by Susan Lewis
Jules turned away as Kian covered his face with his hands.
“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Gemma wept desperately.
Eventually Kian said, “What happened once he realized…? Why didn’t he run away then?”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t know, but I think he must have been in shock. He says he was terrified she was intending to kill him too—she had the knife pointed at him, and she was covered in blood. They both were. She said she was going to tell everyone that he’d carried out the attack, that he’d tried to rape her too, but she’d managed to get away…” Gemma broke down again. “They’ve charged him with murder, but I know in my heart that he’d never harm Daisy. She was the sister he never had. He loved being here with you and your family….You meant the world to him, all of you.”
And where were you all that time? Jules wanted to ask, but didn’t.
—
It was two months after Gemma’s visit that Misty and her team reopened the pub. It was either that or lay everyone off, and Jules and Kian didn’t want to put their loyal staff out of work. They didn’t go down to the bar themselves, the way they used to; they either stayed in the flat or came and went via the back door. Their lives were in limbo as they waited for the trial to begin. They rarely spoke about it, even though it was all that occupied their minds. When the lawyers were in touch they had no choice but to go over everything they knew again; the rest of the time they simply waited and tried to grieve and did their best to keep themselves together.
Sometimes, when it got too much to bear, Jules took herself out to the moor, where she’d howl and rant with the pain of the loss, or berate herself for not reacting to Daisy’s screams. She’d heard them while it was happening. With a mother’s instinct she’d known her child was in trouble and needed her, but she hadn’t been able to find her.
All the time she wrangled with her conscience she’d hold tightly to Ruby’s shoe, wanting to believe that Ruby was taking care of Daisy, wherever they were now.
“Ruby, please tell her I love her,” she’d whisper wretchedly. “Tell her I miss her and I’m sorry with all my heart that I didn’t come to save her.”
Ruby never gave a sign of having heard; it was as though she’d left them too.
With Marsha’s condition deteriorating, Aileen moved into one of the pub’s guest rooms so she could be on hand to help, but they all knew that it was also because she was finding it hard to be on her own. She missed Daisy every bit as much as Jules and Kian; losing her angel had changed her from the bubbly, wry, looking-on-the-Bright-side woman she used to be to someone who was as injured and broken as her son. Like Jules, she sometimes envied Marsha’s oblivion; surely it was better to have forgotten Daisy than to have to live with the knowledge of what had happened to her.
During those long, bitter months as they waited for the trial to begin there was never any sign of Amelia, though Anton Quentin visited Crofton Park toward the end of March. No one seemed to know if Amelia was with him; she hadn’t been spotted, but Jules felt convinced she was there. She could feel her presence seeping across the moor, pouring down the hillside, spreading about the bay like a poison. She was a dark, invisible force in the guise of an ordinary girl, come to exacerbate their torment, intensify their grief.
And it was to get even worse, for they received a letter one morning around that time informing them that the charge of murder had been reduced to voluntary manslaughter with provocation.
Voluntary manslaughter with provocation.
The blow was so harsh that neither Jules, Kian, nor any of their friends and family could find a way to deal with it. It was unthinkable that Daisy might have contributed in any way to her own death; it was such a cruel and wicked twist in this appalling nightmare that Jules knew if someone were to put a knife in her hand at that moment she’d plunge it straight into Amelia Quentin’s heart and gladly watch her die.
The first she knew of Kian’s visit to the Quentin residence was when DC Leo Johnson got in touch to warn them, as gently as possible, that they could be arrested if they went near the Quentins again.
“What were you thinking, going there in the first place?” Jules demanded as Kian punched a fist into the wall.
“I don’t know,” he answered savagely. “I guess I just couldn’t take any more. I had to do something….I needed them to know what they’ve done. I needed to call her a murderer to her face, so that she’ll go into that courtroom knowing that I know what she did and that there was no provocation, because Daisy was tied up. She was defenseless, a victim, and that crazy bitch stabbed her fifteen fucking times. Nothing Daisy did could have provoked that kind of attack, and let’s not forget that Daisy went there out of kindness because that lying…scheming…”
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” Jules said, trying to soothe him, as he broke down. “I understand why you did it, of course I do. Just tell me what happened. Did you see her? Did they let you in?”
He shook his head. “Her father came to the gate with a bloody shotgun. Can you believe that? He brought a fucking gun with him and told me he’d use it if I ever came near his property or his daughter again.”
Jules was horrified, incredulous. “He threatened you?” she gasped. “He actually threatened you when he must know what you’re going through? Jesus Christ, what kind of man is he?”
“They’re not like us, Jules, I can tell you that much.”
Still fuming, she cried, “If I thought it would do any good, I’d send Danny and his friends up there right now to show him just how much respect we have for his property and his daughter.”
“Do it!” Aileen growled from the door. “Our Danny will know how to make it happen without that bastard having a clue what hit him.”
Though Jules and Kian were sorely tempted, they were painfully aware that any sort of attack on the Quentins at this time would inevitably come back on them.
“What else did he say while you were there?” Aileen asked Kian.
He started to answer, then stopped and shook his head.
