The Man Behind Closed Doors

by Maria Frankland

  “Hello?”

  “David, this is Alana. I found your number in Paul’s address book at work.”

  “Oh yeah.” David brings her to mind from the wedding. All legs and blonde hair. The scourge of Michelle’s life and little wonder … “You’re Paul’s secretary, right?”

  “That’s right. Have you heard from him?” David thinks her voice sounds as appealing as his memory of her. He reproaches himself for this momentary understanding of how Paul could be more justified for wanting Michelle out of the way.

  “I tried to visit him a couple of days ago, but they wouldn’t let me in.” Anger prickles him again at the reminder of this. “Dreadful place. Not to be recommended. Hasn’t your boss seen him? His solicitor, John?”

  “Yes, but I want to see him. I wondered if he’d said anything to you. I’m surprised he hasn’t posted a visiting order to me. Has he sent one to anyone else?”

  “No idea, I’m afraid. But I’ll tell him if I speak to him. He rings from time to time.”

  “I wish he’d ring me. Give him my love.”

  David is taken aback. Why is his secretary sending love? Maybe a figure of speech. He tries to remember whether she is married. There’s a desperation about her voice. “Can you ask him to ring me? I can’t believe he hasn’t been in touch.”

  “He’s getting his head around things. But of course I’ll ask him. As well as the prison nightmare, we’ve to remember he’s grieving for Michelle.”

  “I don’t think he will be.” Her voice becomes brittle. “It will be relief more than grief that he doesn’t have to suffer any more!”

  “Are you going to his hearing?” David changes the subject. “Plea and directions, it’s called. It’s next week. He’ll be glad of the support.”

  “Yes, definitely. He’s going to need all our strength.”

  “I know. Why they wouldn’t bail him, I’ll never know. As if a bloke like Paul could be deemed a danger to women!”

  “Michelle was a danger to herself!” remarks Alana. “I never imagined Paul would be blamed.”

  David thinks this is another peculiar remark.

  “What do you think happened?” She continues. “You must know him better than most people, being his brother and all that?”

  “He didn’t tell me a great deal.”

  “He confided in me a lot. She was awful to him.”

  “Well you probably know more about it than me then,” says David, sadly. “All I know is it’s like a bad dream. Our kid’s as soft as a poodle.” As they end the conversation, he promises again to prompt Paul to ring her.

  “Give Emily a huge kiss and cuddle from me if you see her.”

  “Oh,” he waves at the postman, walking up his garden path. “I didn’t realise you knew her so well.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  After an endless morning, Paul is jolted from his thoughts by a voice behind him.

  “Jackson, you’ve visitors. Leave what you’re doing and come this way.”

  “But it’s not Saturday.”

  “Legals. I’ve put them in an interview room. They’re waiting. Hurry up!”

  Paul is led out of the workshop where he has been putting breakfast packs together, then through the association area, towards a room big enough to hold a table and four chairs. He is greeted by John, his solicitor, and the man who he presumes is to be his barrister. It is good to lock eyes with people who are on his side.

  “Simon Booth QC. How do you do?”

  “Good to meet you.” Paul shakes the hand of the man wearing braces and exceedingly shiny shoes.

  “How are you doing?” John reaches for and clasps Paul’s hand, not matching the power of Simon’s grip.

  “Up and down. Bad days and not-so-bad days.” Paul lowers himself into the chair opposite them. “I’m alright, I guess. I’m desperate to see my daughter, especially after what’s happened.”

  “All in good time. You don’t want her visiting you in prison, do you?” Simon’s southern accent has a pleasant edge and Paul finds himself warming to him although he’s a little irked by his lack of understanding about needing to see Emily.

  He does sense, however, that this barrister will put his all into defending him. He silently thanks John for going one up and hiring a member of Queen’s Counsel.

  “I’ve filled Simon in on your case.” John opens the file on the table. “There’s a few points we need to go over.”

