‘Shall I get stuff for you?’
‘Would you do that? I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘Sure. What size are you?’ She eyed Tabitha. ‘An eight, I think. Or a six. You’re tiny. What size feet?’
‘Thirty-seven. You’re being very kind to me.’
Michaela shrugged and looked uncomfortable: she didn’t like praise.
‘I was hoping you could do a bit more research for me.’
‘All right. I’m only working shifts at the pub at the moment.’
‘I made a list.’ Tabitha handed Michaela two sheets of paper.
‘What is this?’
‘All stuff the police took from my house. I’ve no idea why some of them are relevant. They probably have blood on them.’
Michaela nodded, giving the list a cursory glance. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I don’t know really. But look, these knives say, I want to know if one of them is older than the others, or doesn’t fit with them.’
‘I can give it a go.’
‘I wrote down serial numbers. Like that paint, or the plastic sheeting. It’s probably useless but I don’t know what else to do and I’ve got to do something or I’ll go mad just sitting here and waiting and knowing I’ve got pretty much nothing.’
‘You’re not feeling good, are you?’
‘Not great.’
There was a pause.
‘I feel like I should say something positive,’ said Michaela.
‘Don’t,’ said Tabitha. ‘I wouldn’t believe you.’
FORTY-EIGHT
Tabitha, sitting in the small room off the library, selected a sheet of paper from the sheaf that the librarian had given her. She unscrewed the lid of the pen and tested it on a page in her notebook to make sure it wasn’t about to run out.
She wrote her name at the top of the paper in her neatest cursive. Underneath it she wrote ‘Crow Grange’ and beside that her prison number. On the left-hand side of the paper she wrote the date: 11 May 2019.
Then, in capital letters in the centre of the page, she wrote: ‘DEFENCE STATEMENT.’
She paused. She had the strong urge to lie down on the floor and close her eyes. She recognised that urge, the insatiable desire to sleep away the time, a sleep that didn’t erase tiredness but added to it. She preferred burning with rage to this heavy weariness. Fight, Michaela had said. She rubbed her sore eyes.
What was her defence?
‘None of the evidence against me proves that I killed Stuart Rees,’ she wrote, making sure each letter was clear, each ‘i’ dotted.
She stared at what she had written. What else? She couldn’t think of anything but she needed to add something to this single, paltry sentence.
‘I intend to show that the prosecution case is built on the fact that I am an outsider in Okeham. Just because I could have done it does not mean that I did,’ she wrote, just so the statement took up more space on the blank whiteness of the page.
There was nothing else. She had spent all these weeks interviewing people, looking at CCTV footage, going over the facts and the statements again and again, and all she could come up with was this.
She was about to fold the sheet of paper in two and slide it into the A5 envelope when she remembered that she should add the names of witnesses she intended to call. Her head throbbed.
‘Witnesses,’ she wrote. She underlined the word.
She chewed her lip. She couldn’t think of a single person. Maybe she should call someone as a character witness, but who? Her old boyfriend, who had decided he wasn’t going to see her anymore? Her employer, who she had met twice and who hadn’t replied to her letter? Her friend Jane, who was living in Japan and who she hadn’t seen for three years? She thought of asking Shona – Shona, who was having an affair with Rob Coombe. She thought of asking Andy – Andy, who had told the police she had attempted to prevent him from discovering the body. The sense of her isolation, her loneliness, flooded into her like ice-cold water. She blinked.
‘To come,’ she wrote.
She folded the paper.
FORTY-NINE
‘What have you got there?’
‘Pork pie salad,’ said Dana, prodding at the mottled pink meat. ‘You?’
‘Soya lasagne. It’s horrible.’
‘It looks it.’
‘Not long now,’ said Tabitha. ‘Just keep going.’ She was talking to herself as well as to Dana. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.
Dana nodded. She was like a mole pushing its way through the earth, thought Tabitha. They both were.
After they’d eaten, they sat on Tabitha’s bed and Dana read out loud while Tabitha occasionally corrected or encouraged her. It was a fantasy novel, full of dragons and warriors and unsatisfactory magic, and her attention wandered. The sky through the window was still blue, that lovely deepening blue of evening.
They got into their nightclothes; they cleaned their teeth. When she spat into the sink, Tabitha saw that her gums were bleeding. Her mouth tasted of iron. Her head ached. She hadn’t had a period since being in prison, but now she had a dull ache in her lower back. Ten days to go, she thought. Less. Terror shot through her, turning her insides watery.
She imagined walking into the courtroom, men and women in their stupid wigs, standing in the dock, all eyes on her. She had nothing to say. She had nothing.
She sat in bed with her notebook and turned the pages, looked at the map with its drawings of the boats out at sea and the tractor beside the farmhouse. And of her house with its sheds. She looked at all the names again: Shona, Andy, Rob, Terry, Luke, Owen Mallon, Mel. She thought about Laura and her pursed mouth, that sense of her suppressing the story that was coiled tightly inside.
