A Certain Justice (27 page)

It felt strange to be going home in the early afternoon. The tube was almost empty, and when it drew up at Buckhurst Hill Station only one person was waiting on the opposite platform for the London train. The street outside was as quiet and peaceful as if it were a country road. Even the small terraced house, at 32 Linney Lane, looked unfamiliar and a little forbidding, like a house in mourning. The curtains were drawn in the front downstairs room and across one other window. She knew what this meant. Her mother was upstairs resting — if lying taut, eyes open, staring into the darkness could be described as resting. Her gran was watching television.

She put her key in the lock and was met by a loud blare punctuated by shots. Gran loved crime films and had no inhibitions about sex and violence. As Valerie came into the sitting-room, she pressed the remote control. So it must be a video; Gran wouldn’t otherwise interrupt her viewing.

Showing no interest in her granddaughter’s arrival, she complained: “I can’t hear what they’re saying half the time. All they do is mutter-mutter at each other. And it’s worse with those Americans.”

“It’s the way they act now, Gran. Naturalistic, like they’d talk to each other in real life.”

“Fat lot of use that is if you can’t hear a bloody word. And it’s no use putting up the sound, it only makes it worse. And they keep dashing into nightclubs where it’s so dark you can’t see either. Those old Hitchcocks are better.
Dial M for Murder
. I wouldn’t mind seeing that again. You can hear every word. They knew how to speak in those days. And why can’t they hold the camera steady? What’s the matter with the cameraman — drunk?”

“It’s clever direction, Gran.”

“Is that what it is? Too clever for me by half.”

The television was Gran’s entertainment, solace and passion. She approved of almost nothing she saw, but watched incessantly. Valerie sometimes wondered whether it provided a convenient focus for Gran’s combative view of life. She could criticize the words, behaviour, appearance and diction of actors, politicians and pundits without fear of contradiction. Her granddaughter sometimes found it surprising that Gran seemed unable to see her own appearance with critical eyes. The hair, dyed an incongruous ginger above and around a seventy-five-year-old face which hardship had aged before its time into deep clefts and sagging skin, was embarrassingly grotesque, while a tight skirt an inch above the knee only emphasized the lean and mottled shanks. But Valerie admired her gran’s spirit. She knew that they were allies even though she couldn’t expect a word of appreciation or love. Together they coped with her mother’s agoraphobia and depression, with the shopping Mrs. Caldwell couldn’t do, with the cooking and housework, the paying of bills, the normal crises of everyday life. Her mother ate the food they placed in front of her but had no interest in how it had got on the plate.

And now there was the problem of Kenny. When he was sentenced, her mother had made her promise that Gran wouldn’t be told, and she had kept that promise. It made it difficult to visit him in prison. She had only been able to go to him twice, and had had to devise complicated stories about visiting an old school friend which had seemed unconvincing even to herself.

Gran had said: “You’re seeing a man, I suppose. What about the shopping?”

“I’ll call in at the supermarket on my way home. It’s open until ten on Saturdays.”

“Well, I hope you have more luck with this one than you had with the other. I knew he’d throw you over once he got to university. It’s always happening. And you didn’t take much trouble to keep him, I must say. You need to show a bit more spirit, my girl. Men like it.”

Gran, in her youth, had shown plenty of spirit and had known exactly what men liked.

As expected, Gran took the news of the murder in her stride. She seldom showed interest in people she hadn’t met, and had long decided that Pawlet Court was her granddaughter’s world, too remote from her life to be of interest. Real murder, particularly of someone she had never met, paled beside those bright, violent images which energized her life and provided all the excitement she craved. Seldom did Valerie come home to interested questions about what sort of day she’d had, what people in Chambers had said or done. But the unconcern was helpful when at last her mother’s slow step was heard on the stairs and the news had to be broken.

Mrs. Caldwell was having a bad day. Preoccupied with her own misery, she seemed hardly to take in what she was being told. The physical death of a stranger could have no power over one who was enduring a living hell. Valerie knew what would happen, the cycle was predictable. Her mother’s GP would increase the dosage of her drugs, she would break temporarily out of the depression, the reality of what had happened would break in on her, and then there would be the agitation, the worries, the reiteration that it would be so much better for everyone if Valerie could find a job locally, avoid the journey, get home earlier. But that was in the future.

