House of Correction

by French, Nicci

  Mel once more – as if her job consisted of walking round the village looking cheerful and ready to help.

  Laura’s car arriving. Lev departing in his van.

  And the bus returning, sliding past the camera. A different child’s face clear at the window. Children running into the street, in Christmas spirits.

  Rob collecting his daughter.

  Andy walking past on his way to Tabitha’s house. Then the police car, blue lights in the darkness. Then the ambulance. Then another police car.

  And then people gathering at the shop like flies round a carcass. Because someone was dead. Someone had been murdered.

  She finally pressed pause and the film froze on the birch tree in the empty darkness. She could almost hear the sea, the shining black waves rolling in, curling down on the shingle and rock, and feel the bitter sting of salty wind on her cheeks. She was done. And she knew. At last she knew.

  * * *

  Tabitha thought she would feel exhilarated or at least relieved, but she didn’t. She felt drained of all emotion.

  She sat on the edge of her bed and made herself breathe deeply, in and out like a tide ebbing and flowing, and gradually it came to her that she didn’t know what she was going to do.

  It was a question, she thought, of how much she prized her freedom. When she had first arrived at Crow Grange, over six months ago, she had thought she would go mad in prison, that she would suffocate there. But now she had to ask herself if she valued her own freedom more than someone else’s, which was a way of asking how much she valued herself: that misshapen, botched, heavy thing she had dragged along through the years of despair and anger and satisfaction and moments of hope and release. She thought of herself hammering nails into the wall, hauling timber across the yard, building herself a life that she wasn’t sure she wanted to live in.

  She would have asked God what to do, but she didn’t have a god. Or her parents, but she didn’t have them either. If she turned to Michaela she knew exactly what her response would be – incredulity and anger that Tabitha was even thinking she had an option. Nobody could tell her what to do, because it was her own freedom and life that was at stake here.

  She found her battered notebook whose torn and scrawled-over pages were a record of the past months and also felt, in their mess and urgency and erasures, like the inside of her brain: maps and timelines and crossings out and doodles and notes to herself and names and lists and questions and night terrors. There were only a couple of blank pages at the end, but this was the last time she would need to write in it. She uncapped her pen.

  The question was this: would she be found not guilty anyway, without revealing what she now knew? She wrote everything down, unnecessarily neat, numbering points, and then she sat for a long time staring at what she had. She knew that she had done all right in discrediting some of the less important evidence: the old woman who claimed to have heard her from a distance threatening Stuart but who turned out to be rather deaf; Mel, who had her times muddled up and who was involved in a feud with the murdered man; Rob Coombe, who bore a grudge against both Stuart and presumably Tabitha herself – she had after all punched him in the face. She had confused the assumed timeline, thrown not only the time of death but the place into doubt.

  But at the start of the case the prosecution had talked about the three cornerstones of their case against Tabitha: evidence, opportunity and motive. She had the opportunity and the motive remained. Even if Stuart had been killed in his own home, rather than in Tabitha’s, she had been nearby and she couldn’t work out how anyone else could have been. And he had abused her when she was fifteen and his student.

  So had she done enough? She thought of the twelve jurors. What would they think? What would Scary think, or Posh, or the ponytail man or Smiley? Sometimes they had looked hostile; sometimes amused, interested, curious, pained, disgusted. She couldn’t read them. Michaela said that some of them were beginning to warm to Tabitha, but she had no idea if that was true or if that made any difference in the end, because it came down to cold facts, to the balance of probability, to whether or not they thought that Tabitha had murdered Stuart.

  She wondered what she would think, if she were a member of the jury. Would she believe that the small, unkempt woman who had been abused by the murdered man when an unhappy schoolgirl, who had been depressed and angry for years, who shouted a lot and swore and punched people on the nose when they offended her, who swam in icy seas to try to keep sane, who had tried to stop Andy from discovering the body, who even the one person she called a friend believed she had probably done it…

  She stood up abruptly, slightly dazed by what she was about to do. Of course she couldn’t know what verdict the jury would reach. It wasn’t possible to make a rational calculation, because this was a decision that was not based on reason or logic or even an educated guess. It was a leap in the darkness; an act of faith or of selfhood. It was about who she was and who she wanted to be.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Detective Chief Inspector Keith Dudley was by some way the most smartly dressed witness to appear. Luke and Andy had both mentioned his sharp style and today his dark suit looked brushed, like a politician’s. His cufflinks gleamed. His dark hair was parted in a line that was geometrically straight. As he stood in the witness box, he looked around the courtroom with an almost amused expression. He seemed more at home than anyone there. When he turned towards Tabitha, she saw that his eyes were a startling grey colour, almost beautiful. She could imagine being questioned by him. The idea of it frightened her.

  Tabitha had thought for days and days about whether it was sensible – whether it was sane – to call the man who had been in charge of the inquiry, the man who knew all the evidence against her; who had a face like an axe or a hatchet. She had talked it over with Michaela. It felt like a desperate last throw of the dice. This was the last thing the jury would hear. If it went wrong, if he had something damaging and new, it could do for her.

