by Susan Lewis
‘Do you believe that if Mr Reiner hadn’t developed a preference for Mrs Jaymes, he might have continued a relationship with you?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘So this was the second time you’d been passed over for Mrs Jaymes? First was when Mr Jaymes refused to leave her for you. Then, when Mr Reiner dropped you for her?’
Shelley didn’t answer.
‘Let’s go to the clothes you were wearing in the office on the day of the murder. Are they the same clothes as those collected from the cleaners two days later, by the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many black trouser suits do you own, Ms Bronson?’
The air was suddenly trapped in her lungs. ‘Three,’ she said hoarsely.
‘So you could have substituted the suit that became stained …’
‘Objection!’
The point had been made. Counsel was looking at his notes, giving the jury time to absorb. Then he returned to Shelley.
‘Mrs Jaymes has testified that she told you she was looking after her father on the night of the 14th. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘And presumably you are aware of her father’s poor mental health?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it could be said that you knew Mrs Jaymes wouldn’t have an alibi that night, were one ever needed?’
‘I never saw it like that.’
‘But it could be said.’
‘Objection!’
He paused for a moment, spoke to his colleague then turned back. ‘Was it your impression that Mr Reiner was engaged in a sexual encounter with Tessa Dukes on the night you happened upon them in Italy?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘And why, exactly, were you there at the door?’
She knew it was pointless to lie, for the friends she’d told Allyson she had visited in their room had already testified that it wasn’t true. So her lips trembled as she said, ‘I was hoping to talk to Mr Reiner.’
‘About what?’
‘The programme.’ It didn’t even sound true!
‘At two in the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suggest to you, Ms Bronson, that you were there in the hope of rekindling your affair with Mr Reiner. And that when you found Mr Reiner in Tessa Dukes’s room, giving comfort to a girl who was in an inebriated and distressed state, you decided to twist what you’d seen and use it to try to break up Mr Reiner and Mrs Jaymes. But even if you’d succeeded in that there was still Tessa to contend with, wasn’t there? Because if that was a sexual encounter you had happened upon, it could be that Mr Reiner would abandon Mrs Jaymes in favour of Tessa instead of you. And you couldn’t let that happen, could you? Not again.’
It was as though the ground was shifting beneath her. Questions. Distortions. Allusions. A stampede of fear. A pit of despair. She was no longer reaching the jury. A gulf had opened up between them. Now they only saw her as a rejected, bitter woman. The woman who’d twice tried to steal her best friend’s man. Who twice had failed because of a teenage girl. Was it true that she had never been able to sustain a relationship? Didn’t she have a history of failures with men? What about her jealousy of Allyson? Just how long had she resented Allyson – for the love of her family, of her public, her husband, and finally of Mark Reiner? How many years had that resentment been building? And what about Tessa? Was it Tessa’s youth and freshness that had poisoned Shelley against her? How hard was it for her, a forty-two-year-old woman, to watch Bob Jaymes, whom she’d pursued for years, becoming besotted with a nineteen-year-old girl? Had she felt used up? Discarded? She’d certainly felt bitter. Why else would she have gone to the press? Did she care about her friend Allyson then? No, all she cared about then was punishing Bob Jaymes. What had she cared about on the night of the murder? Certainly not Tessa Dukes. Nor Allyson Jaymes. All she’d cared about then was talking Allyson out of opening a gift in the restaurant, and then making sure they used Allyson’s car to return to the office once it was known Tessa had been murdered. And what was the last thing Shelley said to Allyson as they’d left the restaurant that night? ‘Don’t forget your gift.’ Certainly she’d be concerned if it contained such a valuable clock. But wouldn’t she have been equally as concerned if it contained the evidence that was going to remove Allyson from Mr Reiner’s life, as effectively as she, herself, had already removed Tessa? There was only Shelley’s word that there was a clock in that box. And no-one seemed to know where that clock was now.
‘Or maybe, Ms Bronson, you do know where it is.’
‘No, I …’ She stopped as panic welled in her chest and her lawyer shot her a silencing look.
‘Yes, Ms Bronson?’
Her eyes fell away and she shook her head. ‘I don’t know where it is,’ she said, but her voice didn’t have the ring of conviction it needed to persuade anyone she was telling the truth.
Nor, when all her lies were summarized, trivial as many of them were, was there a single benign face remaining amongst the twelve who were watching her so closely.
In the rooms beneath the court Shelley broke down and cried. Hope had gone now, all that was left was despair. It ballooned around her, swallowing her up and suffocating her with fear. She would never leave that prison. She would never return to her precious home. She would grow old and ugly with women who despised and abused her, in a place that was dark and cold, and smelled of raw vegetables and unwashed skin.
Ed tried to comfort her by reminding her that the picture of Allyson’s guilt was every bit as strong, if not stronger. And even if they couldn’t swing the blame totally in Allyson’s direction, there was still no actual evidence to prove that she, Shelley, had committed the crime.
But his words didn’t help her to sleep that night, nor did her knowledge of the truth.
The jury was out all the next day.
