House of Correction : A Novel (2020)
Page 33
Dudley took a long time to answer. He seemed to be going over it in his mind. ‘It sounds ridiculously far-fetched.’
‘It fits with the evidence,’ said Tabitha loudly. ‘The evidence that you didn’t manage to find.’
‘You’re just trying to stir things up,’ said Dudley. ‘None of this shows you didn’t do it!’
‘Look, don’t you understand what you’ve done?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nor do you.’
‘Your whole investigation was wrong. You just assumed it was Stuart Rees driving out of the village and back and because of that you put his murder after that time. But I’m saying – suggesting – that it happened before his car was captured on CCTV. His body was in that car. It took place between nine-fifty and ten-thirty-five, which is a much smaller window of time than the one you’ve been working on. And one that you completely ignored. The time you thought it couldn’t have occurred in was precisely the time it must have. Your investigation all happened in the wrong place and it was based on the wrong time. What a farce. No wonder you ended up with an innocent person in prison.’
The air felt electric; she could almost feel everyone in the court holding their breath.
‘That’s crap,’ said Dudley finally, and very angrily. His grey eyes looked like gunmetal.
‘Fuck you,’ said Tabitha.
‘Ms Hardy,’ said Judge Munday, almost shouting. ‘Stop that. And you too, Inspector. You will maintain decency and respect in this courtroom. Ms Hardy, have you any more questions?’
‘No, I’m done with him,’ said Tabitha angrily and sat down.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Tabitha sat down next to Michaela.
‘Are you all set?’ Michaela said.
Tabitha looked across at Simon Brockbank. He was due to start the summing up for the prosecution but he was leaning back in his chair, hands in his pockets, chatting with Elinor Ackroyd as if they were about to play a game of cards. Tabitha couldn’t make out what he was saying but she saw Ackroyd grin in response.
‘They look like they’re in a good mood,’ Tabitha murmured.
‘Don’t think about them,’ said Michaela. ‘Think about what you’re going to say.’
‘I don’t really know. I need to hear what Brockbank says.’
Michaela started to speak and then stopped. She seemed hesitant.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know if this is a good idea.’
‘What?’
‘I thought it might be a help. For the summing up. Or it might not be a help.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t ask you because then you’ll want to see it and then—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, what is it? Just show me.’
Michaela started fumbling through her files.
‘I’ve been collecting the reports,’ she said. ‘In the papers. I thought you might want to see them.’
‘Why didn’t you show me before?’
‘I thought it might put you off.’
‘Just show me.’
Michaela pulled the file from the heap and pushed it over.
‘They’re only allowed to report,’ she said. ‘They’re not allowed to make comments.’
Tabitha opened the file. Inside was a thick pile of newspaper clippings and she immediately saw the large headline: ‘I was covered with his blood’. Below, the story began: ‘A court heard…’ and was followed by quotations from Tabitha’s own testimony. Her attention was caught by two photographs. The first was of Stuart Rees. It was recent, he was standing outside, probably in his garden, squinting into the sun, and Tabitha thought it made him look old and harmless. The second was of Tabitha herself, an older image, square, staring straight at the camera, glaring almost. Tabitha couldn’t remember exactly when it was taken, but it must have been for a passport or a railcard or something like that. It looked uncomfortably like a mug shot.
She flicked through the cuttings. Another huge headline: ‘I slept with my teacher’. Again the story beneath began: ‘A court heard…’ Accompanying this article was a preposterous sketch of her by a court artist. It didn’t look like her. It looked like a short-haired witch, with an angry expression, gesturing wildly. She flicked through page after page. Where had they got all these photographs of her? There was Tabitha wearing a blazer in her class photo. There was Tabitha caught with a glass and a cigarette at a college party. There was Tabitha on a beach somewhere.
