House of Correction

by French, Nicci

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘As you so usefully reminded Mr Brockbank, I rule this court.’

  * * *

  Laura Rees made a good witness. She was dressed soberly, in a dark suit that she probably wore to funerals, with low-heeled shoes and a flowery blue scarf tied carefully round her neck. Her hair was neat but softer than usual. She looked like what she was: a solidly respectable, trustworthy, unflamboyant Englishwoman in her middle age who would tell the unvarnished truth and be incapable of lying.

  The press gallery was crammed and the public gallery too. Glancing up, Tabitha saw strangers looking down at her with greedy curiosity.

  There was complete silence as Laura Rees was led through her testimony. Elinor Ackroyd was asking the questions, woman to woman. She had a beautiful voice, low and clear. Her face was eloquent with sympathy. Tabitha, seated at the bench with a pile of papers in front of her and her notebook on her lap, could hardly bear to listen.

  It began, as she had known it must, with the abuse of fifteen years ago. She kept her head ducked down as Laura Rees answered the questions, but even so she felt dozens of eyes watching her, examining her, undressing her until she was naked and a wretched teenager again, and she had a sense of such shame and vulnerability that if she could have crawled under the desk she would have done.

  Yes, Laura Rees had been aware of the episode at the time. (Tabitha scribbled a note on the use of the singular noun.)

  Yes, her husband had confessed to her. He had been very upset and contrite. He had promised nothing like this had ever happened before and it would never happen again.

  Elinor Ackroyd asked, very delicately, about the illegality of it: he was in his forties and Tabitha’s teacher; she had been fifteen. Laura Rees answered her steadily, though her voice was slightly hoarse and every so often she stopped to take a sip of water. It was very wrong, she said. But her husband had sworn that Tabitha had initiated it and he had been weak and foolish. Michaela hissed something inaudible under her breath.

  Yes, Laura continued, she had chosen to believe him. (Tabitha scribbled another note about the wording.)

  And she had forgiven him because she was his wife, stayed with him because she was his wife: as wives do all over the world, she was implying, and Pinky and Smiley, and Blinky, Posh, Comfy and Doc all leaned forward slightly, united in their shared understanding of what wives do and what wives know. Tabitha scowled down at her ringless hands with their bitten fingernails. Michaela calmly put a tab of chewing gum in her mouth.

  ‘It was a relief when she moved away,’ said Laura Rees. ‘We could go back to normal.’

  Tabitha wanted to leap up and howl: what about me, what about what I felt, what about me never being able to go back to normal? But though she visibly squirmed in her seat she kept quiet.

  Now they had jumped forward to the weeks leading up to the murder and Tabitha’s return to the village.

  ‘You were suddenly neighbours,’ said Elinor Ackroyd.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  Laura Rees hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘It had happened so long ago. You just get on with things, don’t you? Make do.’

  ‘How did your husband feel?’

  ‘He didn’t talk about it and I didn’t ask him. But I know he felt very anxious.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he told me that we had to leave the village.’

  ‘Let me get this absolutely clear: you are saying that as soon as the accused returned to Okeham your husband decided you had to leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you quite sure that the two things are connected?’

  ‘What other reason would there be?’

  ‘Did you ask him directly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Laura Rees took another drink of water. ‘Because I already knew,’ she said. ‘So why confront him? It would only muddy the waters.’

  ‘Did you put your house on the market?’

  ‘Yes. We were going to have viewings early in the new year.’

  They moved on to the day itself. Tabitha flicked through her notes but couldn’t find the pages where she had written things about Laura. Her hands were sweaty. Laura’s uninflected, hoarse voice and Elinor Ackroyd’s clear, low one went on, back and forth: how Laura had left home at 9.30am to see a client; how she had returned at 3.30pm, earlier than usual because her son was coming home for Christmas; how her husband wasn’t there and nor was his car in the drive, but she hadn’t thought anything of that.

  There was nothing that Tabitha didn’t already know, hadn’t read several times. Laura Rees even used the same phrases she had used in her statement to the police. Everyone’s memories, thought Tabitha, were just memories of memories of memories of what they had said six months ago.

  It was very hot in the court. There was a fly buzzing nearby though she couldn’t see it. She twisted her head and found herself looking at a journalist on the press bench with small eyes and a double chin and he stared back then wrote something down. She returned to doodling in her notebook. She drew her house. She drew a fly. She drew a face and put a wig on it. She could feel her eyes grow heavy and she forced them wide. How could she be in danger of falling asleep when she was on trial for murder and the widow of the man she was meant to have killed was giving evidence a few feet from her?

  Then suddenly it was over. Elinor Ackroyd sat down. Laura Rees smoothed her hair and fiddled with her scarf and her eyes flickered briefly across to Tabitha. The judge ordered a break. The court all rose.

  * * *

  ‘I know this is hard for you,’ said Tabitha. ‘And it must feel really weird as well. It does for me too.’