  Simon opens his briefcase. “Yes. Obviously, I needed to meet you prior to your plea and directions hearing at the crown court to hear your version of events.” Paul recalls his own briefcase. Then he had been ‘someone,’ instead of the ‘nobody’ he is now.

  “I know how difficult this must be for you, Paul,” Simon shuffles through papers. “I concur with John that you shouldn’t be on remand. Whatever has gone on leading to Michelle’s death, a remand sentence wasn’t the way. The judge who heard your case when it was passed to Crown for a mention, has a bit of a leaning towards the female of the species. He has four daughters. I’m informed he’s come across some revolting cases involving male abusers throughout his career.”

  “Oh great!” Paul wishes he didn’t know.

  “However, he’s known to be a little ruthless no matter what case he’s hearing. In the scheme of things, you should have been granted conditional bail. Another judge may well have granted it. But here we are.”

  “Will I have the same judge at my trial?” There would be no point attending court.

  Simon scanned down a sheet of paper “Judge Lakin. Hmm. I’ve had a few dealings with him. Nothing out of the ordinary. Firm but fair.”

  “What evidence do they have against me?” Paul tries to read the page upside-down.

  “That’s it.” Simon’s gaze flicks up from his papers. “The evidence is patchy. We should be able to achieve an acquittal. Obviously, you alerted the emergency services to your wife’s injuries, there’s witness statements from neighbouring holiday homes verifying a row was taking place, your prints are on the murder weapon…”

  “I was chopping salad with it.”

  “Yes I know. There’s the fibres and blood splatters that have been analysed, but these have been inconclusive. It seems it was a bit of a contaminated site, being that lots of people have stayed there prior to you. Hairs and fibres unrelated to your family have been recovered but there have been no matches on the police database. There’s nothing concrete to suggest you killed her. There’s one or two witnesses that are going to be called by the prosecution to speak of how you allegedly treated Michelle rather poorly throughout your marriage.”

  “Who are they?” Paul knows he kept their problems under wraps. But who knows what Michelle could have gone around saying? “I went through hell with my wife. No one knows the half of it.”

  “We’ll come to that in a moment.” He runs his finger down a sheet of paper. “It looks like they’ve called Michelle’s mother, I think – I will double check that though. They’ve had a couple of attempts at speaking with your daughter, which would have been shown via video-link, but I understand there’s been an issue with her not speaking since what happened?”

  “Yes. There’s some specialists working with her, but I’ve not seen her since I’ve been in here.”

  “You know she could visit you, if you wanted her to.”

  “She’s been through enough.”

  “Also, for the prosecution, there’s one of your neighbours at home and one of Michelle’s work colleagues.”

  “One of her work colleagues!” Rage prickles the back of Paul’s neck. “But I don’t know any of them. And I don’t know what any of the neighbours could say. And as for her mother, she visited me not long ago. I thought she believed me.”

  “If she can add weight to the prosecution, that’ll be why she’s been called. I imagine the aim of the prosecution will be to portray you as an aggressor, someone who regularly behaved abusively towards his wife, before exacting the final blow in a moment of ra
ge, and the witnesses have been called up to verify that.”

  “But that isn’t true.”

  “And that’s what we’ll be arguing against.”

  “How?”

  “Did your wife have any enemies? Anyone else who could have made their way to your holiday home?”

  “No. She was good at upsetting people, but not to that extent.”

  “Did many people know of the problems you were having as a couple?”

  “They knew bits and pieces, but I didn’t talk about what was going on, I guess I was ashamed. It’s not exactly ‘manly,’ to be slapped and screamed at by your wife, is it?”

  “Give me an example.” Simon peers at him. “Obviously I’ve read all the statements and interview transcripts, but I want to hear it from you. A typical evening. What were you up against?”