She thought about Stuart. She thought of him in that small car all those years ago, the stale air, him pulling up her skirt, pulling down her knickers. Why had she passively let him, neither encouraging not resisting, but limp, almost lifeless, staring out at the trees and waiting for it to be over? Why had she returned to the place where that had happened? Why, when there were so many things that made her furiously angry, had she never been angry about that until now, when like a hot ember, the fact of what he had done smouldered inside the dry tinder of her mind?
What had she done on that day of his murder?
She lay down. From far off, she could hear someone calling out for help, over and over again.
She shut her eyes tightly. Bluebells, she thought. Swallows. Floppy pink quince blossom; clean green leaves unfurling. The dark sea rolling in, tossing seaweed in hissing heaps onto the shingle. A moon. Stars. Out there.
Ten days.
‘Please,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Please.’
FIFTY
She was sitting in the library with her notebook, the contents of which she knew by heart now, even the crossings out, when Vera tottered in. Tabitha hadn’t seen her for days, maybe weeks; the women said she had gone to hospital with a chest infection. They said she was mad and getting madder. They laughed and tapped their temples with a forefinger. Vera looked ten years older, more. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her long white hair was dry as summer hay that you could crunch in your fists.
She came to a halt in front of Tabitha. She was carrying a large bundle of papers in her arms like it was a new baby and now she laid it on the table, where it spread out in a chaotic heap.
‘For you,’ she said. ‘All for you.’
‘But it’s yours, Vera,’ said Tabitha in a kind of panic. She didn’t want to be in possession of these scrawled sheets of paper. They were like a wild version of her own notebook, a kind of warning of what she herself might turn into. ‘You’ve worked on this for years. I can’t take it.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Vera. ‘I gift it to you. You can’t refuse.’ Suddenly her face took on a settled look; her eyes stopped darting around the room and met Tabitha’s. ‘It’s too late,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘My time
’s over.’
‘No, Vera.’
‘Yours,’ said Vera and pushed the papers towards Tabitha. Some of them fell into her lap and others to the floor. Like she was uttering a curse, she repeated, ‘I gift it.’
‘Then thank you,’ said Tabitha helplessly.
She watched Vera leave, empty-handed, listing as she walked and her feet sliding on the floor.
‘Poor lady,’ said the librarian.
‘Yes.’ Tabitha looked at the pile in front of her. ‘What shall I do with all this? I can’t just throw it away.’
‘I’ll keep it for you if you want. Put it in a drawer for the time being.’
‘Thank you.’
Galia picked up the bundle.
‘This might come in useful, though,’ she said, and pulled out a dog-eared paperback with an austere dark green cover. ‘I gave it to Vera myself a few months ago.’
She handed it across to Tabitha: How to Defend Yourself in Court. Tabitha opened it up and flicked through the pages. Vera had scribbled things illegibly in the margins and turned down the corners of several pages.
‘I guess it might,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
* * *
It gave her something to do. She had lots of time so she read it through slowly, word for word, and she made notes in her moleskin book, which was practically full now and perhaps looked as mad as Vera’s pile of papers.
It is vital you understand the law relevant to your defence.
Call the judge ‘My Lord’ or ‘My Lady’.
Never interrupt.
Preparation is the key: work out what your case is.
Support what you say with evidence: witnesses, documents, physical objects, expert witnesses.
Disclosure: you are obliged to set out in a numbered list all the documents that are relevant.
There are serious consequences in making a statement that you do not believe to be true.
Dismantle your opponent’s argument.
Fill everything with doubt.
Behaviour and intent.
You can bring a friend, known as a McKenzie friend – this can be family or friend. They can help by providing support, taking notes, helping with case papers and quietly giving advice. (They cannot speak in court, except in rare cases when they have permission from the judge to right of audience.)
Dress smartly.
Arrive early.
Speak slowly and clearly.
It’s all about performance: stand straight, keep still, use limited hand movements, don’t shout.
Tabitha looked at what she had written. Some of it didn’t apply to her. Some of it was too late – she had, for instance, already sent off her entirely hopeless defence statement with no supporting evidence, and she had no control over what time she arrived at the court. Mostly it didn’t tell her what she needed to know; but then, she didn’t even know what she needed to know.
She closed the book.
FIFTY-ONE
‘The search took ages. They did it once for security and once for fun. It’s that thin warder; she always hated me and she hates me even more now she can’t lock me into my cell. What do you think?’
Michaela held up the dark grey suit. The trousers were baggy, cinched at the waist, and the jacket had thin lapels and a ripped crimson lining.
‘I think it’s nice. How much did it cost you?’
‘Fourteen quid. A bargain. And I got these boots.’
She pulled some neat black ankle boots out of the bag.
‘Size thirty-seven,’ she said. ‘Try them on.’
‘They look brand new,’ said Tabitha suspiciously.
‘I didn’t steal them if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Michaela said. ‘They belong to my aunt’s partner’s stepdaughter.’
‘That’s kind of her.’
‘She doesn’t know. She won’t miss them though; she’s got a ridiculous number of shoes. You can just wear tee shirts under the jacket. I got a couple of basic white ones from Primark. They’re in the bag.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tabitha. ‘I owe you.’
