though Deb Gibbert had changed since those days. Good for her!
Trish noticed that Chaze was looking closely at her. She relaxed her jaw. ‘How nice,’ she said, smiling. ‘And did you keep up the friendship? I mean, had you seen much of her before her father died?’
‘No, we didn’t really keep up at all.’ Sadness made his voice throb, but Trish wasn’t convinced. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to pick up the phone. ‘You know how it is, Trish. Or was. She left to get married – most girls of Debbie’s type still did in those days – and I went in for politics. Our ways parted and we moved in different worlds. But I’ll always be glad she remembered how close we’d been and still trusted me enough to call on me when she found herself in this hellish mess. I went straight down to see her.’
He brushed one finger over his left eyebrow. In anyone else the gesture would have meant that he was removing some sweat, but Chaze wasn’t sweating. Too much perfect confidence and self-control. Trish wished she had the trick of it: the air felt like oily flannel against her skin and she could feel the sweat trickling down her spine.
‘I wish there was something I could do for her,’ Chaze said wistfully.
‘Isn’t there?’ Trish was surprised by her continuing, instinctive, mistrust of him. It was years since she had had this kind of reaction to a man who was a trifle more pleased with himself than seemed quite justified. No woman at the Bar could survive if she minded a little thing like that. It was almost a qualificat
ion in the Temple.
‘Only appearing on this film of Anna Grayling’s as a kind of character witness for Debbie,’ Chaze was saying, with an apparently rueful smile that he must have practised. It was very good. Even Hugh Grant would have been hard pushed to better it.
Stop it, Trish, she ordered herself. You’re turning into a bad-tempered old bag. Smoothness and good looks aren’t a sign of dishonesty. And self-deprecation can sometimes be real, even in a man like this.
‘And writing the article about her case,’ Chaze added, keeping the smile going. ‘It’s all ready, so as soon as Anna gives me the word Debbie will be splashed all over the Sunday Review. For my part, I’d have got it in as soon as I’d written it, but Anna wants it out in the same week as the programme. I’m going along with that.’
‘It makes sense.’
‘And I am, of course, keeping an eye on Debbie’s treatment.’ He gazed out across the river towards St Thomas’s Hospital.
‘Really? How?’
‘One of the few benefits of being an MP is that people worry about your good opinion.’ He grinned again, but this time he looked less smooth and a lot more real in his satisfaction. ‘I’ve made sure the prison governor knows I take an interest. How did she seem when you saw her?’
‘Not too bad,’ Trish said. ‘She had prison skin and a prison figure, and she was worried about her cell-mate, who’d just OD’d on heroin.’
‘What?’ Chaze’s face was in shadow so she couldn’t see much, but bursts of tension came off him like radio waves pulsating out from a broadcasting mast.
‘It does happen, you know, even in prison,’ Trish said, wondering why he was quite so angry. Drugs in prison were a fact of life.
‘It’s a fucking disgrace.’ The perfectly ordinary expletive she heard fifty times a day, and often used herself, sounded shocking from someone whose language had seemed so artificial until then. He looked at his watch. ‘Damn. Too late to catch the Chief Inspector of Prisons tonight, but I’ll put him on to it on Monday. It’s outrageous if that quantity of drugs is still getting through to inmates. I’ll get it stopped if it’s the last thing I do.’
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