  Paul ponders, there are many examples. “I’ll tell you about a night out we had about eighteen months ago, not long after we were engaged. We hadn’t celebrated properly so my brother David was babysitting Emily whilst we went out for a meal. Michelle was on antibiotics and had only had one drink. She still managed to work herself up though, she had it in her head I fancied the waitress. She always thought I fancied other women. Especially my secretary.”

  As he sits remembering, he can picture her opposite him. Ten minutes had elapsed without her saying a word. It was coming.

  “You bring me out for a meal,” she pointed towards the waitress as she walked away, “then you spend all night making eyes at that woman.”

  “The only time I’ve glanced in her direction was when I was ordering food.” Paul squeezed some mustard onto his plate. His face burned as he noticed the couple at the next table trying not to stare.

  “Bet you wish you were taking her home instead of me?” Michelle banged her fork down, pouting. “You treat me like shit.”

  “Michelle.” As he thrust the knife into his steak, he prayed she would somehow snap out of it. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. We’re supposed to be celebrating our engagement for God’s sake.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” She reached across the table and touched his arm. “It’s only because I love you.” Then she drew her arm back. “You have to admit though Paul, you don’t help matters.”

  “What do you mean?” Now what!

  “Bloody Alana. That’s what I mean. I wish you’d move to a new firm.”

  “I’m sick of talking about this. If you can’t allow us to enjoy our so-called engagement celebration Michelle, then I’m off home.”

  “He’s all yours!” She said to the waitress when she returned to ask whether everything was OK. She flung her new engagement ring into her uneaten meal, then flounced out of the restaurant. The waitress scurried away, without another word.

  Paul left his food and went after her, eventually finding her in the car park, sat on a wall. He was seriously pissed off. She had ruined yet another evening.

  “Did she give you her number then?”

  “I think you need to see someone Michelle.” He marched towards her. “A counsellor or someone. You’re going to wreck things.”

  “I saw how you were with her.” She hopped down from the wall. “It hurts Paul. It really does.”

  He unlocked the car door. “I’m engaged to you, aren’t I? Though God knows why! You’re behaving like a spoilt bloody brat!”

  “You’re only with me ‘cos of Emily.” Michelle slid into the passenger seat.

  “You’re talking rubbish. As usual.” He turned up the radio. He might as well go off with Alana or someone else if he was going to be accused of it all the time.

  “You need to remember who holds the cards here.” She thumped at the stereo’s off button. “I call the shots with Emily and I can make sure you don’t see her.”

  “What are you on about?” He turned onto the main road. “Have you been drinking whilst I was looking for you?”

  “Not a drop. But if you’ve any ideas about other women, you need to remember what you’ve got to lose.”

  “How dare you bring Emily into this?” His voice was rising but he couldn’t help it anymore. He tried to stay focused on the road. “You’re crazy.”

  “So that was our engagement celebration.” Paul feels sheepish. “She was bad when she’d been drinking but could be just as awful when she hadn’t.”

  “Why did you stay with her?” Simon’s voice is gentle.

  “If I’m honest, mainly because of Emily.” His soul slumps as he says her name out loud. “I couldn’t have risked losing her and leaving her with a mother who was controlling, violent and unpredictable. I never knew what mood she was going to be in. Despite all that though, she was my wife and there was another side, a decent, loving side to her. Things were magical between us when we first got together. And she had been through a hell of a lot.” Tears spear the back of Paul’s eyes. Feeling close to the edge has become his way of life. He cannot recollect what happiness is.

  “Why didn’t you say anything? To us, I mean.” John speaks now. “We knew things weren’t great for you at home, but not that bad.”

  “I spoke to Alana a little. But to be honest, I thought things would ease off.” Paul feels pathetic. “And I was ashamed, wouldn’t you be? I should have been able to sort it. I’m such a bloody wimp.”

  “You’re not.” Simon looks at him. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. But our pressing job is proving Michelle stabbed herself.” He pulls another sheet from his file. “We also have the CCTV report. Your holiday cottage wasn’t covered by CCTV, but the club’s cameras show you both coming and going throughout the day.

