Betrayal (49 page)

Tingwall was already there and kissed Ginny warmly on both cheeks.

‘Mrs Wellesley.’ Grainger bowed over Ginny’s hand and showed her to a chair at a narrow table which abutted the giant desk in a T-shape. Tingwall and I found seats opposite her, while Grainger ostentatiously took his place behind the desk, like a lecturer facing his students.

As soon as the coffee had been poured Grainger fastened his eyes on Ginny and said without preamble, ‘We’re faced with a difficult decision, Mrs Wellesley. I expect Mr Tingwall has explained something of it to you?’

‘Yes,’ Ginny replied in a voice so low it was barely audible. She had been looking tired for some days, despite – or possibly because of – the sleeping pills she had been taking with increasing regularity.

‘Well, I would like to explain it to you again, if that meets with your approval.’ The formality of Grainger’s address, the charcoal pinstripe three-piece with the gold watch chain, the calmly intertwined hands, the neat greying hair and patrician features, all served to create an air of effortless authority which was entirely intentional, and, according to Tingwall, entirely appropriated. Apparently Grainger’s grand style and Eton drawl obscured a childhood of poverty and deprivation as the son of an unemployed Yorkshire coal-miner. I didn’t care for his chosen persona, but I couldn’t blame him for it either. He depended for his living on impressing his clients and intimidating his opponents, although I suspected that he didn’t always achieve them in that order.

‘Mrs Wellesley,’ he began fluidly, ‘the decision is a difficult one because it involves risk, and however clear-sighted we try to be, however critically we approach the facts, it will be impossible to assess those risks with any degree of accuracy. All I can do is set out the situation as I see it, explain what is involved in the two principal strategies which are open to you, and give you my opinion as to your best course. After that, the decision must be yours. I cannot make it for you.’ In the seclusion of his chambers Grainger’s voice, while maintaining the affectation which had so annoyed me at the bail hearing, had lost its hunting-field stridency and taken on an intimate almost melodic tone.

Ginny nodded, ‘I understand.’

Grainger assumed an expression of exaggerated concentration. ‘Now, our
first
option is to offer
no
defence at the committal stage and let the case go unopposed to crown court. This means a wait of perhaps six months and a full hearing before a judge and jury. Of course, in those six months circumstances could change and cause the prosecution to alter its stance, or indeed for us to alter our position in some way, but let’s assume for the moment that we will be pleading not guilty to the charge as it stands – that is, to a charge of murder. The first thing to understand is that this is an extremely serious charge and that if you are found guilty you will go to prison for a long time.’ His face took on a suitably grave aspect, his voice resonated sympathetically, and I couldn’t help thinking what a performer he was, how he relished every moment.

‘The second thing to know is that a jury is a thoroughly unpredictable body, and there is no determining in advance how they may or may not be swayed by any particular piece or body of evidence. The only sure thing about a jury is their ability to surprise.’ A pause to allow us to absorb what he intended to be a daunting truth. ‘Now, for us the
advantage
of letting the case go unchallenged to crown court is that the prosecution will not have the chance to test our defence in advance, nor indeed to appreciate and shore up the weaknesses in their own case. We will, so to speak, have kept our cards close to our chest. That way we can hope to spring a few surprises on the opposition’ – his eyes glinted at the thought – ‘to discredit a witness or two, to work away at the flaws in their case, without giving them too much warning of our strategy. For the defence advocate this is an important weapon and one he is loath to give away without good reason.’

Ginny broke the short silence that followed. ‘I was wondering . . .’

When she failed to continue Grainger prompted briskly, ‘Yes, Mrs Wellesley?’

‘Would I give evidence?’

‘That is something we would not decide until much nearer the time. It is something which would require very careful consideration. Though it is possible, just possible, that we might decide against it.’

‘Against . . .’ Ginny echoed with what might have been a touch of relief. Blinking rapidly, she said, ‘Sorry – I interrupted.’