  ‘Ms Hardy,’ came the judge’s voice.

  ‘What? Is that a wrong thing to say? I don’t know how this works,’ she said to Laura, ‘but I need to ask you a few questions, so well, yes. Here goes.’

  She cleared her throat. Her mind had gone horribly blank. Along the bench, Simon Brockbank was gently bouncing a pen on the desk. The sound of it ticked in her head.

  ‘Can you stop that?’ she said and he serenely laid down his pen and folded his arms.

  ‘Yes, as I was saying. Just a couple of things. First off, the abuse, affair, whatever.’ Her whole body was hot and itchy; she could feel her face become scarlet. ‘You said it was just once.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. You said “episode”. That’s singular. Do you still believe it was just once?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Laura.

  Their eyes met, and it felt neither hostile nor friendly.

  ‘Do you accept it might have been more?’

  ‘It might have been, yes.’

  ‘If I said it was multiple times, would you be surprised?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you. And also…’ She glanced down at the scrawled notes she had made. ‘You also said you chose to believe your husband when he said I’d started it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you still choose to believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Laura said again.

  ‘So if I were to—’ Tabitha felt Michaela pulling on her jacket. ‘What?’ she said, breaking off. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Laura. ‘Hang on.’

  She leaned towards Michaela, who whispered urgently, ‘I think this is making it worse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you see, all this – him coming on to you, it going on for longer – makes it more likely you’d want to kill him, not less?’

  ‘Oh.’

  She stood up straight again, faced Laura.

  ‘Can I ask you about this business of moving? Does it really make sense that it was because of me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean, did he ever say I had threatened him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because whatever Pauline Leavitt said, I hadn’t.’<
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  ‘Ms Hardy!’ reprimanded the judge at the same time as Simon Brockbank got to his feet.

  ‘Sorry. OK. So he never actually said I’d been threatening him, is that right?’

  ‘All I know,’ said Laura Rees, ‘is that you arrived in Okeham at exactly the time he became anxious and decided to move.’

  ‘I want to ask you about the day itself. You went to meet a client?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you never met him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I think it’s odd.’

  Brockbank was picking at his nails and half-smiling to himself.

  ‘What is your point?’ asked Judge Munday.

  ‘I’m just saying it’s a bit fishy,’ said Tabitha. ‘And then your husband also had a meeting he didn’t get to.’

  ‘I don’t understand what the question is.’

  ‘Do you have any idea of where he was going that morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit strange?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? That neither of you got to your meetings?’

  Laura looked at her with something approaching pity. ‘A tree prevented him leaving the village, that’s all.’

  There was a titter from the public gallery. Tabitha looked up and tried to see where it came from and met row upon row of faces gazing down at her, craning their necks to get a clearer view. She’d lost track of where she was heading.

  She rifled uselessly through the papers in front of her. ‘Most of what you’ve told us is about what your husband told you.’

  ‘I’m just answering questions,’ said Laura Rees. ‘As best as I can.’

  ‘But what if you can’t trust him?’

  ‘I’ve warned you, Ms Hardy.’ This from the judge.

  ‘It’s all right, I can ask this. It’s relevant. Did you trust your husband not to lie to you, or to tell you things that were important and that you had a right to know?’

  There was a long silence. The fly buzzed. She could hear the faint, tacky sound of Michaela chewing her gum.

  ‘I was married to him,’ Laura said at last.

  ‘I know, and I know you believe in duty and stuff. But was it a good marriage?’ Vaguely, she heard the judge speaking sternly and Brockbank objecting, but she ploughed on. ‘Or did he treat you badly too?

  ‘He was my husband,’ said Laura. A single fat tear began to roll down her cheek.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tabitha. ‘Sorry, but this is my life on the line.’

  ‘No more questions,’ said Judge Munday.

  ‘I think he was a bully and cruel to you and you were unhappy; I think he was cruel to lots of people; I think lots of people wanted—’

  ‘Stop right now!’

  ‘Can I ask her one more question?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Do you really think I did it?’ she asked Laura.

  Michaela was tugging on her jacket urgently again, trying to shut her up.

  ‘Clear the court.’

  Laura looked directly at Tabitha. ‘Didn’t you?’

  * * *

  ‘That was really stupid,’ said Michaela grimly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Asking if she thought you did it.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Promise me never to ask that question again.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘No. I mean it. If you want me to do this, promise me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  * * *

  Tabitha leaned over the lavatory bowl and vomited, until she had nothing left in her stomach and was only retching. When she was done, she washed her hands and her face; she felt frail and used up and grimy all over.