  “Did it show me going in and out when I went in the evening? Before I found Michelle, I mean.

  Simon scans it. There’s a still of you going in. But not coming out. They’ve got rotating cameras by the look of it.” He looks thoughtful as he shuffles through some of his other papers. “One ace up our sleeve is Michelle’s consultant from when she was younger, we have him as a witness. He’ll verify the self-harming history.”

  “But that’s scratching at her arms. This is shoving a knife into her own chest,” Paul closes his eyes as the image from that awful night floods back into his mind. Suddenly her eyes are staring back into his.

  “It’s all self-harm, and looking at these reports, the damage she was doing to her arms and legs was far worse than merely scratching them.” Simon continues.

  “The police were trying to make me say it was a ‘heat of the moment’ thing – a row that escalated.”

  “That’s precisely what the prosecution will do as well.” Simon drives the heel of his hand onto the table. “But Paul, listen. They’ve nothing forensic. Absolutely nothing. You were the first on the scene and your prints were on the knife and all over the cottage but that doesn’t prove or disprove anything.” He shrugs his shoulders. “There’s no eyewitness accounts either, other than of a row. But we have witnesses to confirm our side of things. We can verify what was happening for you at home.” Clicking the lid of his briefcase shut, he exudes an air of what Paul hopes is triumph. God! If he can get him off this …

  “So that will all happen at the trial,” Simon continues. “But in the meantime, we’ve got the plea and directions hearing, where you’ll put your plea in and we’ll try and get you bailed until the date of your trial.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to get bail?”

  “On a charge like this, it’s highly doubtful. But I’ll argue the circumstances with your daughter. I’ll do everything I can.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The court clambers to its feet. Paul is released from the dock officer he has been cuffed to whilst being escorted from the cells below the crown court. Waiting for his turn has reduced him to a cluster of nerves. To be up into the dock at last, is welcome.

  “All rise.”

  Searching the public gallery; he is encouraged by the presence of Alana, Michael, Susan, Nick, Jacqui and David. The temptation to acknowledge th
em nearly overcomes him, but he resists, knowing this could be deemed disrespectful by the judge and may make the difference between him gaining bail, or not. Maybe, the fact he has support will go in his favour. Alana, however, waves and smiles at him. He hopes the judge hasn’t noticed. This might be the day he sees his daughter.

  The public gallery is packed with onlookers. His case has encouraged media interest as well as the attention of domestic abuse campaigners. He looks over at them, imagining their thoughts. They’ve probably decided he’s a wife-beating, sadistic murderer that terrorised and controlled his household.

  Already they have dissected his entire life and though he has not yet faced trial, there is speculation about whether the death of his parents in his teens might have unhinged him, or if he has simply exercised his long-standing psychopathic tendencies. He’s tried not to take any notice of what he has read in the paper, but it is hard. He can only hope the judge takes a more objective approach.

  “You may sit down. NOT YOU!”

  Paul springs back upright as the clerk regards him. “For the benefit of the court, held by his honour, Judge Lakin QC, please state your full name.”

  “Paul Alan Jackson.” The eyes of the entire court room are upon him as his voice shakes.

  “Your usual address?”

  “42 Bracken Bank, Osbaldwick, York.” An image of his home fleetingly flashes into his mind.

  “And your occupation?”

  Paul hesitates, he doesn’t have an occupation anymore. Prison has turned him into an absolute ‘nobody.’ “Legal executive.”

  “Paul Alan Jackson, you are charged that on Monday 11th June, at Summerfield Holiday Park, Filey, you murdered your wife, Michelle Marie Jackson.”

  Buried grief unexpectedly surfaces at the sound of her name. He shuffles beneath the eyes upon him. The hatred of those in the gallery that already believe him to be guilty is raining down on him. What do they know?