At first she was struck by the headlines: the sex and the blood and the murder. But then she was struck by the sheer amount of attention, reports covering a whole page, a double-page spread. She thought about the people across the country sitting with a cup of tea and reading about her sex life and her mental troubles and why her neighbours thought she had committed a murder. She had gone through her life without many friends, without making much of a stir, and now there were thousands and thousands of people who knew about her, who had an opinion about her. There were people who thought she was a murderer, people who thought she was an abuse victim, people who were for her, people who were against her, all these people she would never know.
She closed the file. She felt suddenly nauseous, as if an abyss had opened at her feet and she was staring down into it.
The door opened and the usher entered the court, but the judge didn’t follow her. The usher walked through the court and stopped next to Simon Brockbank and spoke to him in a low voice. He looked round at Tabitha. Then she came across to Tabitha and leaned down and spoke as if she didn’t want to be overheard.
‘Judge Munday wants to see you and prosecution counsel in her chamber.’
Tabitha started to speak, but the usher just gestured her to follow. Brockbank and Ackroyd walked after her. As they made their way in single file out of the court and through the corridors, Tabitha tried to think of something to ask, some question, but nothing occurred. She had an ominous sense that there was an aspect of the case she’d missed, something damaging. The usher opened the door and Tabitha walked past her into the sumptuous room where Judge Munday was sitting behind her desk. She wasn’t talking on the phone or pretending to be busy. Her hands were laid, one on the other, on the table surface and she was looking directly at her visitors. Three armchairs had been arranged in front of the desk and she waved Tabitha and Brockbank and Ackroyd towards them. They sat down.
‘If there’s some new witness—’ Tabitha began.
Judge Munday raised her hands, almost in prayer. ‘Please, Ms Hardy, just once in your life, could you keep quiet until you have something to say.’
‘Sorry,’ said Tabitha sulkily.
‘Good.’ Judge Munday put her hands together once more. ‘Now we need to be clear – and by this I mean that you, Tabitha Hardy, need to be clear – that any discussion we have here is privileged and is not to be referred to in open court or indeed anywhere else. Do you understand?’
‘Fine.’
‘Not only understand but agree.’
‘All right, yes, OK.’
Judge Munday paused, gathering her thoughts.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘I spent yesterday and most of the night going through the relevant transcripts. I paid particular attention to the forensic evidence, to the testimony of the delivery driver and finally yesterday’s testimony of the detective in charge of the investigation.’
Tabitha had a slow, awakening sense of what was coming. She looked round at Simon Brockbank. He looked indifferent, of course, but there was also a faint smile forming on his face.
‘The case against Ms Hardy,’ Judge Munday continued, ‘was always circumstantial but, on the face of it, compelling. It seemed to me that these testimonies exposed gross errors and omissions in the investigation.’ She paused and looked fixedly at Simon Brockbank. ‘I have come to the conclusion that the prosecution case, as it now stands, is such that a jury, properly directed, could not convict. I believe it is now my duty to stop the trial.’
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‘What?’ said Tabitha. She felt a ringing in her ears. Her whole body was suddenly glowing with heat. She wasn’t sure of her surroundings. She couldn’t properly follow the meaning of what was being said. ‘What? What are you saying?’
‘Wait,’ said Judge Munday. ‘This is a matter for the prosecution. They are entitled to contest this.’
Tabitha turned once again to look at Brockbank. He and Elinor Ackroyd had leaned in together in muttered conversation. He looked back at the judge.
‘You’ve heard all the evidence,’ he said. ‘Nobody else could have committed this crime.’
‘I have no need to tell you,’ said Judge Munday, ‘that Ms Hardy has no need to prove her innocence. The prosecution has to prove her guilt and not just by a process of elimination.’
Brockbank turned to Tabitha, who suddenly felt like a small animal being observed by a fox.
‘Have you looked at the jury?’ he said.
‘I’ve been staring at them for weeks,’ said Tabitha. ‘I’ve even got names for them.’