Grainger smiled faintly and rearranged his hands into an elegant display of interlaced fingertips. ‘Now, for the
second
option,’ he drawled. ‘The second option is to defend the case at committal stage with the object of getting the case thrown out before it ever gets to crown court. This means going for what is termed an old-style committal. Here all the evidence is brought before, usually, a stipendiary magistrate sitting alone, the important witnesses appear in person, the evidence is open to challenge under cross-examination. Clearly the
only
reason for choosing this option is if you think you have a good chance of persuading the magistrate that there is no case to answer –
no case at all
. He must be persuaded that the prosecution’s evidence is so insubstantial or unreliable that at crown court no reasonable jury, properly directed, would be likely to return a verdict of guilty. Lack of reliable evidence is
sufficient
in itself for the case to be stopped,
but
’ – he raised a finger – ‘if the bench can also be persuaded that we have a valid defence then clearly our chances become that much stronger.’

He raised his eyebrows at Tingwall. ‘Now, what we have, do we not, are some promising developments.’

Taking his cue eagerly, Tingwall’s eyes darted back and forth. ‘I took a bit of a gamble. Armstrong – our fingerprint expert – asked if he could talk to the prosecution’s expert. Apparently it’s quite common when experts of this calibre disagree for them to what they quaintly call ‘‘compare notes’’. Armstrong said it’s done to avoid wasting court time, but – well, perhaps they prefer to avoid looking incompetent as well. Anyway, I told him to go ahead, and the upshot of it was that Armstrong gave the prosecution’s man chapter and verse on where he thought he’d gone wrong, and the chap went back and had another look at his opinion’ – he paused for effect – ‘and he’s
conceded
on one of the points of similarity.’ He tightened his lips as though he didn’t trust himself not to break into a grin and give too much away. ‘Which means that the prosecution won’t be able to use him as a witness because fifteen points of similarity between two prints are not enough!’

Grainger said smoothly, ‘We can’t of course rule out the possibility that the prosecution will find another expert or two to back them up.’

Tingwall allowed this reluctantly. ‘It’s
possible
.’

‘But let us assume for the
moment
that the Crown is unable to present any fingerprint evidence whatsoever.’ Grainger lifted his head to the thought. ‘Then we have a situation where the prosecution would be left without any forensic evidence to link us to the scene of the crime. None at all. I need hardly say that this would improve our situation considerably.
However
. . .’ He slid his elbows onto the desk and clasped his hands under his chin: his cautionary look. ‘Cases can and do get sent up to the crown court on non-forensic evidence alone. That’s the first point. Second, the prosecution will still have this eyewitness of theirs.’ He picked up a batch of stapled papers and, hooking some half-moon glasses onto his nose, leafed through them. ‘It is impossible to tell from a witness statement how a witness will perform in court, how convincing he will be, but if we are to take this statement at face value it would seem that the witness is confident in his identification of Mrs Wellesley. He is saying’ – Grainger skimmed the lines – ‘that he was by the river on the Saturday afternoon of the weekend in question, at about five, and that he saw this woman get into a dinghy and set off across the water, and that he recognised that woman as Virginia Wellesley. He recognised her because apparently . . .’ His eyes darted over the pages again. ‘Apparently he had worked at Dittisham House as a gardener some years ago and knows all the family by sight.’

Astonished, I tried to think who it could be. ‘Old Gordon?’

Grainger flipped back to the first page. ‘His name is . . . Gordon Latimer.’

‘Old Gordon,’ I affirmed. ‘He must be seventy-five, eighty, if he’s a day.’

‘Age is not yet a barrier to providing evidence,’ Grainger commented drily.

‘But surely his eyesight can’t be too good—’

‘It would be pointless to conject on that until we have the opportunity for cross-examination,’ Grainger argued firmly. ‘For the moment we must look at this statement as it stands, and I have to say that in my
opinion
, unless the witness is manifestly unreliable, it is likely that his evidence will be sufficient to send the case to trial. You see—’ He removed his spectacles in a deft movement that was so reminiscent of David that for an instant I had the strange sensation of facing my brother. ‘In your statement to the police, Mrs Wellesley, you said that you went to the boat only once during the weekend – on the
Sunday
. There is no mention of going on the Saturday. So we are left with two options. Either we deny the eyewitness’s version of events, which will leave us in a his-word-against-ours situation. Or we accept his evidence and offer an explanation as to
why
we went to the boat on the
Saturday
and
why
we failed to tell the police about it.’ He made a neat gesture, a small overturning of the hand. ‘You appreciate the problem?’