  But she had her list of questions. She picked up the piece of paper and it shook so much that she had to put it down just to be able to read it. She picked up a glass of water. She sipped from it and replaced it on the table. The courtroom was so quiet that the sound of the glass on the wood was clearly audible. She looked round. The public gallery and the press gallery were packed, people crammed together, leaning forward. She felt like the victim of an accident with onlookers ghoulishly curious to look at the damage.

  ‘You were in charge of the inquiry,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But it’s the first time we’ve met.’

  ‘We’re meeting now. And I’ve seen you of course.’

  ‘Seen me?’

  ‘When you were in police custody and being interviewed. You were in a state of considerable agitation so I am not surprised you don’t remember.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tabitha, wishing she hadn’t asked.

  There was a silence. Tabitha knew that Dudley was a professional. He would keep his answers short. He wouldn’t say anything he didn’t have to say. He didn’t need to.

  ‘But you weren’t there when I was charged. Isn’t that unusual?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘But you were like…’ Tabitha paused, looking for the right word. ‘Responsible for the case, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dudley was standing with his hands on the edge of the box, the fingers of his right hand drumming silently. Tabitha looked down at her piece of paper and then back at Dudley.

  ‘Was I your only suspect?’ she asked

  ‘We always keep an open mind.’

  ‘I don’t really know how to ask this,’ Tabitha said. ‘I mean, when did I become the suspect, or the main suspect?’

  Dudley’s expression turned to puzzlement and then to something like amusement. It made Tabitha feel slightly sick.

  ‘Are you serious?’ he said. ‘Do you want me to spell it out?’

  ‘All right,’ said Ta
bitha, her mouth suddenly feeling dry. She took another drink of water.

  ‘It just became clear as we went on. The body was found in your house, you tried to conceal it from the man who found it. There was enough evidence as it was. Then it emerged that you had a motive and that you had lied about it.’

  ‘I didn’t lie about it.’

  ‘All right, you concealed it.’

  ‘I don’t think “concealed” is the right word.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Judge Munday. ‘I need to say something at this point.’ She turned to the jury. ‘This may be a difficult point to grasp, but you need to consider this: an innocent person is not required to give possibly damaging information about themselves. I hope that’s clear. Continue, Ms Hardy.’

  Tabitha wasn’t clear whether the judge’s intervention had been helpful or unhelpful. She looked down at her questions.

  ‘You haven’t been in court. So maybe I can tell you some of what you missed—’

  Judge Munday interrupted sharply. ‘You’re to ask questions, Ms Hardy.’

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll try and do it as questions.’ She looked down at her piece of paper. ‘It’s obvious that right from the beginning you were so sure that it was me that it stopped you looking in other directions.’ Tabitha paused and remembered that she needed to ask a question. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘No, it isn’t right.’

  ‘I want to ask you a couple of things about the evidence that the scene of crime person gave.’

  ‘I can’t comment on scientific details,’ Dudley said, with just a hint of uneasiness.

  ‘These aren’t very scientific. The first is about the blood. Stuart Rees’s throat was cut. There was blood on his body, on the plastic sheet that had been wrapped around his body, on me and on my friend Andy. But the interesting thing is where the blood wasn’t, which is basically everywhere else. There was no blood on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling.’

  ‘From what I remember there was blood on the floor.’

  ‘Those were shoe prints from where we trod in the blood. But nowhere else. Doesn’t that seem a bit strange to you?’

  Dudley gave a sniff. ‘Not really. Every crime scene is different.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Tabitha. She looked back down at her notes. ‘All the stuff you took away, you stored at a warehouse.’ Dudley waited. ‘Not a police station or a government building or whatever. Just an ordinary commercial storage place.’ Again Dudley waited. ‘Right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit risky? I mean, evidence could get contaminated, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Not on my watch,’ said Dudley.

  ‘But I went there and there was other stuff in there as well as things connected to this case.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘Things could have got mixed up.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that happened?’

  ‘Well, not really, I’m saying it could have.’ A pause. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘But it didn’t.’

  Tabitha felt her cheeks burning. ‘It just suggests a slapdash operation,’ she said. ‘No one cared really. You thought you just had me and it didn’t matter.’ Dudley looked at her without speaking, and Tabitha, leaning forward, practically shouted: ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘No.

  ‘How about this? I just mentioned the plastic sheeting. My friend Michaela here did what you should have done: she found out where the sheeting came from. It was from a delivery company and it was used to deliver a sofa.’

  Dudley shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but not to my house. The sofa was delivered to Stuart Rees’s house. Does that seem interesting?’

  Another shrug. ‘I suppose it was in Mr Rees’s car.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ said Tabitha. ‘So did you check the car?’

  ‘We checked it, yes.’

  ‘No, I mean a full search, blood and fibres and all that kind of stuff you see on CSI.’

  Dudley looked hesitant. ‘I’d need to check the file.’

  ‘We already did,’ said Tabitha, ‘and – spoiler fucking alert – you didn’t.’