‘I mean really looked at them. After a bit, you can almost smell what they’re thinking. I’m not sure they like you very much.’
‘I think a couple of them might,’ said Tabitha. ‘A bit.’
‘They saw that the police made some mistakes but these are people who think that if the detective believes you did it, then you probably did it. I think if this case goes before a jury, it could go either way.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Judge Munday. ‘They’d hear my direction first.’
Brockbank looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder what the police would have found if they had made a proper forensic search of Rees’s house and car.’
‘But they didn’t,’ said Tabitha.
Brockbank smiled. ‘You’re right. They didn’t.’
He held his hand out to her and, feeling like she was in a dream, Tabitha shook it and then almost recoiled.
‘What does that mean?’ she said.
‘It means the prosecution won’t object. But I’m afraid the members of the jury will feel cheated.’
Judge Munday got up and walked to the far side of the room. She picked up a cut-glass decanter.
‘Do you want a drink?’ she said.
‘It’s eleven in the morning,’ said Tabitha.
‘We’re about to go into court and I will make my announcement and you will walk straight out into the world with no preparation. You might want to take a moment. I’m certainly having a drink. You, Ms Hardy, would drive anyone to it.’
Judge Munday poured whisky into four tumblers and handed them round. Brockbank raised his glass in Tabitha’s direction.
‘I suppose I should offer you congratulations,’ he said and took a sip.
‘Like a game,’ said Tabitha. She wasn’t feeling any sense of triumph. She wasn’t even feeling happy. ‘Some you win, some you lose, no hard feelings, you have a drink afterwards. This is my life.’
‘I think it is a sort of game,’ said Brockbank. ‘I put my evidence, you put your evidence, see who wins. What would you prefer? Would you like it decided by people like Chief Inspector Dudley? He doesn’t think it’s a game. He goes by his professional experience and his gut feelings and both of them told him that you did it. If it was up to him, you’d be going down for fifteen years.’
‘If it was up to my lawyer, I’d be going down for fifteen years as well. She wanted me to plead guilty.’
Brockbank laughed. ‘You should have had me as your lawyer.’
Tabitha drained her glass. It was the first alcohol she had drunk for months and it made her cough and then it made her feel dizzy. She looked at Judge Munday.
‘So are you going to say something?’ she said. ‘Give me some wise advice?’
Judge Munday shook her head. ‘If you’re expecting me to pat you on the head and say well done, you’re going to be disappointed.’
‘I don’t generally get patted on the head.’
‘You got away with it,’ said Judge Munday. ‘I don’t mean with the crime. That’s not our concern. Your defence was unruly, uncouth, chaotic and at times verging on the disgraceful, but you got by with it, just about.’ She paused. ‘I will give you one piece of advice. When you get out there in the world, it will all be strange and new. A lot of people will want to talk to you. Be careful. Their interests are not your interests.’ She finished her drink and stood up. ‘I think we should go.’
The four of them looked at each other, as if waiting for someone to make the first move.
‘I’ve got something to say,’ said Brockbank, ‘while we’re still here.’ He looked at Tabitha with an expression of amused puzzlement. ‘Actually, two things. The first is that being found not guilty is not the same as being found innocent. And second and finally, if asked, I’ll stoutly deny ever having said this: well done, Tabitha, if I may call you Tabitha. I thought this was a piece of cake for us, but all on your own, you destroyed the case against you, you destroyed that detective, you single-handedly made the prosecution look ridiculous.’
Tabitha nodded. ‘I did more than destroy the detective and the case,’ she said. ‘I destroyed everything. My relationships with everyone in the village, my possibility of a future there, of a home even, my friendship with Andy, my belief that at long last I could be accepted and even welcomed. Everything.’
‘True,’ said Brockbank cheerfully. ‘Life, eh? Win some, lose some.’
* * *
Tabitha and Michaela walked out of the front exit into the surge of a crowd. The buildings tipped towards her and the sky was a blue lid with a hole cut in it for the glaring eye of the sun.