The slow hours of the afternoon dragged into evening. At seven o’clock, with Gran and her mother both in front of the television, Valerie poured carrot soup from its carton and put the foil tray of canneloni into the oven. It was only when they had finished the meal and she had washed up, then seen her mother again seated with Gran in the front room, that she realized what she needed to do. She had to see the Naughtons. Harry would be home by now. She had to sit with him and Margaret in that warm homely kitchen where she had sat so often in childhood on her way home from Sunday school, and had been given home-made lemonade and chocolate buns. She needed the comfort and advice she had no hope of finding at home.

They made no demur about her leaving. Gran only said, “Don’t be too late, now,” without taking her eyes from the screen. Her mother didn’t look round.

She walked the quarter-mile; it wasn’t worth taking the car and the road was well lit. The street where the Naughtons lived was, despite its nearness, very different from Linney Lane. Harry had really done well for himself. Because the members of Chambers all called him Harry that was how she thought of him now. But when she spoke to him it was always Mr. Naughton.

They could have been expecting her. Margaret Naughton opened the door and drew her into the hall, enfolding her in warm arms.

“You poor child. Come in. What a day it’s been for you both.”

“Is Mr. Naughton home?”

“Yes, over two hours ago. We’re in the kitchen, just clearing up after supper.”

In the kitchen there was a savoury casserole smell, and the uneaten part of a home-made apple tart was on the table. Harry was loading the dishwasher. He had changed from his office suit into slacks topped with a knitted jersey and she thought how different it made him look, different and older. And when he drew himself up, leaning on the dishwasher for support, she thought: But he is an old man, much older than he was yesterday, and felt a rush of pity. Afterwards they moved into the sitting-room and Margaret brought in a tray with three glasses and a bottle of medium sherry, the kind Valerie liked. Totally at home, comforted and secure, Valerie poured out her worries.

“They were very kind, those two inspectors. I can see now that they were just trying to put me at my ease. I can’t remember half I told them — about Kenny, of course, and how I hated Miss Aldridge, but that I hadn’t killed her, I wouldn’t kill anyone. And I told them about the gossip, that she might be next Head of Chambers and what that could mean. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said any of it. It isn’t my business. And now I’m afraid Mr. Langton and Mr. Laud will find out and they’ll know it was me and I might lose my job. I wouldn’t blame them if they sacked me. I don’t know how it happened. I always thought I could be relied upon — you know, relied upon to be discreet, not to talk about things I learned in Chambers. Miss Justin impressed that on me when I first came. You too, Mr. Naughton. You told me the same. And now I’ve blabbed to the police.”

Margaret said: “You mustn’t worry. It’s their job to wheedle things out of people. They’re good at it. And you only told them the truth. The truth can’t hurt anyone.”

But Valerie knew that it could. The truth was sometimes more fatal than a lie.

She said: “But there were two things I didn’t tell them. I wanted to tell you.”

She glanced at Harry, and saw that his face was suddenly suffused with anxiety and, for a second, something close to terror.

She went on: “It’s about Mr. Costello — at least one of the things is. When Miss Aldridge came back from the Bailey on Tuesday, she asked if he was in Chambers. I said that he was. Then later I had to take some papers up to put on Mr. Laud’s desk. Miss Aldridge was just opening Mr. Costello’s door and they must have been standing close together. I could hear him speaking very loudly — well, shouting really. He said: ‘It isn’t true. None of it’s true. The man’s a liar trying to impress you with a juicy piece of calumny. He’ll never prove it. And if you confront him with it, he’ll deny it. What good will it do you, or anyone, to make a stink in Chambers?’

“I was on the top steps by then, so I quickly moved down the stairs and then came up again as noisily as I could. Miss Aldridge was closing the door by then. She passed me on the stairs without speaking, but I could see she was angry. The thing is, should I have told the police? What do I do if they ask me?”