  ‘Please, please, Ms Hardy,’ said Judge Munday. Tabitha looked over at the judge and her head was resting in her hands. She raised her head wearily. ‘In any other case, Ms Hardy, I would have you hauled off to the cells. I know it’s a lot to ask, to keep on asking that is, but could you treat this courtroom with some remnant of respect?’

  Tabitha took a breath. ‘Sorry, I got carried away.’ She looked down at her piece of paper and across at Michaela and back at her paper. There was only one question left. She had been thinking of it ever since Lev Wojcik had left the witness box. She had talked it over with Michaela. She was almost afraid to ask it. She needed to lead up to it.

  ‘You sent an officer to interview Lev Wojcik, the man who delivered a package to Stuart Rees on the morning he died. Why didn’t you do it yourself?’

  ‘Because I don’t do all the interviews. It’s not necessary.’

  ‘Your officer asked if he met Stuart Rees and at what time. But she forgot to ask the crucial follow-up question: what did they talk about?’

  Tabitha waited. Dudley looked impassive but she could see from a slight flicker in his eyes that he was wondering what was coming.

  ‘You want me to tell you what they talked about?’ Tabitha continued.

  ‘Just say it,’ said Dudley irritably.

  Tabitha knew she had got under his skin. It made her feel better.

  ‘Wojcik is adamant that he told Stuart Rees that a tree had fallen across the road and that he was stuck in the village for several hours.’

  Dudley looked puzzled, as if he was wondering: is that it?

  ‘What do you think of that?’ Tabitha asked.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to give you a moment,’ Tabitha said. ‘I’ve spent months in prison and you put me there.’

  ‘I did not put you there.’

  ‘I lie awake every night, looking at the ceiling. Sometimes I’m wondering who’s going to be the next person to die in the prison and whether it’ll be me. But mainly I think about the case, over and over.’

  ‘Please, Ms Hardy,’ said Judge Munday, ‘ask a question.’

  ‘This is a question,’ said Tabitha. ‘I just haven’t got to the end of it yet. So, Detective Chief Inspector Dudley, I’ve mentioned the plastic sheet, I’ve mentioned the bloodstains and I’ve mentioned Lev Wojcik’s conversation with Stuart Rees. What does that make you think?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Nothing in particular.’

  ‘Can I say something that maybe you should think about?’

  Dudley didn’t reply. He just made a dismissive gesture with his hands.

  ‘I’ll start with the last bit. Have you seen the CCTV footage?’

  ‘I’ve seen the relevant bits.’

  ‘You saw that Stuart Rees drives past the shop at’ – she looked down at her notes – ‘ten-thirty-four.’

  ‘I don’t remember the exact time.’

  ‘And drives back just six minutes later. That’s barely enough time to get out of the village. Why did he come back?’

  ‘Because the road was blocked.’

  Tabitha didn’t speak. She just waited. Someone coughed in the public gallery. She could hear traffic outside.

  ‘Ms Hardy?’ said Judge Munday.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you have a question?’

  ‘I’m just waiting for the detective to think about his answer.’

  ‘We’re not here to watch people think. Please ask another question.’

  ‘All right. Why would Stuart Rees try to drive out of the village when he knew the road was blocked?’

  ‘Because he forgot,’ said Dudley.

  ‘Forty minutes after being told?’

  ‘He did, though, didn’t he?�
�

  ‘You mean Stuart Rees?’

  ‘Who else would I mean?’

  ‘I want to show you something.’ She turned to Michaela. ‘Have we sorted it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  It turned out that it hadn’t entirely been sorted. They had a laptop connected to large screens on two walls of the court. As Michaela tapped on the keyboard all that was visible on the screen were the desktop files.

  ‘It’s at about ten-thirty-four,’ said Tabitha in a hiss.

  ‘I know. I’m clicking on the file but nothing’s happening.’

  There were whispers around the court. Someone gave a single snort of laughter.

  ‘Have you tried restarting it?’ said Tabitha.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Michaela and then suddenly the image was there, and once more, even in the courtroom, Tabitha felt she was back in Okeham. There was only the movement of the tree branches to show that it wasn’t a fixed image. Tabitha looked at the time code. It was coming, coming and then, with perfect timing, the car swept across the screen and disappeared. Tabitha looked at Michaela.

  ‘Can you go back and freeze on the car?’

  She did so. Then she fast-forwarded six minutes and showed the car returning and she froze on that as well. Nothing could be seen inside the car, not even an outline.

  ‘You can’t make out Stuart Rees as the driver, can you?’

  ‘Who else would it be?’ said Dudley.

  ‘Can I suggest a different version?’ said Tabitha.

  ‘You can suggest anything you like.’

  ‘My suggestion is that the murder wasn’t committed in my house. It was committed in his house. That’s what the plastic sheeting suggests. Did you search Rees’s house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you do a forensic analysis of his house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then the killer wraps the body in the plastic sheeting and puts it in the boot of Rees’s car. The killer drives the car out of the village to dispose of the body but the road’s blocked and he or she has to turn back. They arrive back in the village. But where to leave the body? The immediately obvious hiding place would have been my house. Near Stuart’s house, a shed outside. The killer dumps the body, intending to come back for it later. What do you think of that?’