“What did he say?” Jules prompted.
“It doesn’t matter….It won’t do any good.”
“I want to know.”
“OK, if you have to hear it…He started going on about Daisy bringing things on herself, that we’d spoiled her, hadn’t ever taught her how to treat people decently, and the way she led Amelia on, letting her think she was a friend…Mum, don’t,” he pleaded as Aileen began to sob. “You shouldn’t be listening to this.”
“I’m sorry,” Jules cut in, “it’s my fault. I made him tell us. Aileen, please. Come and sit down. I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll have myself together in a minute,” Aileen promised. “It’s just that I can’t bear to think of what our dear, sweet angel went through, and now for those wicked people to try to make out it was her own fault…What kind of God do they answer to? That’s what I want to know, because I’m praying to mine that it’s a vengeful one.”
“It’s not about God, it’s about connections and belonging to the right club.”
“That’s right,” Aileen snarled, “they’re all in on it, even the people who are supposed to be prosecuting, or they wouldn’t have let the charge be reduced. Everyone knows that the murder was premeditated; the text she sent proves it. She even warned you, the day she walked out of here, that you’d be sorry. So how can anyone in their right minds accuse Daisy of provoking what happened?”
Since it was a question they had no answer for, and could still hardly believe they were asking, Jules and Kian simply shook their heads and fell back into the silence of loss and torment that they endured each day.
—
Sitting alone now in front of her lava-log fireplace with misty rays of sun strobing the hearth, Jules was remembering how keenly everyone had assured her that the trial would bring closure. “Once it’s all over,” they’d said, “and that monstrous girl is behind bars, you’ll be able to move on.”
/> No one had mentioned Dean; it was as though it was impossible to make any sense of his involvement, and Jules had to admit she hardly knew what she felt about it either. Something else no one mentioned—or perhaps they hadn’t known—was what a harrowing ordeal it would be to sit in the courtroom every day, listening to the evidence while looking at Amelia Quentin, and be unable to stop herself seeing over and over what she had done to Daisy. The contorted face, the savagery, the demented stabbing, the screams, and the blood, Daisy’s blood…To others it might not seem likely that this ordinary-looking, po-faced girl with mousy brown hair and nervous eyes could commit such a violent atrocity, but Jules knew what evil lay behind that fake demeanor.
Though they weren’t surprised to find cameras and reporters outside the Crown Court when they arrived on the first day, the media presence felt invasive, to the point of humiliating. Jules clung tightly to Kian’s and Joe’s arms as they passed through the large revolving doors, while Aileen, Em, Don, and Danny kept in close behind.
Dickon Bruce, the prosecuting Queen’s Counsel, came to find them in the main lobby. He was a burly man in his late fifties with wiry gray hair and a voice so thickly plummy that it wasn’t always easy to understand him. “DS Field won’t be giving evidence,” he informed them while glancing through the papers he was carrying. “DC Leo Johnson will be taking the stand in his place.”
During the several times they’d met Dickon Bruce over the recent weeks, none of them had found it possible to warm to him, mainly because his voice was so like Anton Quentin’s. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he barely looked at them as he spoke, and that he seemed to feel more inconvenienced by this trial than determined to make sure justice was served. If Jules and Kian had had the power to sack him, they would have done so, but they didn’t get to choose who represented the state; that singular privilege belonged to the Crown Prosecution Service, the same service that had allowed the charge to be reduced from murder to manslaughter with provocation.
Dickon’s junior, Laura Cosgrove, a woman of around fifty, was friendlier, albeit in a brusque, slightly dismissive way.
It was fifteen minutes before the trial was due to begin that an angel in the guise of Andee Lawrence had found them in the court’s annexed cafeteria and come to introduce herself. She was a tall woman with lustrous dark hair clipped tightly back from her oval face, and compelling aquamarine eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses.
After taking Jules and Kian to a separate table, she said, “Dougie Farnham, the mayor, asked me to come. He’s my children’s grandfather on their father’s side. I’m actually with the Met, but my kids and I are here on holiday at the moment and Dougie felt you might need some impartial moral support.”
The mention of the mayor’s name along with a kind face seemed to Jules like a spark of light trying to break through at the end of the darkest tunnel.
“You mean a lot to Dougie,” Andee told them softly, “and Daisy did too….Actually, my kids knew Daisy from the holidays they spent here—they went to a lot of her shows—so they’re also very keen for me to support you in any way I can. It’ll be unofficial, of course, and if you feel you don’t need anyone—”
“No, we need someone,” Jules broke in hastily.
The warmth of Andee’s smile felt like the familiar chords of a beloved melody playing straight into Jules’s heart; she instinctively knew that this woman was someone they could trust, who really did mean to be there for them. “There seems to be a lot going on that we don’t really understand,” Jules admitted. “Of course we’ve asked, but we never get any straight answers.”
“Such as?” Andee prompted.
“Well, like reducing the charge to voluntary manslaughter with provocation. Why, how, did that happen?”