Nobody noticed her at first; everyone was gathered round DCI Dudley and he was evidently at the end of making a statement.
‘I deeply regret that mistakes were made so that a strong case was weakened and Tabitha Hardy gets to walk out of here a free woman,’ he was saying. ‘I want to be clear that there will be a review of the case but also that nobody else is under suspicion. There are no further lines of inquiry.’
‘Are there any other suspects?’ a reporter shouted.
‘No.’
‘Fuck you,’ yelled Tabitha, stepping forward into the glare of light and liberty. ‘You fucked up and now you’re trying to smear me to cover it up.’
Cameras flashed and snapped and mics were thrust forward and she heard people calling her name.
‘Murderer,’ a voice shrieked and turning her head, Tabitha saw the furious face of a woman who had been in the public gallery day after day.
‘Piss off,’ said Tabitha.
‘The police have just said they have no further lines of inquiry.’ A voice from her left; a woman holding out a mic. ‘What do you say to that?’
Tabitha thought of Brockbank’s words – being found not guilty is not the same as being found innocent.
‘They failed,’ she said. ‘They failed in there and they’re failing out here.’
‘How does it feel?’ someone shouted.
‘Say something to them,’ said Michaela hoarsely. ‘I’ll get us a taxi.’
But Tabitha, standing on the steps in the unreality of her freedom, had no words left.
‘Please, all of you go away,’ she said.
‘What will you do now?’
‘I think I’ll go for a swim.’
But she wouldn’t have a swim yet. There was something else she needed to do first. Everything else could wait.
PART FOUR Outside
SEVENTY-FIVE
Tabitha was sitting on a train. She stared out of the window, and through her own faint reflection – a small, pale face and a mop of wild hair; witch, she thought – she watched the sea in the distance, glittering and foaming. Fields and small woods and folded hills rolled by. The green of summer was tired now; the leaves on the trees were limp in the heat.
She got out at Truro, where she bought a small mug of bitter coffee and then waited half an hour for a bus. When it arrived, it was
empty. It trundled her along Cornish lanes, through sudden towns and past lonely churches, and finally deposited her on a dusty road.
It took her over an hour to walk the last stretch. She didn’t mind. For half a year she had been dreaming of walking through deserted landscapes, feeling the ache in her calves and the wind in her face. There was no wind today. The air stood hot and still. Seagulls pecked at a carcass on the road. She knew she should be thinking about what she was going to do, but she didn’t, just let half-formed thoughts drift through her mind.
The caravan park was on the edge of a town. There was a grocery store at one end and what perhaps in rainy seasons passed for a stream, but was now a dried-up ditch, at the other. One of the caravans had a small garden at its entrance, with bright flowers and a miniature picket fence. One had recently been burned out and was just a charred remnant. There was a van with broken windows, through which Tabitha could see multiple crushed cardboard boxes. One of the caravans had closed curtains and a motorbike parked at its door. Another had a mountain of a man sitting on the small steps who raised his beer can towards her as she passed.
Tabitha was looking for a camper van and she saw it at the far end of the plot, facing the perimeter ditch and the fields beyond and in the distance the glitter of the sea. She walked over to it and it was as if she were in a dream, suddenly slow and without volition.
She knocked at the back door and stood back, and the door swung open.
He looked down at her and he didn’t seem surprised or upset or angry or even scared, but almost relieved, like he had been expecting her all along.
‘How did you know?’ he said at last.
‘Hello, Sam.’
* * *
They sat together on two rickety fold-out chairs that he pulled from under the van. He looked more like a fox than ever, thought Tabitha: mangy and neglected. But he had strong arms along which his tattoos rippled, a mermaid’s tail and a full-blown rose, and she remembered he had been in the army. He was scrawny but strong. Much stronger than she was. She twisted her head round, but the big man had gone from the steps and there was no one around.