The Burning

by Jane Casey

  And I hadn’t heard from Rob since we’d gone our separate ways two days earlier.

  The six weeks between Louise’s appearance in the magistrates’ court and the next hearing passed quickly. There was Christmas to think about, and New Year’s Eve, and one unforgettably riotous night out for Godley’s team, when the superintendent put his credit card behind the bar and the lads did their very best to drink to its limit. We were still working to build the cases against Razmig Selvaggi and Louise North, and new jobs were coming in all the time demanding our attention, but somehow the pressure was off. We weren’t under scrutiny any more. We had done our bit.

  Six weeks was long enough for things to have changed for me, too. I’d found a flat to rent, for one thing, moving into a house in Camden. On paper, it was a step down from Primrose Hill, but it was bliss to be in my own space once again, no matter how small and poky that space may be.

  And there was Rob, of course. I still wasn’t sure exactly what we were doing and neither, I think, was he. We were both wary of moving things on too far, too fast. Although he seemed to have feelings for me, I wasn’t sure – wasn’t sure about trusting him, or risking my place on the squad, or getting involved with someone else so soon after Ian. I didn’t know what Rob thought about it. I spent a lot of time thinking about him, though. More than I would like to admit, even to myself.

  So a lot happened.

  But all the time, Louise was on my mind. I had been dreaming about her, waking up panicked and dry-mouthed. Somehow, the events of the night Selvaggi was arrested had got mixed up with my worries about Louise and the shock of finding out I had been wrong about her. In my dreams, I ran along dark paths, wet branches catching in my hair, my clothes, lashing my face. I saw her lying on the ground, helpless, her fair hair streaming on the ground above her head like a candle’s flame. A dark figure bent over her, threatening, unidentifiable. Sometimes I couldn’t reach her before I woke up. Sometimes I did, and found myself lying on the ground in her place. Once, the dark figure turned and plunged a flick knife into my stomach. Up close, I could see its eyes, silver grey, like Louise’s. I felt I had to see her, to remind myself of what she really was.

  Guilty, for starters.

  As we had expected she would, she applied for bail again at the plea and case management hearing in the Old Bailey. It was the court where she would eventually be tried, and I couldn’t help the shiver of excitement that raced through me as I passed through the security check and made my way to Court Number One.

  I had never been in the Old Bailey on official business before and the history of the place seemed to echo down every corridor: the notorious, the innocent, the insane and the downright evil had walked there before me through the centuries. I slipped through the double doors into Court One, which was small, oak-panelled and currently home to a long-running trial, so papers and files were stacked up all over the barristers’ benches, pushed to one side to make room for the briefs in Louise’s case. I sat in the seats by the door rather than going to the other side of the courtroom to sit in the benches behind the barristers and solicitors with the other police. Where I sat was closest to the dock, which was high, but not screened off so I would be able to see her clearly.

  Thaddeus Sexton was there, sweat beading on his forehead as he leaned over the back of the barristers’ bench to mutter comments to Louise’s QC and his junior. I had seen the QC outside the court, tall and red-faced with a scrape of grey hair across his domed head. He seemed totally confident, as if his success was guaranteed in advance, and I couldn’t suppress a squirm of doubt that the bail application would be refused. I looked up, scanning the public gallery above. The first person I saw was Gerald Haworth, sitting at the end of the front row, in what would be Louise’s line of sight. That, I imagined, had been his plan, and I hoped for his sake that he wasn’t planning to make a scene when she was produced from the cells. He was as immaculately dressed as ever, today in a dark grey suit and a sober blue tie. He looked distinguished but unexceptional, and you would never have guessed his relationship to victim and accused, or even that he was emotionally engaged with the proceedings at all. That was, unless you observed the slight tightening of the skin around his eyes and the bunched muscle in his jaw as the court usher bustled around the room, joking with the barristers who were already in their bench. His poise seemed tissue-paper thin, as if it would only take the slightest touch to shred it. I knew, of course – better than most – that what was life and death for one person was bread and butter for another. That was my job, after all – I made a living off other people’s tragedies too. And you couldn’t expect the court staff to be reverent all the time, no matter how serious the upcoming charge was. The banter was kindly and not offensive, but I felt for Gerald Haworth anyway. It must have been lacerating for him.