Michaela waved her hand airily.
‘Any luck on those searches?’
‘Searches? Oh, that list you gave me. I’ll do it as soon as I leave here.’
‘I was going to ask you something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re still not working?’
‘Only shifts sometimes. Why?’
‘I was wondering if you’d be my McKenzie friend.’
‘What?’
‘I’m allowed to have someone in court. I’ve been reading up about it. To support me, give me advice, that kind of thing. It’s not like being a lawyer, of course; you’re not allowed to talk or ask questions.’
‘You want me in court? Are you joking?’
‘Well…’ Tabitha faltered. ‘If you don’t want to—’
‘Want to? I’d fucking love to.’
* * *
Three days before the trial, Tabitha started to feel sick. She couldn’t eat and beads of sweat pricked her forehead. Her tongue felt large and her legs unsteady; her stomach churned with dread.
Her eczema and her mouth ulcers flared up. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, which she tried not to do, she was unsettled by her thin, hollow-eyed face under the unruly mop of hair. She looked like a prisoner. She looked like someone who was not of sound mind.
Her sleep, when it came at all, was shallow and fitful and full of nasty dreams.
She sat in the library and read through all the prosecution documents. More had arrived over the past weeks, but she couldn’t see that they made any difference to anything.
She looked at the lists of witnesses they were calling. Alongside the pathologist, the forensic scientists, the police officers, she saw names she didn’t recognise and some that she did. Andy’s was among them and her chest ached. She turned the paper over so she didn’t need to look at it.
She looked again through her notebook. She still had the itchy sense that she was missing something, but every time she tried to grasp it, it slipped out of her mind.
She tried on the clothes that Michaela had brought in. The boots fitted perfectly, but the suit was slightly too big. She rolled up the cuffs and stood in front of the mirror, looking like a scarecrow. She said, ‘I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ Her voice rasped. She wondered if it was too late to call Mora Piozzi.
The afternoon before, she washed her hair and combed it straight. She sat in her cell with an egg sandwich that made her stomach heave. She tried to help Dana with her reading, as if this was just another evening, but all the words blurred.
She lay in bed and thought she would never sleep, but she must have done because she lurched awake with a feeling of panic and the sky outside her window was a brightening grey. It was today and she wasn’t ready and when she stood up her heart bumped and her breath came in shallow gasps.
She washed and brushed her teeth. She put on the new white tee shirt and the suit; she pulled the boots on. She combed her hair until it lay flat on her scalp.
She met herself in the mirror. ‘Good luck, Tabitha Hardy,’ she said.
PART TWO Prosecution
FIFTY-TWO
Tabitha had only glimpsed the front of Harwood Crown Court out of the little window of the transport vehicle. It could have been any modern public venue with its sweep of steps leading up to plate-glass doors. A regional theatre, perhaps, a concert hall or library. But the vehicle turned down a side street and, handcuffed to a warder she had never seen before, Tabitha was led in the back way past parked cars and large steel rubbish bins. She was hardly aware of her surroundings, just the squeak of her rubber-soled shoes on lino, the walls painted a glossy institutional cream colour. She found herself – almost as if she had just woken up – in a short corridor with two cells on each side. One of them was open, waiting for her. She was led inside, her handcuff was unlocked and she was left alone, locked in.
Tabitha looked round slowly. A middle-aged man and a young woman were looking down at her. The man had a florid face with short curly grey hair. He was wearing a pinstriped double-breasted suit, white shirt, sober dark tie and black leather shoes. The woman was dressed in a black skirt and jacket, white shirt with low-heeled black leather shoes. Her blond hair was tied back in a bun. She had minimal make-up, the palest of red lipstick and no nail varnish. Both of them were immaculate in almost every detail, down to the man’s silver cufflinks. Their clothes looked as if they had not just been cleaned but brushed. Their shoes were polished so that they shone. There was just a touch of raffishness in the man’s hairstyle, a fuzziness, but even that seemed to denote confidence. By comparison, Tabitha’s clothes – the clothes that Michaela had bought on her behalf – felt shabby and cheap and even fraudulent, like a badly made costume.
‘I’m Simon Brockbank,’ the man said. ‘I’m acting for the crown.’ He paused. ‘That means I’m the prosecutor. This is my colleague, Elinor Ackroyd. She’ll be assisting me.’
Brockbank spoke as if he were already just a little bored by the proceedings. His accent, his whole demeanour, immediately made Tabitha feel inadequate, under-prepared, under-educated. And then she felt angry with herself.
‘I suppose you’re here to tell me that I’m stupid to be defending myself.’
‘It’s a little late for that,’ said Brockbank. ‘That particular train has left the station.’
‘I’ve got a McKenzie friend, though.’
‘Good for you,’ said Brockbank. ‘Some kind of lawyer?’
‘My ex-cellmate.’
He glanced across at his colleague and leaned back against the door. He unfastened the buttons of his jacket, revealing a waistcoat. He put his hands in his trouser pockets.
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