Harry thought for a moment, then said quietly: “I think you were perfectly right to say nothing. If they ask you later whether you’ve ever heard Miss Aldridge and Mr. Costello quarrelling, then I think you have to tell them the truth. Don’t make too much of it. You could have misunderstood. It could mean very little or nothing. But I think, if they ask you, you’ll have to tell them.”

Margaret said: “You said there were two things.”

“The other’s very odd. I don’t know why it seems important. They asked me about Mr. Ulrick coming into Chambers this morning. Could I remember whether he was carrying his briefcase.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I said I couldn’t be sure because he was carrying his raincoat over his right arm, and it could have been hiding the case. But it was a funny question for them to ask, wasn’t it?”

Margaret said: “I expect they had a reason. I shouldn’t worry. You told them the truth.”

“But it was odd. I didn’t tell them — and it didn’t occur to me till afterwards that it was funny — but Mr. Ulrick usually pauses in the door when he comes in and says good-morning. This morning he did call out, but he walked past as if he were in a hurry and I didn’t have time to reply. It’s such a small thing. I don’t know why I worry about it. And there’s something else. It’s been so fine recently, almost like summer. Why was he carrying a raincoat?”

There was a silence, then Harry said: “I don’t think you should worry about details like that. All we have to do is to get on with our work as well as we can and answer questions from the police honestly. We don’t have to volunteer information. That isn’t our job. And I don’t think we should gossip in Chambers about the murder. I know it’s going to be difficult, but if we chatter and argue among ourselves and start putting forward theories, we could do great harm to the innocent. Will you promise me to be very discreet once Chambers reopens? There’s bound to be gossip and speculation. We shouldn’t add to it.”

Valerie said: “I’ll do my best. Thank you for being so kind. It’s helped me, coming here.”

They were kind. They didn’t hurry her away, but she knew that she mustn’t stay long. Margaret went to the door with her. She said: “Harry tells me you fainted when you heard the news this morning. I know it was a shock, but that isn’t right, not in a young girl. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

Valerie confessed: “I’m all right, really I am. It’s just that I’ve been rather tired lately. There’s a lot to do at home and Gran isn’t really fit for it. And there’s the sneaking out to try and visit Ken at weekends without letting Gran suspect. And perhaps trying to do without a temp at work wasn’t such a good idea. I think it’s all been a bit of a strain.”

Margaret put her arms round her. She said: “We’ll try and see if we can get some help from Social Services. And I think you should speak to your gran. The old are much tougher than you think. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t know about Ken already. There’s not much you can keep from your gran. And you’re lucky that she and your mother were at home yesterday night. I wasn’t, I was at the parochial church council and then drove Mrs. Marshall home and stayed chatting. Of course, I’d left supper ready for Harry, but I wasn’t back home until nine-thirty. You’ve got someone to confirm what time you got home. Harry hasn’t. Now, if there’s anything we can do to help, you will let us know, won’t you?”

Reassured by the confident voice, the warm enfolding maternal arms, Valerie said that she would, and walked home comforted.

I
t was five past seven, a little past his normal time, when Hubert got back to the flat which he supposed he ought now to call home, but in which he still felt as ill at ease as a guest who is beginning to suspect that he has outstayed his welcome. The flat had something of the over-crowded look of an auction showroom; the furniture and pictures he had chosen to retain, far from providing a familiar and reassuring sense of continuance, looked as if they were waiting for the auctioneer’s hammer to fall.

After his wife’s death two years previously, his daughter, Helen, had moved in, both literally and figuratively, to help with the organization of his life. She was a woman in whom a certain sensitivity, acquired rather than innate, was at war with a natural authoritarianism. He was, of course, to be fully involved in all decisions. On no account should he be made to feel that others were taking over control of his life. While he still worked it would, of course, be sensible for him to live in London, preferably within easy travelling distance of the Temple. It would be ridiculously impractical — extravagant too — for a widower to keep on two homes. The message was communicated, and not subtly, that what was expected of his ageing generation was for the expensive family home to be sold, and for a proportion of its inflated value to be given to the grandchildren to enable them to mount the first rung of the property ladder. He offered no objection to arrangements made primarily for the benefit of others. What did occasionally irritate him was the assumption that he should be grateful.