  The door behind me kept swinging open and I couldn’t help but look around each time to see a court reporter or a black-gowned barrister clapping a horsehair wig onto his or her head with a practised sweep. There were other journalists too, shuffling into the well of the court with nods to their colleagues. A hearing such as this wasn’t generally considered to be interesting, but Louise North was good copy, Rebecca an attractive victim. It would fill space in the newspapers the next day

  The door at the back of the public gallery banged and I looked up automatically, then did the classic double-take as Gil Maddick walked down the steps to the front row. If it was hard to see the strain in Gerald Haworth’s face, I had no trouble spotting it when I looked at the younger man. He had lost pounds in the six weeks since I’d last seen him, and his eyes looked sunken in his head. He edged along the row, apologising as he went, until he got to the empty seat beside Gerald Haworth, who lifted his coat on to his lap with a nod of acknowledgement. After a moment, the two men fell into conversation, and I remembered with a slight shock that of course Gil knew the Haworths well, that he had been a guest in their house on many occasions.

  The wholly ordinary door at the back of the dock now opened, and I felt a flutter of nerves under my ribcage. The two men in the gallery leaned forward as Louise was led out. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, but not tightly; loose waves of it were softly swept back from her face, making her look sober, serious and somehow younger. She had lost weight too, refining her appearance to something quite ethereal with eyes that looked huge in her narrow face. She wore a slate-grey wool dress that hung down in folds around her like a nun’s habit, and the only adornments she had allowed herself were tiny stud earrings and something on a silver chain that hung down under the high neckline of the dress. The chain glinted over her sharp collarbones, catching the light. Her skin was luminous, but with soft pallor rather than the glow of good health, and I found myself thinking of Mary Queen of Scots, whose complexion was said to be so translucent that onlookers could see red wine passing down her throat as she swallowed it. The expression on Louise’s face was grave but dignified. She stood for a moment and looked around the courtroom, meeting curious stares without any loss of composure, until she saw the two men in the public gallery. Haworth had half-risen to his feet and Gil put out a hand to restrain him. Louise stared at them, looking stricken, and one tear rolled down her thin cheek unheeded. It ran down onto the neck of her dress, where it made a charcoal stain on the fabric. I suppressed the urge to applaud. As a piece of theatre, it was sublime. It was her bad luck that the judge, still in his chambers, had missed it, worse luck that there was no jury to impress, and most unfortunate of all was the split-second change in her face when her eyes cut away from them and fell on me. Cold loathing was the kindest interpretation I could put on it, and I sat back in my seat, satisfied that I had done my job well.

  There was a sudden, sharp rap on the judge’s door, and a simultaneous, ‘Court rise,’ from the clerk of the court, thin and stooped in his black robe and wig. His Honour Judge Horace Fentiman bustled onto the bench, small, stout and peering through thick glasses. He blinked myopically around the room, looking
as if he was surprised to see anyone in front of him as the clerk asked Louise to stand and confirm her name. But when he spoke, the impression of bumbling vagueness was immediately dispelled.

  ‘Yes, Mr Barlow,’ he said to prosecuting counsel while opening a large red notebook and unscrewing the cap from a fountain pen. His voice was deep and well modulated, and his approach was direct. He obviously wanted to get the hearing out of the way and he wasted no time once the prosecutor had introduced his opponent.

  ‘Are we ready for arraignment?’

  Louise’s QC half rose from his seat and answered, ‘Yes, my lord.’ He had lost a lot of his loud assurance now that he was actually in court, I was pleased to see.