  The police officer stood by and watched, without saying anything. Then she took Tabitha out to the van and the van took her back through the gorgeous June day to her cell.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  When Tabitha saw Dr Owen Mallon in the witness box, she realised that she wasn’t the only one who was nervous. It was almost touching. She was used to seeing him in his running kit or a casual shirt and jacket. He’d been a friendly face and displayed a feeling of assurance that came from a doctor who knew people’s secrets, who looked beneath the surface. But now he was wearing a slightly ill-fitting suit and sober tie; his hair was brushed. He wasn’t sweating, but there was a stiffness about his expression that made him look different. And he was in court to give evidence for the prosecution.

  He affirmed rather than taking an oath on a Bible and as he took the card, Tabitha noticed that his hand trembled slightly and he glanced round, caught her eye and looked back at the card.

  ‘I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

  He looked back at the card as if not sure what to do with it. The court usher took it from him. Then Simon Brockbank stood up and gently began questioning him and Tabitha learned things about Dr Mallon she hadn’t known. He’d been trained in Nottingham, he had an extra degree in community medicine, and he’d taken a year off to work at a hospital in rural South Africa. She looked over at the jury. They looked blank, as usual, but surely they must be impressed. This prosecution witness was not just a doctor but a doctor who had spent a year treating the poor in Africa.

  ‘Would you describe yourself as a friend of Ms Hardy?’ Brockbank asked.

  Mallon looked doubtful. ‘An acquaintance, I suppose. We used to meet in the village. When I was out running and she was returning from a swim, that sort of thing.’

  ‘How would you describe her normal demeanour during these meetings?’

  ‘Objection!’ shouted Tabitha.

  ‘Please be quiet,’ said Judge Munday. She looked at Mallon. ‘Please proceed.’

  He seemed shaken by the interruption and the question had to be repeated.

  ‘I would say that she seemed moody, agitated.’

  ‘Could you be specific?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘She’d only been there for a few weeks. We nodded at each other, the way you do in the village. But there was one particular conversation we had when I asked her how things were going. She said that things weren’t going well, so I asked why she’d come back and she said “unfinished business”.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Brockbank. ‘Unfinished business. That’s an interesting phrase. What did you make of it?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure what to make of it.’

  ‘Did it make you feel concerned?’

  ‘I was concerned for her.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Tabitha in a sarcastic mutter that came out louder than she intended.

  ‘Please, Ms Hardy,’ said Judge Munday. ‘You can address witnesses through me – when appropriate – or you may address the court, but you must not make comments like that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tabitha in a sulky tone.

  She was about to raise herself up to start questioning, without any clear idea of what question she was going to ask, but Brockbank started speaking again.

  ‘You were saying that Ms Hardy seemed agitated?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘But being agitated is one thing. Another issue is whether Ms Hardy had a propensity to violence.’ Brockbank paused as if deep in thought. ‘Did you see any suggestion of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tabitha felt a jolt of alarm. What was this?

  ‘I was coming back from a run, and ahead of me I saw Ms Hardy and this local man, Robert Coombe. They were having, well…’ He was searching for the right word.

  ‘An altercation?’ said Brockbank. ‘An argument?’

  ‘I only came along as it was ending. She was walking away. I had to help him.’

  ‘Help him? Why?’

 
; ‘His nose was bleeding. I had to check that it wasn’t broken.’

  Brockbank turned to the jury with a theatrical expression of surprise and dismay.

  Tabitha was sitting, stunned, when Michaela leaned across and hissed in her ear, ‘That wasn’t in the statement.’

  It was like she had woken Tabitha from a dream. She immediately called out, ‘What’s going on? That wasn’t in his statement. What’s going on?’

  ‘Please,’ said Judge Munday. ‘If you have something to say, you stand up, Mr Brockbank will yield to you and then you can speak. In a level tone.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tabitha, standing up and taking a breath. ‘That wasn’t in Dr Mallon’s statement. Is that OK?’

  Judge Munday glanced sharply at Brockbank. ‘Is that true?’

  Brockbank coughed. ‘Well, I, er…’ He coughed again.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Clear the court.’

  The jury members got to their feet, gathered notebooks, pens and water bottles and trailed out of the court. The public gallery and the press gallery also emptied. Finally there was silence.

  ‘Mr Brockbank,’ said Judge Munday. ‘What’s going on?’

  Simon Brockbank and Elinor Ackroyd had been huddled together, whispering urgently. Now he looked round and hastily stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in a quite a different tone from any he had used before. ‘There must have been a failure of communication. Dr Mallon was re-interviewed. Someone must have forgotten to, er…’

  ‘Follow their legal responsibility to send it to the defence? Is that what you mean, Mr Brockbank?’

  ‘I apologise to the court,’ he said, bowing his head slightly. ‘I’m minded to stop that entire line of examination.’

  ‘What good’s that?’ said Tabitha. ‘You’ve said it now. You told the jury that I got into a fight. What are you going to do? Tell them that they have to forget it because of some technicality?’

  Everything about Judge Munday looked very stern, her tightened lips, her furrowed brow. And for once it wasn’t aimed at Tabitha.