Mark took Allyson round to her mother’s. The table was set for lunch, but only her father ate. They were all too painfully aware of the way time seemed to have stopped as they waited to see where the sword of Damocles fell. Their words tried to convey optimism and hope, but always they were weighted with dread. For the first time Allyson mentioned an appeal. If she was arrested, and found guilty, she would appeal. It seemed the best she could hope for. The light she needed to get her through the months ahead, should the worst happen.
Mark covered her hand with his. ‘Even if Shelley isn’t found guilty, it doesn’t mean they’re going to arrest you,’ he reminded her.
‘But if they do. I have to think about …’
‘Darling, there’s no more evidence pointing to you than there is to Shelley. Much less, in fact.’
Allyson looked into his eyes. The love she felt for him was growing all the time. He was all that mattered now – him, and her freedom. ‘Would you go back to her, if they locked me away?’ she asked.
‘Stop!’ her mother cried. ‘They’re not going to lock you away.’
Mark smiled and turned back to Allyson. ‘We’re leaving for Italy as soon as this is over. And no, I wouldn’t go back to her.’
Allyson’s throat tightened. He was such a special man. Not for a moment did he believe she might be guilty. Please God the jury would think the same way.
Total silence accompanied the jurors’ return to the court. After two days of deliberation a verdict had now been reached.
Shelley was unable to look at them. She kept her eyes lowered and her prayers intense.
Allyson was rigid. She was praying too. Her hand was in Mark’s, her eyes were on Shelley.
A clerk of the court was speaking, asking the jury if they had reached a verdict.
The foreman of the jury stood. A small, thin woman in her early fifties. ‘We have.’
Shelley stopped breathing.
‘Members of the jury, on the count of murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty.’
Shelley’s eyes opened. She was starting to shake. Convulsions were r
ushing through her. She was out of control. She could hear herself screaming, feel them struggling to hold her down. Panic and denial drove through her. No! No! No!
The judge was calling for order.
Mitigation began. But what difference did it make now? They’d found her guilty. They’d taken away her freedom. She would never see her home again, never know what it was to walk in the street, to lie on a beach, to feel a man’s desire … She would be in control of nothing now. Not the time she rose, the time she slept, when she ate, or showered, worked or played. There was nothing to live for. No sun, no rain, no friends, no laughter. She was a number now. A face amongst hundreds. Her femininity would be coarsened; her beauty would be drained. Shelley Bronson, the producer, was now Shelley Bronson, a convicted killer.
She had to get out! She had to run! Someone, please, help her! Oh God, don’t let this be true!
Someone was holding her. The judge was ready to pass sentence.
Shelley looked at him. His expression was stern, but his eyes seemed kind. He was speaking, but she seemed not to be hearing. Some words broke through. ‘… I sentence you to life imprisonment … Recommendation to serve a minimum of fifteen years …’
Life! Oh my God! Oh my God!
There was a commotion near the back. Allyson had collapsed. Everyone watched as she was carried from the court.
Shelley watched too. The reporters were rushing to get out, elbowing and jostling each other, desperate to be first with the news. No-one bothered to stay and watch as she was taken from the court. No-one even thought about the van she was put into, or the darkness that now imprisoned her life.
And only she remembered the clock.
Chapter 20
ALLYSON TILTED BACK her head and felt the sun burn hotly on her face. The air, the sea, the sky were so dazzlingly bright it was as though it was all brand new. She could see for miles. Orange and lemon groves cascaded down the hillsides, silent waves broke over the shore below. Clusters of red-tiled rooftops, tall, rustic houses. She inhaled deeply, as though she could take the beauty inside her and hold it there. It might act as a balm on all the ugliness and fear that had blighted the past few months, and somehow soften the sharp edges of horror that cut so very deep every time she thought of Shelley. But she’d promised herself and Mark that she wouldn’t think about her while they were here, for there was nothing she could do to help Shelley now, so she must use this time to heal and forgive and finally move on.
She looked down at the courtyard below where a fountain of lions’ heads spurted water into the glistening trough, and smart cane furniture was spread out between towering ferns and palms. The hotel was still in its first season, but already word had spread. It was the place to stay. Exclusive, expensive and catering to all refined tastes. The apartment on the top floor was reserved for Mark and his brother Nick, kept available for whenever they wanted to come.
Allyson and Mark had arrived two days ago. Stepping off the plane into the welcoming warmth of the Italian sunshine had felt like stepping into another world. It was what she had needed, to leave England behind for a while, to lose herself in the romance and splendour of a place that she loved. The nightmare of the trial was over, but the wounds, the fear, had left scars that were going to take a long time to heal …
She was thinking about it again, but it was impossible not to, for despite their disconnected worlds she still felt tied to Shelley, as though a part of her was in that prison too. She’d stopped swimming in the pool now, for every time she entered the water she felt she might drown under the weight of all the emotion and trauma that had destroyed their friendship. And sometimes the thought of never seeing Shelley again felt like never having any air again.
But mercifully there were moments when she was able to forget.