  It took a minute or two for the clerk to read the indictment and ask Louise how she pleaded; her ‘not guilty’ was clear each time.

  ‘When can the trial be fixed? What’s the time estimate?’ the judge asked testily.

  ‘Three weeks,’ said the prosecutor, after a whispered conversation with his opponent.

  ‘Really, Mr Barlow? I have read the papers and I must confess I can’t think what you’re going to ask most of these witnesses. What is the defence case here?’

  Louise’s QC looked slightly sick for a second before recovering his poise. ‘A complete denial of involvement, my lord.’

  ‘I gathered that from the fact that your client pleaded not guilty. What, I asked, is the defence?’ To give him credit, Hughes succeeded in speaking vaguely for several minutes about circumstantial evidence and the uncertainties of cell-site analysis without coming near to answering the judge’s question. I was quite impressed. And even if the judge wasn’t, he didn’t press the point.

  Once the administration was out of the way, the judge asked, ‘Any other matters?’

  ‘I understand that the defendant wishes to apply for bail,’ replied the prosecutor, managing to sound surprised, as if it was a completely bizarre idea.

  The judge looked penetratingly at Louise’s QC before turning back to the prosecutor. ‘Well, Mr Barlow, I suppose you should outline the facts and the Crown’s objections. You do object, I assume.’

  Barlow laughed a little bit more heartily than the joke might have deserved before putting forward the prosecution’s objections.

  ‘The serious nature of the elements of this murder – premeditation, sophisticated planning, imprisonment of the victim – are likely to result in a substantial minimum term of any life sentence imposed after conviction.’

  And rightly so, I found myself thinking. It was wicked, what she had done.

  Louise’s QC tried to argue, but the judge was having none of it. She was going nowhere, I was pleased to see. Relieved, too. I quite hoped the judge would be the one who heard the trial.

  I slipped out of the courtroom before the proceedings had quite come to an end. I ran around the side of the building and up to the door that led out of the public gallery, where I waited for Gerald Haworth and Gil Maddick. Rebecca’s father looked shattered as he walked towards me, his hair slightly dishevelled as if he had run his hands through it without thinking. I held out my hand.

  ‘Mr Haworth, I don’t know if you remember meeting me last year at the memorial service for Rebecca, but …’

  I trailed off, startled by the look on his face. He ignored my hand and I closed it into a fist as I let it drop to my side.

  ‘I do remember, yes. You spoke to my wife and me about our daughter. We trusted you, DC Kerrigan.’

  ‘And I appreciated that trust.’ I flicked a look at Gil Maddick, who was still standing shoulder to shoulder with Rebecca’s father. ‘Am I to understand that you don’t think the correct person was arrested?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Haworth shook his head. ‘The whole thing is ridiculous. And keeping her in that prison for no reason – I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Murder is a very serious charge.’ I used the word deliberately and saw the two syllables hit home like blows. ‘And the trial date isn’t far off.’

  ‘It’s too far. You saw her. She’s finding it terribly difficult.’

  ‘Have you been to visit her?’ I couldn’t believe that he would have braved Holloway to see the woman who killed his only child, but he nodded.

  ‘Just once. I wanted to tell her that Avril and I know she didn’t do it.’ He was shaking a little, tremors quivering through his hands. ‘We told you she was like a second daughter to us. How could you be so cruel as to take her away too?’

  ‘Mr Haworth, I wanted to believe Louise wasn’t Rebecca’s killer, believe me. Unfortunately, the evidence doesn’t lie.’ But she does, fluently and constantly, I managed not to say.

  ‘That’s to be decided by the jury,’ he snapped. ‘And if I have anything to do with it, they’ll see she couldn’t have killed Rebecca. She loved her. What you’ve suggested is hurtful and vindictive and I can’t understand why you are doing this, unless it’s to further your career. It certainly hasn’t helped Avril or me, and that was what you promised to do, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I promised to find out the truth,’ I said without heat. ‘And I think that’s what I’ve done.’