“It’ll be because the defense has either shown evidence or provided persuasive argument to convince the CPS that manslaughter with provocation is the more accurate charge. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what evidence or argument was put forward, but obviously it’ll come out in the trial—and make no mistake, that charge can also carry a life sentence.”
“But not necessarily,” Kian stated.
“No, not necessarily.”
Jules said, “We’re starting to feel more like the criminals than the victims.”
Andee nodded sympathetically. “Dougie was afraid that might happen, which is why he asked me to meet you. I’ve had some experience of how tough these situations can be on families.” She glanced at her watch. “We don’t have a lot of time now, but any questions that come up during the day, anything you don’t understand or need to be sure about, make a note and we’ll meet later to go through it.”
Jules and Kian looked round as someone called their names from the cafeteria door.
“Your barrister will be wanting to talk to you before the trial begins,” Andee explained. “Dickon Bruce is leading?”
Kian nodded. “Is he good?”
“I’ve never been in court with him, but he has a lot of experience and a reasonable track record. I’m sure it won’t come as any surprise that no expense has been spared for Amelia’s defense; the reduced charge is already evidence of their influence. But by all accounts Dickon Bruce is no lightweight. Oh, one small piece of advice before you go: avoid the press as much as you can. Do you have a spokesperson?”
“Daisy’s boyfriend wants to take it on,” Kian told her.
“Where is he?”
“Over there with the others. He’s trying to be strong for us all, but he’s just a boy really, and I don’t think he’s any closer to getting over it than we are.”
“It’ll be good for him to feel useful.”
Glad to have her own instinct confirmed, Jules said, “The court’s going to be quite full of our friends and family.”
Andee smiled. “It’s good that you have their support. It’ll mean a lot over the coming days, and don’t be afraid to lean. It’s what they’re here for.”
As they prepared to go to the barrister, Jules turned back and looked into Andee’s unusual eyes. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly. “I hope this doesn’t put too much of a burden on you, but I feel better already just knowing you’re here.”
—
Their first sight of Amelia Quentin, already seated in the dock when Jules and Kian arrived in the courtroom, made Jules feel sick to her soul. The girl looked nothing like Daisy now. Gone were the blond curls and rosy cheeks; her hair was its usual lank and mousy sadness, while her gray woolen dress appeared at least two sizes too big for her. She couldn’t have looked more pathetic or vulnerable if she’d been half her age and truly innocent. Without uttering a word she was managing to portray the image of a wretched, lonely young woman who really shouldn’t be where she was, so please let me go home where I belong.
Then her eyes met Jules’s.
The moment was so fleeting that anyone else might have missed it, but Jules felt it like a physical force. There was no misunderstanding the burn of Amelia’s gaze, which conveyed triumph, even pleasure, and no remorse at all.
I warned you you’d be sorry.
Feeling herself breaking into a sweat, Jules clenched her hands tightly and silently swore that no matter what happened in this court, that girl was going to pay the full price for what she’d done.
Sitting beside Amelia in a navy suit and dark red tie, Dean kept his head down throughout the lengthy process of the jury being sworn in, looking up only once when it was plain to see how very afraid he was. His parents were in court, but they avoided eye contact with everyone and, like their son, kept their heads down as the trial got under way.
The first day was mostly taken up with the prosecutor’s opening statement. It was rambling, unemotional, and often hard to follow, until he began describing what the jury would hear from the pathologist. At that point Jules found herself getting up and leaving. The detail was too graphic, and she didn’t need to hear it twice. When the pathologist took the stand, that would be enough; she could hear t
he details then of how many times Daisy had been stabbed before the actual blow that had caused her death, and how deeply the raffia string had cut into her wrists as she’d struggled to break free. She’d suffered horribly, both mentally and physically, Jules knew that. It was the detail of the injuries, along with the memory of what he’d seen when identifying the body, that kept Kian awake at night, tormenting him to the point of madness at times.
As she walked along the corridor she turned at the sound of the courtroom door opening, hoping it would be Kian, but it was a young woman with a shock of red hair and a concerned expression.
“Mrs. Bright? Are you OK?” she asked kindly.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” Jules replied, feeling sure she recognized the woman, though unable to place her for the moment.
“Heather Hancock,” she announced, holding out a hand to shake. “Kesterly Gazette. I’ve been trying to get hold of you. We’d be very interested in getting a—” She swung round, almost guiltily, as the courtroom door opened again and Andee Lawrence came through.
“Everything OK?” Andee asked, looking from Jules to the reporter and back.
For some reason Jules couldn’t think what to say.
Taking her arm, Andee threw a knowing look Heather Hancock’s way and led Jules along the echoey marble hall. “I saw her follow you,” she said quietly, “and guessed you might welcome a rescue.”
“Thanks,” Jules murmured. “They’re everywhere. You wouldn’t believe how much money we’ve been offered by some of the nationals.”
Andee’s eyebrows arched. “I probably would,” she said sardonically.
Jules looked on down the corridor to where a couple of gowned barristers were talking quietly to a woman in a pink suit. She didn’t know what to say or do; she was still finding it hard to connect with the fact that she was even inside this building, never mind playing such a major part in one of its dramas.