Now was one of those moments, for she was smiling as she watched the car winding its way up the hill. Mark had been to Naples for a meeting, he’d said, though she hadn’t believed him, because today was her fortieth birthday and she knew he was planning a surprise. But she’d gone along with the charade that this was the last meeting he needed to have until this break was over. She wasn’t sure how long they would stay, he had put no limits on the time she might need. When she was ready he was willing to talk about her future, whether she would continue in TV, or change her life completely. It was hard to imagine a life without cameras, without Shelley … She stopped herself again. She must make herself accept that everything had changed, that a whole new life was opening up to her now, and her heart gave a flutter of excitement as she envisaged it with Mark, and maybe with the children she’d never managed to have with Bob.
The car disappeared as it headed round to the church piazza. Eager to see him, she left the apartment and ran down the stairs. When she reached the reception he was just coming in through the door. There were others around, talking quietly, taking afternoon tea in the shady arched alcoves, browsing through guidebooks out in the courtyard. Allyson didn’t care who saw her embrace him and it seemed he didn’t care either.
‘Hi,’ he murmured, holding her close and smiling down into her eyes. ‘I get the feeling you missed me.’
She laughed. ‘How did it go?’
‘OK. The deal’s all but done.’
‘So you’re now an even bigger TV mogul?’
He laughed. ‘Are you free? There’s somewhere I want to take you.’
It turned out not to be far, just along the lane, under the arch, and back into the church piazza. The sun was beating down, the ancient cobbles were scorched and dusty, and the shutters of the overlooking windows were closed.
The church door was open. Inside was cool and shady, with a damp, earthy smell. Rays of sunlight streaked through the windows, over the empty pews and across the magnificent Byzantine pulpit. Holding her hand he led her up the centre aisle, towards the life-size crucifix which was suspended on chains above the altar. When they stopped she looked up at the face of Christ.
‘Don’t you think it’s beautiful here?’ he said, his eyes travelling the faded stone walls that yielded all drama to the sparkling mosaics on the pulpit, then descending with the sunlight to where she was standing.
She was still looking at Christ. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling.
‘I’d like to marry you here,’ he said.
Her heart suddenly swelled, and her eyes were disbelieving as she turned them to him.
‘When you’re ready. When it’s possible,’ he added.
‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘And if there’s a question in there, the answer’s yes.’
His eyes were full of irony, as, pulling a small box from his pocket, he took out a large, oval-shaped diamond and lifted her left hand.
She watched as he slid the ring onto her third finger, and felt an unbearable happiness filling her heart. Then she raised her eyes back to his as he said, ‘Happy birthday.’
A while later they walked slowly back down the aisle. She held his arm and rested her head against it. At the door he stepped out into the sunlight, and she turned back for a moment to look again at the striking image of Christ. Thank you, she said softly.
When they got back to the hotel the concierge called them over. ‘Señor Reiner,’ he said. ‘I forget this parcel arrive for you. It come a long time ago. It say to wait for your arrival.’
Mark picked it up curiously and looked it over. Then, grinning, he turned to Allyson. ‘What is it?’ he said.
She frowned.
‘It says here that you sent it.’
She looked at the sender’s name.
At that moment a receptionist told her there was a call for her.
She went to take it, but as she put the receiver to her ear she could feel her heart thudding and barely heard her mother’s voice at the other end as she said, ‘Hello darling, just wanted to wish you happy birthday …’
The parcel, her name! She watched Mark as he walked through to one of the offices.
‘… and Aunt Faye has said she’ll s
tay with Daddy for a week,’ her mother was saying. ‘So if it’s still all right, I can come over at the weekend.’
Allyson was staring at the door Mark had disappeared through.
‘Ally? Are you there, darling? If it’s a problem …’
‘No. It would be lovely,’ she said. ‘We’ll get the limousine to meet you at the airport. You’re going to love it here, Mummy. It’s so beautiful.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow with my flight details, shall I?’ her mother said.
‘Yes. Love to Daddy.’
She put down the phone and went to find Mark.
He was standing with his back to the door. She looked at the desk in front of him, the torn paper of the parcel, the protective padding and tissue, and though she couldn’t yet see it she already knew what it was. The walls were closing in, her heart had stopped beating.
Her name on the parcel. She was the sender.
He turned to face her, deathly pale and uncomprehending. In his hands was the exquisite Night and Day clock by Lalique.
Allyson’s eyes were huge as she looked at him. An endless amount of time seemed to have passed. The drumming in her ears was starting to fade, the nausea in her stomach was receding. She could sense his resistance to what this must mean, and wanted desperately to go to him. ‘I didn’t send it,’ she said. She needed air. She needed desperately to be able to think. ‘Look at the date. When was it sent?’
He looked at the date. ‘March 16th.’
Two days after Tessa was killed. Shelley was in custody by then.
His eyes were on her again. Not yet accusing, only bewildered and questioning.
‘If she posted the clock late on the 15th,’ Allyson said, ‘it would have been postmarked the 16th.’
He was still staring at her.
‘Darling, listen,’ she said, struggling to remain calm. ‘Just ask yourself, what sense does it make for me to send it to you? Why would I do that? Why would I even keep it, if what you’re thinking was true?’
She could see he wanted to believe her. It made sense to believe her.