  He shook his head and walked away, muttering to himself.

  I looked hard at Gil Maddick. ‘What about you? Have you seen her? Have you told her you believe her story?’

  He looked pained. ‘No. No, I haven’t. I wanted to, but – I didn’t know what to think, to be honest with you. If you’re right, then she tried to frame me.’

  ‘That’s right.’ I was intrigued. ‘But you still want to see her?’

  ‘I love her. At least, I thought I did. But then, I’ve heard about the evidence you’ve got, and I can’t explain it. I’m not saying I agree with your version of events, but I want her to tell me what really happened. If she’ll agree to see me. You know she broke up with me.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking why?’

  ‘That’s something else I’d like to know myself.’ He looked grim. ‘I still don’t understand it. One minute she was behaving as if she felt about me the way I feel about her. The next, she was throwing me out.’

  ‘You do seem to have difficulties with women, Mr Maddick.’ I was thinking of Chloe Sandler and her restraining order, and from the way he flinched, he knew exactly what I meant.

  ‘Yeah, well, they don’t usually break up with me.’ He sounded like a sulky teenager. ‘I still haven’t got to the bottom of that one.’

  ‘Maybe you had a lucky escape.’

  ‘I don’t think I was in any danger.’ He frowned at me. ‘Do you think I should go and see her?’

  ‘I couldn’t advise you either way. But if you did … you know she gave no-comment interviews to the police. She hasn’t given any explanation for what she did. I’d like to believe she’s innocent, but she doesn’t trust us enough to talk to us.’

  ‘Do you blame her?’

  ‘Not really.’ I met his gaze squarely. ‘But if she did talk to you, could you see your way to telling me what she says?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ He sounded completely determined, but I persevered.

  ‘If she gives you the idea that she’s guilty, presumably you won’t want her to be released. And if you’re convinced she’s innocent, I promise you, between now and the trial I will devote myself to investigating whether someone else murdered Rebecca.’

  ‘I have to think.’

  He walked away a couple of paces with his head bent and his arms folded, and I watched him wrestling with himself, afraid to interrupt. After a minute or two, he turned back to me. ‘I can see why you would want me to do it. And I can see why I would want to do it. But I don’t know that I could like myself very much if I did. It feels like a betrayal.’

  ‘You could think of it that way. But the only thing I want – the only thing you should want – is the truth. And if she’s innocent, then she has nothing to fear.’

  ‘What if she won’t see me?’

  ‘She’ll see you,’ I said with confidence I didn’t really
feel. ‘Why would she say no?’

  ‘Why would she break up with me?’

  I could think of a million reasons but as he obviously regarded it as a mystery on a par with the fate of Atlantis, I settled for a sympathetic shrug.

  ‘Will she have to know about it? Afterwards, I mean?’

  ‘Probably not. But look at it this way, if it gets her off the hook, she’ll be nothing but grateful to you. And if it incriminates her …’

  ‘I won’t care anyway,’ he finished. The long seconds dragged out as he stared at me, considering. I held my breath. Finally, he sighed.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  His face was bleak. ‘So why do I feel like Judas?’

  Judging correctly that it was a rhetorical question, I looked sympathetically at him until he got tired of that and went off in the same direction as Gerald Haworth. I sighed, watching him walk away. If we were relying on Gil Maddick to provide the coup de grâce, we were in trouble.

  After court, I went back to the nick to report on what had happened. Superintendent Godley spotted me the moment I walked in and came to the door of his office.

  ‘Maeve, you’re going to want to hear this.’

  There was a small gathering in the room, I discovered – DI Judd, Colin Vale, Peter Belcott. All of them looked cheerful, remarkably so, and it was distinctly out of character for Judd and Vale to be so jolly. I turned to the superintendent.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Colin found the car.’ Four words that changed the whole case.

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘I got in touch with all of the scrapyards in the Home Counties and found the one Louise North used. It’s a smallish one in Kent, near Ashford.’