‘I explained,’ Ginny said. ‘I told . . .’ And she indicated Tingwall.

‘Indeed,’ Grainger said smoothly. ‘I have read your account of events, Mrs Wellesley. I have read it very carefully indeed. However, if we are going to say that we went out to the boat on the day of the murder and found the body and disposed of it into the water then we face great difficulties.
One
,’ he began remorselessly, ‘why didn’t we report the finding of the body at the time? Two: if we are going to admit to the disposing of the body, then this is going to cast us in an extremely unfortunate light which will undoubtedly do us very great damage. After all, what motive could we have for committing this deliberate and dangerous act if it wasn’t to protect ourself or someone extremely close to us?’ He left this thought in the air for a second. ‘Three: if we say we were trying to protect our husband, only to discover that he was miles away at the time and couldn’t have done it, then what suspects are the jury left with? Who are they meant to cast as the murderer?’ This, too, hung in the silence for a moment. ‘Four: not to put too fine a point on it, Mrs Wellesley, are we likely to be believed?’

Ginny flinched slightly and looked down at her hands before nodding readily. ‘Yes, I see the problem . . .’

‘If there was a reasonable explanation for your presence on the river on the Saturday,’ Grainger reflected, ‘and a reasonable explanation for your having failed to mention it to the police, then we
might
think about putting that forward. But I fear that to put forward your account of events as it stands without any evidence to back it up is . . .’ He inhaled delicately. ‘Well, it is not likely to be the most rewarding approach. You understand what I’m saying, Mrs Wellesley? You see the difficulties?’

If I had been harbouring any hopes of a way out for Ginny they evaporated then. With a stab of alarm I realised that her situation was bleak, that, even without the fingerprint, the evidence was still stacked against her.

I asked Grainger, ‘What
is
our defence then?’

The eyes dropped languidly but when they came up again they were very sharp. ‘From what we have so far it would seem to me that our most effective defence would be character-led. The impossibility of someone as respectable, virtuous and fragile as Mrs Wellesley committing such a heinous crime; how her life has been exemplary, etcetera etcetera; how it would have been completely out of character for her to hurt a fly; how she, a chronic asthmatic, was seen to suffer no anxiety or nerves or other ill-effects at the time of the crime, and indeed appeared perfectly normal in every respect. Your brother, Mr Wellesley, will be an excellent witness in that regard, having seen both of you that Saturday evening. Then, on the practical side, if Mrs Wellesley had committed this terrible crime, why was she not covered in blood? Indeed, how could she have appeared later that evening without so much as a bloodstain on her? You will attest, Mr Wellesley, as to how normal and indeed immaculate she looked. And so on, and so on. In this way we would hope to appeal to both the hearts and the minds of the jury, we would hope to cast some doubt on the evidence of the eyewitness. We would
chip
away. We would be going for the reasonable doubt. And don’t forget – that’s all we need: reasonable doubt.’

Tingwall piped up, ‘The old-style committal, are you ruling that out then?’

‘We have to balance the likely benefits against the more certain costs,’ Grainger ventured with an air of great sagacity. ‘It all hinges on this eyewitness. If we want to gamble on his unreliability – and I use the word ‘‘gamble’’ advisedly – then we should go for the old-style committal. The stakes would be high. If he turned out to be an uncertain witness, we stand to gain everything – the total collapse of the Crown’s case. But if he turned out to be an unassailable witness then we would gain very little – at the great expense of having revealed much of our defence. A risky business indeed. The
alternative
is to play safe. To keep our cards close to our chest, to hope to catch the prosecution off-guard, and to go for the hearts and minds of a jury in the way I described – in which case we should wait.’

‘So what’s your advice?’ I asked.

He tapped his fingers together while he thought about it. ‘It’s hard to give such a thing as
advice
when one is dealing with a key eyewitness who is by definition an unknown quantity. However, going by the witness statement . . .’ He looked upwards as though searching for a last drop of inspiration. ‘. . . my instinct – and that’s another word I use advisedly – my
instinct
would be to let it go to trial. Trust to the twelve good men and women, and maintain our element of surprise.’